Maya Angelou has been waitress, singer, actress, dancer, activist, editor, filmmaker, writer, mother and inaugural poet. She first thrilled the world with her autobiography I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. This was followed by Gather Together in My Name, Singin’ and Swingin and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas, The Heart of a Woman, All God’s Children Need Travelling Shoes and in 2002 the sixth and final volume, A Song Flung Up to Heaven. She has written two collections of prose, Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now and Even the Stars Look Lonesome. She has also written six poetry collections, as well as the inaugural poem for President Clinton, and a cookbook, Hallelujah! The Welcome Table, all of which are published by Virago. Maya Angelou now has a life-time appointmentt as Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University of North Carolina.

Also by Maya Angelou

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Gather Together in My Name

Singin’ and Swingin’ and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas

The Heart of a Woman

All God’s Children Need Travelling Shoes

A Song Flung Up to Heaven

ESSAYS

Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now

Even the Stars Look Lonesome

POETRY

Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ’Fore I Diiie

Oh Pray My Wings are Gonna Fit Me Well

And Still I Rise

Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing?

I Shall Not Be Moved

On the Pulse of Morning

Phenomenal Woman

The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou

A Brave and Startling Truth

Amazing Peace

Mother

Celebrations

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

My Painted House, My Friendly Chicken, and Me

Kofi and His Magic

PICTURE BOOKS

Now Sheba Sings the Song

Life Doesn’t Frighten Me

COOKERY

Hallelujah! The Welcome Table

Copyright

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 978-1-40552-678-4

And Still I Rise copyright © Maya Angelou 1978

Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? copyright © Maya Angelou 1983

This arrangement, And Still I Rise, copyright © Maya Angelou 1986

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

Contents

About the Author

Also by Maya Angelou

Copyright

AND STILL I RISE

Dedication

PART ONE:

Touch Me, Life, Not Softly

A Kind of Love, Some Say

Country Lover

Remembrance

Where We Belong, A Duet

Phenomenal Woman

Men

Refusal

Just For A Time

PART TWO:

Traveling

Junkie Monkey Reel

The Lesson

California Prodigal

My Arkansas

Through the Inner City to the Suburbs

Lady Luncheon Club

Momma Welfare Roll

The Singer Will Not Sing

Willie

To Beat the Child Was Bad Enough

Woman Work

One More Round

The Traveler

Kin

The Memory

PART THREE:

And Still I Rise

Still I Rise

Ain’t That Bad?

Life Doesn’t Frighten Me

Bump d’Bump

On Aging

In Retrospect

Just Like Job

Call Letters: Mrs. V.B.

Thank You, Lord

SHAKER WHY DON’T YOU SING?

Awaking in New York

A Good Woman Feeling Bad

The Health-Food Diner

A Georgia Song

Unmeasured Tempo

Amoebaean for Daddy

Recovery

Impeccable Conception

Caged Bird

Avec Merci, Mother

Arrival

A Plagued Journey

Starvation

Contemporary Announcement

Prelude to a Parting

Martial Choreograph

To a Suitor

Insomniac

Weekend Glory

The Lie

Prescience

Family Affairs

Changes

Brief Innocence

The Last Decision

Slave Coffle

Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing?

My Life Has Turned to Blue

And Still I Rise

This book is dedicated to a few of the Good Guys

You to laugh with You to cry to I can just about make it over

JESSICA MITFORD

GERARD W. PURCELL

JAY ALLEN

PART ONE

Touch Me, Life, Not Softly

A KIND OF LOVE, SOME SAY

Is it true the ribs can tell

The kick of a beast from a

Lover’s fist? The bruised

Bones recorded well

The sudden shock, the

Hard impact. Then swollen lids,

Sorry eyes, spoke not

Of lost romance, but hurt.

Hate often is confused. Its

Limits are in zones beyond itself. And

Sadists will not learn that

Love by nature, exacts a pain

Unequalled on the rack.

