109 Social justice poems

There are so many roots to the tree of anger that sometimes the branches shatter before they bear. Sitting in Nedicks the women rally before they march discussing the problematic girls they hire to make them free. An almost white counterman passes a waiting brother to serve them first and the ladies neither notice nor reject the slighter pleasures of their slavery. But I who am bound by my mirror as well as my bed see causes in colour as well as sex and sit here wondering which me will survive all these liberations.

They turn the water off, so I live without water, they build walls higher, so I live without treetops, they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine, they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere, they take each last tear I have, I live without tears, they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart, they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future, they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends, they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell, they give me pain, so I live with pain, they give me hate, so I live with my hate, they have changed me, and I am not the same man, they give me no shower, so I live with my smell, they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers, who understands me when I say this is beautiful? who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms? I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand, I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble, I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love, my beauty, I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears, I am stubborn and childish, in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred, I practice being myself, and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me, they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart when the walls were built higher, when the water was turned off and the windows painted black. I followed these signs like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself, followed the blood-spotted path, deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself, who taught me water is not everything, and gave me new eyes to see through walls, and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths, and I was laughing at me with them, we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal, who understands me when I say this is beautiful? CORRECTION : the last line of the first stanza was corrected to read "who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms?", and the first line of the second stanza was corrected to read "I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand," on November 15, 2010.

South Carolina, c.1950 You got that clean waistcoat, the bright white of a well-tailored shirt, you got those loose-as-sacks slacks and some spit-polished shoes, and you know, whether you are looking like money, or about to take a stroll, to tilt that hat like you own the world; yeah, smoke your pipe, roll your tobacco, and hold loose as authority, your muscles, lithe and hard; and every so often, when you feel the urge, you reach into the waist pocket and pull out that watch on its chain, then look in the sky and say Gonna be a cold one when it come, like God gave you that fancy clock to tell the future. These are the easy boys of the goodly South; waiting for what is out of frame to happen: the sheriff with his questions, the paddy wagon, the chain gang, the weight of the world. Waiting, with such delicate dignity, fickle as the seasonal sky.

The unrestricted sun had split the day in two, and now we went on the edge of the afternoon like a tableau of bent figures made of faded blue duck. We went like a wandering and stinking, sweating brotherhood, pull by pull between the leafy cotton plants, with the pathetic appearance of arriving at the end of the furrow. But we always arrived in a rush to get there, and the sole logic was we had to move over to the next furrow, and no one could stop the counterflow down it. And I, the dusty kid left behind in the middle of the field, held prisoner in my own slow shadow, was right in not giving in to the absurd pace of tradition. So my days burned up in that captive state of childhood. Then, yes, it was then the venturesomeness of sedition overtook me. Saturdays, after noon, the body finally lying down in the waves of the aluminum bathtub. And in the liberating rite of the water, I could shed the grime and contemplate the muddy waters of time. So it was, with the ablution of the weekly bath, I exiled myself each time from what I was.

You can’t have nothing clean. I scrubbed like a crazy woman at Isom’s clothes that first week and here they come off the line, little black stripes wherever I’d pinned them up or hung them over—coal dust settles on the clothesline, piles up like a line of snow on a tree branch. After that, I wiped down the clothesline every time, but no matter, you can’t get it all off. His coveralls is stripy with black and gray lines, ankles of his pants is ringed around, like marks left by shackles. I thought I’d die that first week when I seen him walk off to the mine, black, burnt-looking marks on his shirt over his shoulders, right where wings would of folded.

Many of my race have lived long without the touch of these fine things which separate us from beasts. Things I call my own now. Having served thirty-six years as needleman for a family far more ape than we will ever be, I rode the moonlight train to find my free. Up here it is colder than I like, but the gentlemen admire my frock coats above all. I taught my son this trade and hope this picture I made will help retrieve him. Come summer I leave this coast for Philadelphia where I hear we of color can breathe yet more free. Tonight I stitch. The breeze off the bay smells of aria. It is almost the season for cloaks.

