194 Racism and discrimination poems

I hear the halting footsteps of a lass In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass To bend and barter at desire's call. Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street! Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest; Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street.

Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie, Caramel treat, Honey-gold baby Sweet enough to eat. Peach-skinned girlie, Coffee and cream, Chocolate darling Out of a dream. Walnut tinted Or cocoa brown, Pomegranate-lipped Pride of the town. Rich cream-colored To plum-tinted black, Feminine sweetness In Harlem’s no lack. Glow of the quince To blush of the rose. Persimmon bronze To cinnamon toes. Blackberry cordial, Virginia Dare wine— All those sweet colors Flavor Harlem of mine! Walnut or cocoa, Let me repeat: Caramel, brown sugar, A chocolate treat. Molasses taffy, Coffee and cream, Licorice, clove, cinnamon To a honey-brown dream. Ginger, wine-gold, Persimmon, blackberry, All through the spectrum Harlem girls vary— So if you want to know beauty’s Rainbow-sweet thrill, Stroll down luscious, Delicious,fine Sugar Hill.

Pray why are you so bare, so bare, Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; And why, when I go through the shade you throw, Runs a shudder over me? My leaves were green as the best, I trow, And sap ran free in my veins, But I say in the moonlight dim and weird A guiltless victim's pains. I bent me down to hear his sigh; I shook with his gurgling moan, And I trembled sore when they rode away, And left him here alone. They'd charged him with the old, old crime, And set him fast in jail: Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, And why does the night wind wail? He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, And he raised his hand to the sky; But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, And the steady tread drew nigh. Who is it rides by night, by night, Over the moonlit road? And what is the spur that keeps the pace, What is the galling goad? And now they beat at the prison door, "Ho, keeper, do not stay! We are friends of him whom you hold within, And we fain would take him away "From those who ride fast on our heels With mind to do him wrong; They have no care for his innocence, And the rope they bear is long." They have fooled the jailer with lying words, They have fooled the man with lies; The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, And the great door open flies. Now they have taken him from the jail, And hard and fast they ride, And the leader laughs low down in his throat, As they halt my trunk beside. Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, And the doctor one of white, And the minister, with his oldest son, Was curiously bedight. Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? 'Tis but a little space, And the time will come when these shall dread The mem'ry of your face. I feel the rope against my bark, And the weight of him in my grain, I feel in the throe of his final woe The touch of my own last pain. And never more shall leaves come forth On the bough that bears the ban; I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, From the curse of a guiltless man. And ever the judge rides by, rides by, And goes to hunt the deer, And ever another rides his soul In the guise of a mortal fear. And ever the man he rides me hard, And never a night stays he; For I feel his curse as a haunted bough, On the trunk of a haunted tree.

We shouldn’t raise mixed babies in the South, Kay says as I drive up the crest of another hill on our way into Kentucky. The South, where humidity leaves a sweat mustache, where a truck with a Confederate flag painted on the back windshield skitters in front of us. In its bed, avoiding our eyes, a boy with blond hair split down the middle like a Bible left open to the Book of Psalms. His shirtless, sun-licked skin drapes, a thin coat for his bones, his clavicles sharp. I want to know who’s driving this raggedy truck. I want the boy to look at us. I want to spray paint a black fist over that flag. I want the truck to find its way into the ravine. I want to— Stepping on the gas, I pass the truck, Kay and I turn our heads. The boy smiles and waves. The man driving doesn’t turn his head, keeps his eyes on the road. Kay turns red as she draws her fingers into fists. I stare at the whites of her eyes.

Betty, if I set out to write this poem about you it might turn out instead to be about me or any one of my female relatives it might turn out to be about this young native girl growing up in rural Alberta in a town with fewer Indians than ideas about Indians, in a town just south of the 'Aryan Nations' it might turn out to be about Anna Mae Aquash, Donald Marshall or Richard Cardinal, it might even turn out to be about our grandmothers, beasts of burden in the fur trade skinning, scraping, pounding, packing, left behind for ‘British Standards of Womanhood,' left for white-melting-skinned women, not bits-of-brown women left here in this wilderness, this colony. Betty, if I start to write a poem about you it might turn out to be about hunting season instead, about 'open season' on native women it might turn out to be about your face       young and hopeful staring back at me      hollow now from a black and white page it might be about the 'townsfolk'    (gentle word) townsfolk who 'believed native girls were easy' and 'less likely to complain if a sexual proposition led to violence.' Betty, if I write this poem.