COUNTRY LOVER

Funky blues

Keen toed shoes

High water pants

Saddy night dance

Red soda water

and anybody’s daughter

REMEMBRANCE

for Paul

Your hands easy

weight, teasing the bees

hived in my hair, your smile at the

slope of my cheek. On the

occasion, you press

above me, glowing, spouting

readiness, mystery rapes

my reason.

When you have withdrawn

your self and the magic, when

only the smell of your

love lingers between

my breasts, then, only

then, can I greedily consume

your presence.

WHERE WE BELONG, A DUET

In every town and village,

In every city square,

In crowded places

I searched the faces

Hoping to find

Someone to care.

I read mysterious meanings

In the distant stars,

Then I went to schoolrooms

And poolrooms

And half-lighted cocktail bars.

Braving dangers,

Going with strangers,

I don’t even remember their names.

I was quick and breezy

And always easy

Playing romantic games.

I wined and dined a thousand exotic Joans and Janes

In dusty dance halls, at debutante balls,

On lonely country lanes.

I fell in love forever,

Twice every year or so.

I wooed them sweetly, was theirs completely,

But they always let me go.

Saying bye now, no need to try now,

You don’t have the proper charms.

Too sentimental and much too gentle

I don’t tremble in your arms.

Then you rose into my life

Like a promised sunrise.

Brightening my days with the light in your eyes.

I’ve never been so strong,

Now I’m where I belong.

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can’t see.

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need for my care.

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

MEN

When I was young, I used to

Watch behind the curtains

As men walked up and down

The street. Wino men, old men.

Young men sharp as mustard.

See them. Men are always

Going somewhere.

They knew I was there. Fifteen

Years old and starving for them.

Under my window, they would pause,

Their shoulders high like the

Breasts of a young girl,

Jacket tails slapping over

Those behinds,

Men.

One day they hold you in the

Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you

Were the last raw egg in the world. Then

They tighten up. Just a little. The

First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.

Soft into your defenselessness. A little

More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a

Smile that slides around the fear. When the

Air disappears,

Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,

Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.

It is your juice

That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.

When the earth rights itself again,

And taste tries to return to the tongue,

Your body has slammed shut. Forever.

No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon

Your mind. There, just beyond

The sway of curtains, men walk.

Knowing something.

Going someplace.

But this time, you will simply

Stand and watch.

Maybe.

REFUSAL

Beloved,

In what other lives or lands

Have I known your lips

Your hands

Your laughter brave

Irreverent.

Those sweet excesses that

I do adore.

What surety is there

That we will meet again,

On other worlds some

Future time undated.

I defy my body’s haste.

Without the Promise

Of one more sweet encounter

I will not deign to die.

JUST FOR A TIME

Oh how you used to walk

With that insouciant smile

I liked to hear you talk

And your style

Pleased me for a while.

You were my early love

New as a day breaking in Spring

You were the image of

Everything

That caused me to sing.

I don’t like reminiscing

Nostalgia is not my forté

I don’t spill tears

On yesterday’s years

But honesty makes me say,

You were a precious pearl

How I loved to see you shine,

You were the perfect girl.

And you were mine.

For a time.

For a time.

Just for a time.

PART TWO

Traveling

JUNKIE MONKEY REEL

Shoulders sag,

The pull of weighted needling.

Arms drag, smacking wet in soft bone

Sockets.

Knees thaw,

Their familiar magic lost. Old bend and

Lock and bend forgot.

Teeth rock in fetid gums.

Eyes dart, die, then float in

Simian juice.

Brains reel,

Master charts of old ideas erased. The

Routes are gone beneath the tracks

Of desert caravans, pre-slavery

Years ago.

Dreams fail,

Unguarded fears on homeward streets

Embrace. Throttling in a dark revenge

Murder is its sweet romance.

How long will

This monkey dance?

THE LESSON

I keep on dying again.

Veins collapse, opening like the

Small fists of sleeping

Children.

Memory of old tombs,

Rotting flesh and worms do

Not convince me against

The challenge. The years

And cold defeat live deep in

Lines along my face

They dull my eyes, yet

I keep on dying,

Because I love to live.

CALIFORNIA PRODIGAL

for David P-B

The eye follows, the land

Slips upward, creases down, forms

The gentle buttocks of a young

Giant. In the nestle,

Old adobe bricks, washed of

Whiteness, paled to umber,

Await another century.

