African American Poetry

8/10/2019 African American Poetry

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Multi-Ethinic Literature of the USMELUS

African-American

Arab-American

Asian-American

Cuban American

Italian-American

Jewish-American

Chicano

Native American


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African-American Poetry


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KABA Amiri Baraka

A closed window looks downon a dirty courtyard, and black peoplecall across or scream or walk acrossdefying physics in the stream of their will

Our world is full of soundOur world is more lovely than anyone'stho we suffer, and kill each otherand sometimes fail to walk the air

We are beautiful peoplewith african imaginationsfull of masks and dances and swelling chants


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with african eyes, and noses, and arms,though we sprawl in grey chains in a placefull of winters, when what we want is sun.

We have been captured,

brothers. And we laborto make our getaway, intothe ancient image, into a new

correspondence with ourselvesand our black family. We read magic

now we need the spells, to rise upreturn, destroy, and create. What will be

the sacred words?


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I, TOO, SING AMERICALangston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I'll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody'll dare

Say to me,

"Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

Besides,

They'll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.


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BEFORE YOU KNEW YOU OWNED ITAlice Walker

Expect nothing. Live frugallyOn surprise.

become a stranger

To need of pity

Or, if compassion be freely

Given out

Take only enoughStop short of urge to plead

Then purge away the need.

Wish for nothing larger

Than your own small heart

Or greater than a star;

Tame wild disappointment

With caress unmoved and cold

Make of it a parka

For your soul.

Discover the reason whySo tiny human midget

Exists at all

So scared unwise

But expect nothing. Live frugally

On surprise.


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NO IMAGESWaring Cuney

She does not knowHer beauty,She thinks her brown bodyHas no glory.If she could danceNakedUnder palm treesAnd see her image in the river,She would know.

But there are no palm treesOn the street,And dish water gives back no images.


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MADAM AND HER MADAM

I worked for a woman,

She wasn't mean--

But she had a twelve-room

House to clean.

Had to get breakfast,

Dinner, and supper, too--

Then take care of her

children

When I got through.

Wash, iron, and scrub,

Walk the dog around--

It was too much,

Nearly broke me down.

I said, Madam,

Can it be

You trying to make a

Pack-horse out of me?

She opened her mouth.

She cried, Oh, no!

You know, Alberta,

I love you so!

I said, Madam,

That may be true--

But I'll be dogged

If I love you!


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African-American Novel


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A COR PRPURAAlice Walker

O padrasto de Celie, o estuprador, adverte a menina,para no contar a ningum, a no ser a Deus que tinhasido estuprada. Mas a comunidade em que Celie viviaj se encarregara de evitar que ela usasse at mesmo

palavras que conhecia. Naquela comunidade atrasadado comeo do sculo, as palavras pnis e vaginano existiam. Na verdade, a idia de pnis estava forados limites permitidos, que a expresso mais prximapermitida era a coisa do homem. Quanto vagina

bem, aqui est como a minha av ensinava as filhas atomar banho.Lave o mais para baixo possvel, depoiso mais para cima possvel, depois lave o possvel.(WALKER, 1988, p.66)


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I see Sofia and I dont know why she still

alive. They crack her skull, they crack her ribs.

They tear her nose loose on one side. They

blind her in one eye. She swole from head to

foot. Her tongue the size of my arm, it stick

out tween her teef like a piece of rubber. She

cant talk. And she just about the color ofeggplant . (WALKER, 1986, p.103)


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Dear God,

I ast him to take me instead of Nettie while

our new mammy sick. But he just ast me what

I'm talking bout. I tell him I can fix myself up

for him. I duck into my room and come out

wearing horsehair, feathers, and a pair of our

new mammy high heel shoes. He beat me fordressing trampy but he do it to me anyway.

(WALKER, 1986, p. 18).


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You better not never tell nobody but God. It'd kill your mammy.

Dear God,

I am fourteen years old. I am I have always been a good girl.

Maybe you can give me a sign letting me know what ishappening to me.

Last spring after little Lucious come I heard them fussing. He was

pulling on her arm. She say It too soon, Fonso, I ain't well. Finally

he leave her alone. A week go by, he pulling on her arm again.She say Naw, I ain't gonna. Can't you see I'm already half dead,

an all of these chilren. (WALKER, 1986, p. 9).