Errol drives me to Treasure Beach It’s an old story, the terrible storm swerving the dark country roads the ship going down, half the sailors I think about what you will be, your mix drowned, half swimming the white, black, Chinese, and your father’s slate waves, spat hard onto shore Scottish-Englishness. We cross the Black River Smashed crates, bodies where they shipped cane sugar and molasses choking on the black sand upstream past a sign One man stands —What is this place? A woman for Lover’s Leap. The air stinks of sulphur in the trees, one hand raised Errol drops me at a blue gate.Be safe This is how the Scotsmen came behind the house, the thin beach why the black people here have red hair of black sand, the water warm and gray Or the other story, no storm I am deep before I know it, groundless no wrecked ship. Just the miles the swell stops the sickness of cane fields and mulatto children named under a crooked tree, perched on sea rocks McDonald or McArthur for two fishermen in torn denims, smoking their fathers, who owned them I dry in the sun. They pass, turn, come close Nothing grows at Lover’s Leap they have rust afros, gold faces splashed with freckles where two runaways one ripped with muscle, one with eyes cornered by their master, held hands like razors.What you want here they say and jumped down into the clouds

Our stone wall was built by slaves and my bones, my bones are paid for. We have two of everything, twice heavy in our pockets, warming our two big hands. This is the story, as I know it. One morning: the ships came, as foretold, and death pearl-handled, almost and completely. How cheap a date I turned out to be. Each finger weak with the memory: lost teeth, regret. Our ghosts walk the shoulders of the road at night. I get the feeling you’ve been lying to me.

I am four in this photograph, standing on a wide strip of Mississippi beach, my hands on the flowered hips of a bright bikini. My toes dig in, curl around wet sand. The sun cuts the rippling Gulf in flashes with each tidal rush. Minnows dart at my feet glinting like switchblades. I am alone except for my grandmother, other side of the camera, telling me how to pose. It is 1970, two years after they opened the rest of this beach to us, forty years since the photograph where she stood on a narrow plot of sand marked colored, smiling, her hands on the flowered hips of a cotton meal-sack dress.

I'd search for Philippines in History class. The index named one page, moved on to Pierce. The Making of America marched past my enigmatic father's place of birth. The week he died some man we didn't know called up.This is his brother, one more shock, phoning for him."He died three days ago." The leaden black receiver did not talk. My uncle never gave his name or town, we never heard from him. Was it a dream? The earpiece roar dissolved to crackling sounds, a dial tone erased the Philippines. And yet my world grows huge with maps, crisscrossed, my History alive with all I've lost.

Venerable black women You of yesterday, you of today. Black mothers of tomorrow yet to be These lines are homage to you, for you. Magnificent black women The poets and singers have been remiss Have sung too few poems and songs of you And the image makers have not recorded your beauty. Sheba, Nefertiti, Zaiditu, Cleopatra. Black women, Mothers of humanity, Mother original Your black children here salute you. You, bartered, sold, insulted, raped and defiled, Debased and debauched for four centuries. Strong women, Gannet, Tubman and Truth. Weary black women Your breasts gaunt from nurturing theirs first And later sustaining yours, caring for theirs At the same instance providing for yours also. Women forgotten, Mandy, Melindy, Cindy, and Lisa. Gentle black women While being hated, yet teaching love Being scorned, yet teaching respect Being humiliated and teaching Compassion. Humble women, Bessie, Mattie, Lucey, Ann and Willie Mae. Resourceful black women, with tact Managing to make do, alter clothing, Stretch meals, Making room, Prodding, Bolstering Nudging us on, Protecting, teaching survival. Laney, Bethune, Keckley, Terrel and Brown. Militant black women, defending yours with fury Standing firm, picketing and demonstrating Kneeling in, sitting in and wading in Standing, walking, marching and boycotting. Parks, Wells, Pleasant and Louvestre. Discerning black women, women of genius Setting your children a proper example Teaching that each generation must do its part To improve life for those coming after. Nannie, Gaines, Burroughs, Maggie Walker. Courageous black women, brave and fearless Seeking to make a home among the unfriendly Sending your children off to school To pass unscathed through walls of hate. Lucy, Bates, Richardson, and Hamer. Angry black women and understanding Aware of efforts to stunt your men Yet urging them manhood again. Diana, Gloria, Thelma, Ethel, Eva and Marion. Heroic black women, women of glory Not turning back, never giving up Equalling, surpassing the stature Of any race of women, anywhere, any time. Billie, Ella, Dinah, Sis-Sirretta, Mahalia. Black women of genius, brilliant women Walking through the hateful valleys In dignity, strength and such serene composure That even your enemies tremble insecure. Hansberry, Talbert, Bonds and Baker. Magnificent black women, hopeful women Believing that trouble doesn't last always Knowing this truth, that those who are slaves today May well be the masters tomorrow, even sooner. Sisters with all women, black women Your sufferings echo those of all the oppressed. Join together all of you in a universal cry For Peace and the good life for all. The world listens.