Star Jasmine and old vines

Lay claim upon the ghosted land,

Then quiet pools whisper

Private childhood secrets.

Flush on inner cottage walls

Antiquitous faces,

Used to the gelid breath

Of old manors, glare disdainfully

Over breached time.

Around and through these

Cold phantasmatalities,

He walks, insisting

To the languid air,

Activity, music,

A generosity of graces.

His lupin fields spurn old

Deceit and agile poppies dance

In golden riot. Each day is

Fulminant, exploding brightly

Under the gaze of his exquisite

Sires, frozen in the famed paint

Of dead masters. Audaciou

Sunlight casts defiance

At their feet.

MY ARKANSAS

There is a deep brooding

in Arkansas.

Old crimes like moss pend

from poplar trees.

The sullen earth

is much too

red for comfort.

Sunrise seems to hesitate

and in that second

lose its

incandescent aim, and

dusk no more shadows

than the noon.

The past is brighter yet.

Old hates and

ante-bellum lace, are rent

but not discarded.

Today is yet to come

in Arkansas.

It writhes. It writhes in awful

waves of brooding.

THROUGH THE INNER CITY TO THE SUBURBS

Secured by sooted windows

And amazement, it is

Delicious. Frosting filched

From a company cake.

People. Black and fast. Scattered

Watermelon seeds on

A summer street. Grinning in

ritual, sassy in pomp.

From a slow moving train

They are precious. Stolen gems

Unsaleable and dear. Those

Dusky undulations sweat of forest

Nights, damp dancing, the juicy

secrets of black thighs.

Images framed picture perfect

Do not move beyond the window

Siding.

Strong delectation:

Dirty stories in changing rooms

Accompany the slap of wet towels and

Toilet seats.

Poli-talk of politician

Parents: “They need shoes and

cooze and a private

warm latrine. I had a colored

Mammy …”

The train, bound for green lawns

Double garages and sullen women

in dreaded homes, settles down

On its habit track.

Leaving

The dark figures dancing

And grinning. Still

Grinning.

LADY LUNCHEON CLUB

Her counsel was accepted: the times are grave.

A man was needed who would make them think,

And pay him from the petty cash account.

Our woman checked her golden watch,

The speaker has a plane to catch.

Dessert is served (and just in time).

The lecturer leans, thrusts forth his head

And neck and chest, arms akimbo

On the lectern top. He summons up

Sincerity as one might call a favored

Pet.

He understands the female rage,

Why Eve was lustful and

Delilah’s

Grim deceit.

Our woman thinks:

(This cake is much too sweet.)

He sighs for youthful death

And rape at ten, and murder of

The soul stretched over long.

Our woman notes:

(This coffee’s much too strong.)

The jobless streets of

Wine and wandering when

Mornings promise no bright relief.

She claps her hands and writes

Upon her pad: (Next time the

Speaker must be brief).

MOMMA WELFARE ROLL

Her arms semaphore fat triangles,

Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips

Where bones idle under years of fatback

And lima beans.

Her jowls shiver in accusation

Of crimes clichéd by

Repetition. Her children, strangers

To childhood’s toys, play

Best the games of darkened doorways,

Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of

Other people’s property.

Too fat to whore,

Too mad to work,

Searches her dreams for the

Lucky sign and walks bare-handed

Into a den of bureaucrats for

Her portion.

“They don’t give me welfare.

I take it.”

THE SINGER WILL NOT SING

for A. L

A benison given. Unused,

No angels promised,

wings fluttering banal lies

behind their sexlessness. No

trumpets gloried

prophecies of fabled fame.

Yet harmonies waited in

her stiff throat. New notes

lay expectant on her

stilled tongue.

Her lips are ridged and

fleshy. Purpled night birds

snuggled to rest.

The mouth seamed, voiceless,

Sounds do not lift beyond

those reddened walls.

She came too late and lonely

to this place.

WILLIE

Willie was a man without fame

Hardly anybody knew his name.