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Now, now, I say. Sleep on it some, maybe it come back.But I say this just to be saying something. I dont knownothing bout it. Mr.__________ clam on top of me, dohis business, in ten minutes us both sleep. Only time I

feel something stirring down there is when I think boutShug. And that like running to the end of the road andit turn back on itself.You know the worst part? she say. The worst part is Idont think he notice. He git up there and enjoy himself

just the same. No matter what Im thinking. No matterwhat I feel. It just him. Heartfeeling dont even seem toenter into it. She snort. The fact he can do it like thatmake me want to kill him. (WALKER, 1986: 15-17)


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Native-American Poetry


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A PRETTY WOMANSimon Ortiz

We came to the edge

of the mesa

and looked below.

We could see

the shallow wash

snaking downfrom the cut

between two mesas,

all the way from Black Mountain;

and the cottonwoods

from that distance

looked like a string of turquoise,

and the land was a pretty woman

smiling at us

looking at her.


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THE MARGINS WHERE WE LIVE

Overnight, the air froze.

Crystallized. Now, a thin breath

lies on the prairie hills.

Light becomes certain in cold,

not glazing, not luminous,

only captured and stilled.

The margin of reality

is the margin of illusion.

In that margin between

the prairie and us lies space,

vastness that confirms existence.It's the air frozen

and it's our awareness.

Nothing more, nothing less

confirms our belief.

The road will be deadly

and will still take icy skill

to drive on.

We will have safe passage.

The margins will always be the space

where we live.


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GREATEST BELIEVERS GREATEST DISBELIEVERS

To believe or not to believe,

this was the question.

And THE ANSWER.

Asked and answered and believed

by the greatest believers

and disbelievers the world hasever known.

Where are the Indians?

Where are the real Indians?

There are no Indians.There are no real Indians.

There were never any Indians.

There were never any Indians.

There were never any real Indians.

You mean... you mean, there werenever any Indians? No real Indians?No Indians?

None.Never.


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MAKING QUILT WORK

Like the coat of many colors, the letters, scraps,

all those odds and bits we live by, we have come

to know. Folks here live by the pretty quilts

they make, more than make actually, more than pretty.

They are histories, their lives and their quilts.

Indian people who have been scattered, sundered

into odds and bits, determined to remake whole cloth.Nothing quits. It changes many times, sometimes

to something we don't want, but we again gather

0the pieces, study them, decide, make decisions again,

yes, and fit them to color, necessity, conditions,

taste and choice, and start again. Our lives are quilts,

letters, odds and bits, scraps, but always the thread

loving through them, compassionate knowledge

that what we make is worth it and will outlast

anything that was before and will be worthy

of any people's art, endeavor, and final triumph.

Here, look at my clothes, quilts, coats of many colors!


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I DON'T KNOW IF HISTORY REPEATS ITSELFYehuda Amichai

I don't Know if history repeats itselfBut I do know that you don't.

I remember that city was didvidedNot only between Jews and Arabs,But Between me and you,

When we were there together.

We made ourselves a womb of dangersWe built ourselves a house of deadening warsLike men of far northWho build themselves a safe warm house of deadening ice.

The city has been reunitedBut we haven't been there together.By now I knowThat History doesn't repeat itself,As I always knew that you wouldn't.


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HALFBREED GIRL IN THE CITY SCHOOL

Jo Whitehorse Cochran

are you Mexican

are you Italian

are you Chinese

are you Japanese

spic wetback greaseball slant-eye

you are dark enough to questionyou are light enough to ask

you have near black hair brown eyes

and speak slow-english

we are blonde blue eyed

and wear store bought sweaters skirts or pants

you are in homemade clothes out of style

we circle round you and your sister

you hug your sister close she's small and even darker

we kick we tug at braids and coats

we pull "I'm Indian!" out of you

the social worker wants

you to describe your family

she asks


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does your father beat you

does your mother

does your father drink

does your mother

do you hate your parents

do you cry

tell me tell me do you

like the reservation better

are you ashamed in the classroom

when you wet your pants

why don't you speak up

why don't you get excusedwhy don't you go at recess

tell me tell me speak!

you stare out the window

turn an alphabet block in your hands

speak english speak english

the social worker caws

outside Canadian geese pass through yourimmediate sky

six in an arc going south

if you were a Changer like Star Boy

you could fly with those long-necks

but you must stay and look out this window


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Grandma's words pound in your head

they want to strip us of our words

they want to take our tongues

so we forget how to talk to each other

you swallow the rock

that was your tongue

you swallow the song

that was your voice

you swallow you swallow

in the silence

African American Poetry

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