After explanations and regulations, he Walked warily in. Black hair covered his chin, subscribing to Villainous ideal. “This can not be real,” he thought, “this is a Classical mistake; This is a cake baked with embarrassing icing; Somebody’s got Likely as not, a big fat tongue in cheek! What have I to do With a prim and proper-blooded lady?” Christ in deed has risen When a Junkie in prison visits with a Wasp woman. “Hold your stupid face, man, Learn a little grace, man; drop a notch the sacred shield. She might have good reason, Like: ‘I was in prison and ye visited me not,’ or—some such. So sweep clear Anachronistic fear, fight the fog, And use no hot words.” After the seating And the greeting, they fished for a denominator, Common or uncommon; And could only summon up the fact that both were human. “Be at ease, man! Try to please, man!—the lady is as lost as you: ‘You got children, Ma’am?’” he said aloud. The thrust broke the dam, and their lines wiggled in the water. She offered no pills To cure his many ills, no compact sermons, but small And funny talk: “My baby began to walk... simply cannot keep his room clean...” Her chatter sparked no resurrection and truly No shackles were shaken But after she had taken her leave, he walked softly, And for hours used no hot words.

Phoenix “In Egyptian mythology, a bird which lived for five hundred years and then consumed itself in fire, rising renewed from the ashes.” —webster The earth is a beautiful place. Watermirrors and things to be reflected. Goldenrod across the little lagoon. The Black Philosopher says “Our chains are in the keep of the Keeper in a labeled cabinet on the second shelf by the cookies, sonatas, the arabesques. . . . There’s a rattle, sometimes. You do not hear it who mind only cookies and crunch them. You do not hear the remarkable music—‘A Death Song For You Before You Die.’ If you could hear it you would make music too. The black blues.” West Madison Street. In “Jessie’s Kitchen” nobody’s eating Jessie’s Perfect Food. Crazy flowers cry up across the sky, spreading and hissing This is it.

English Composition at South Middlesex Correctional Center. Julie reads out loud, and I praise her super thesis, then show how her paragraphs veer away from it, just summarize. And is she pissed! Too pissed to listen when her classmates try to help. Amanda offers Act 2 Scene 1—"Now I do love her too"—as evidence of Iago's state of mind. But Julie's shutting down, frowning at her handwritten draft, writing that took her weeks.Hey Julie, I say. Julie doesn't look up. Says What. Says I hate this stupid paper now. So I say Hey Julie.Amanda's helping you—write down what she's saying. She says I'm aggravated. I think they take classes on naming their feelings. I say I know it but you need to pull it together,or you'll end up screwing yourself.This is your chance. We're all quiet, breathing together, willing her to break out of this. Then: a little miracle. I look around the room and see that everyone is beautiful. Each did something special with her hair.Hey, I say, again. I say hey a lot in prison. Hey wait a minute.What's up with everybody's hair? Mabel got a haircut. Ellie's hair is long and black and gleaming down her back, Amanda's in French braids. Julie's freshly blonde, down to the roots.You guys all look great! They laugh. They're happy I noticed. Thank god I noticed; now, for a minute, we are women in a room, talking about their hair. Julie says Amanda did her highlights, and Sandy blew it out.Good job, guys; she looks great. And then I say,Julie.Look at you all pissed off over your paper when you're so lucky! Look at all these good friends you have.Helping with your paper, doing your hair. . . She nods. She looks me in the eye, back with us, back on track. I know, she says.I need to work on my gratitude.

I have no Brother,—they who meet me now Offer a hand with their own wills defiled, And, while they wear a smooth unwrinkled brow, Know not that Truth can never be beguiled; Go wash the hand that still betrays thy guilt; Before the spirit’s gaze what stain can hide? Abel’s red blood upon the earth is spilt, And by thy tongue it cannot be denied; I hear not with my ear,—the heart doth tell Its secret deeds to me untold before; Go, all its hidden plunder quickly sell, Then shalt thou cleanse thee from thy brother’s gore, Then will I take thy gift; that bloody stain Shall not be seen upon thy hand again.