Crippled and limping, always walking lame,

He said, “I keep on movin’

Movin’ just the same.”

Solitude was the climate in his head

Emptiness was the partner in his bed,

Pain echoed in the steps of his tread,

He said, “I keep on followin’

Where the leaders led.”

I may cry and I will die,

But my spirit is the soul of every spring,

Watch for me and you will see

That I’m present in the songs that children sing.

People called him “Uncle,” “Boy” and “Hey,”

Said, “You can’t live through this another day.”

Then, they waited to hear what he would say.

He said, “I’m living

In the games that children play.

“You may enter my sleep, people my dreams,

Threaten my early morning’s ease,

But I keep comin’ followin’ laughin’ cryin’,

Sure as a summer breeze.

“Wait for me, watch for me.

My spirit is the surge of open seas.

Look for me, ask for me,

I’m the rustle in the autumn leaves.

“When the sun rises

I am the time.

When the children sing

I am the Rhyme.”

TO BEAT THE CHILD WAS BAD ENOUGH

A young body, light

As winter sunshine, a new

Seed’s bursting promise,

Hung from a string of silence

Above its future.

(The chance of choice was never known.)

Hunger, new hands, strange voices,

Its cry came natural, tearing.

Water boiled in innocence, gaily

In a cheap pot.

The child exchanged its

Curiosity for terror. The skin

Withdrew, the flesh submitted.

Now, cries make shards

Of broken air, beyond an unremembered

Hunger and the peace of strange hands.

A young body floats.

Silently.

WOMAN WORK

I’ve got the children to tend

The clothes to mend

The floor to mop

The food to shop

Then the chicken to fry

The baby to dry

I got company to feed

The garden to weed

I’ve got the shirts to press

The tots to dress

The cane to be cut

I gotta clean up this hut

Then see about the sick

And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine

Rain on me, rain

Fall softly, dewdrops

And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here

With your fiercest wind

Let me float across the sky

’Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes

Cover me with white

Cold icy kisses and

Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky

Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone

Star shine, moon glow

You’re all that I can call my own.

ONE MORE ROUND

There ain’t no pay beneath the sun

As sweet as rest when a job’s well done.

I was born to work up to my grave

But I was not born

To be a slave.

One more round

And let’s heave it down

One more round

And let’s heave it down.

Papa drove steel and Momma stood guard,

I never heard them holler ’cause the work was hard.

They were born to work up to their graves

But they were not born

To be worked-out slaves.

One more round

And let’s heave it down,

One more round

And let’s heave it down.

Brothers and sisters know the daily grind,

It was not labor made them lose their minds.

They were born to work up to their graves

But they were not born

To be worked-out slaves.

One more round

And let’s heave it down,

One more round

And let’s heave it down.

And now I’ll tell you my Golden Rule,

I was born to work but I ain’t no mule.

I was born to work up to my grave

But I was not born

To be a slave.

One more round

And let’s heave it down,

One more round

And let’s heave it down.

THE TRAVELER

Byways and bygone

And lone nights long

Sun rays and sea waves

And star and stone

Manless and friendless

No cave my home

This is my torture

My long nights, lone

KIN

for Bailey

We were entwined in red rings

Of blood and loneliness before

The first snows fell

Before muddy rivers seeded clouds

Above! a virgin forest, and

Men ran naked, blue and black

Skinned into the warm embraces

Of Sheba, Eve and Lilith.

I was your sister.

You left me to force strangers

Into brother molds, exacting

Taxations they never

Owed or could ever pay.

You fought to die, thinking

In destruction lies the seed

Of birth. You may be right.

I will remember silent walks in

Southern woods and long talks

In low voices

Shielding meaning from the big ears

Of over-curious adults.

You may be right.

Your slow return from

Regions of terror and bloody

Screams, races my heart.

I hear again the laughter

Of children and see fireflies

Bursting tiny explosion in

An Arkansas twilight.

THE MEMORY

Cotton rows crisscross the world

And dead-tired nights of yearning

Thunderbolts on leather strops

And all my body burning

Sugar cane reach up to God

And every baby crying

Shame the blanket of my night

And all my days are dying

PART THREE

And Still I Rise

STILL I RISE

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

AIN’T THAT BAD?

Dancin’ the funky chicken

Eatin’ ribs and tips

Diggin’ all the latest sounds

And drinkin’ gin in sips.

Puttin’ down that do-rag

Tightenin’ up my ’fro

Wrappin’ up in Blackness

Don’t I shine and glow?

Hearin’ Stevie Wonder

Cookin’ beans and rice

Goin’ to the opera

Checkin’ out Leontyne Price.

Get down, Jesse Jackson

Dance on, Alvin Ailey

Talk, Miss Barbara Jordan

Groove, Miss Pearlie Bailey.

Now ain’t they bad?

An’ ain’t they Black?

An’ ain’t they Black?

An’ ain’t they Bad?

An’ ain’t they bad?

An’ ain’t they Black?

An’ ain’t they fine?

Black like the hour of the night

When your love turns and wriggles close to your side

Black as the earth which has given birth

To nations, and when all else is gone will abide.

Bad as the storm that leaps raging from the heavens

Bringing the welcome rain

Bad as the sun burning orange hot at midday

Lifting the waters again.

Arthur Ashe on the tennis court

Mohammed Ali in the ring

André Watts and Andrew Young

Black men doing their thing.

Dressing in purples and pinks and greens

Exotic as rum and Cokes

Living our lives with flash and style

Ain’t we colorful folks?

Now ain’t we bad?

An’ ain’t we Black?

An’ ain’t we Black?

An’ ain’t we bad?

An’ ain’t we bad?

An’ ain’t we Black?’

An’ ain’t we fine?

LIFE DOESN’T FRIGHTEN ME

Shadows on the wall

Noises down the hall

Life doesn’t frighten me at all

Bad dogs barking loud

Big ghosts in a cloud

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

Mean old Mother Goose

Lions on the loose

They don’t frighten me at all

Dragons breathing flame

On my counterpane

That doesn’t frighten me at all.

I go boo

Make them shoo

I make fun

Way they run

I won’t cry

So they fly

I just smile

They go wild

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

Tough guys in a fight

All alone at night

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

Panthers in the park

Strangers in the dark

No, they don’t frighten me at all.

That new classroom where

Boys all pull my hair

(Kissy little girls

With their hair in curls)

They don’t frighten me at all.

Don’t show me frogs and snakes

And listen for my scream,

If I’m afraid at all

It’s only in my dreams.

I’ve got a magic charm

That I keep up my sleeve,

I can walk the ocean floor

And never have to breathe.

Life doesn’t frighten me at all

Not at all

Not at all.

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

BUMP D’BUMP

Play me a game like Blind Man’s dance

And bind my eyes with ignorance

Bump d’bump bump d’bump.

Tell my life with a liquor sign

Or a cooking spoon from the five-and-dime

And a junkie reel in two/four time

Bump d’bump bump d’bump.

Call me a name from an ugly south

Like liver lips and satchel mouth

Bump d’bump bump d’bump.

I’ll play possum and close my eyes

To your greater sins and my lesser lies

That way I share my nation’s prize

Bump d’bump bump d’bump.

I may be last in the welfare line

Below the rim where the sun don’t shine

But getting up stays on my mind

Bump d’bump bump d’bump.

ON AGING

When you see me sitting quietly,

Like a sack left on the shelf,

Don’t think I need your chattering.

I’m listening to myself.

Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me!

Hold! Stop your sympathy!

Understanding if you got it,

Otherwise I’ll do without it!

When my bones are stiff and aching

And my feet won’t climb the stair,

I will only ask one favor:

Don’t bring me no rocking chair.

When you see me walking, stumbling,

Don’t study and get it wrong.

’Cause tired don’t mean lazy

And every goodbye ain’t gone.

I’m the same person I was back then,

A little less hair, a little less chin,

A lot less lungs and much less wind.

But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in.

IN RETROSPECT

Last year changed its seasons

subtly, stripped its sultry winds

for the reds of dying leaves, let

gelid drips of winter ice melt onto a

warming earth and urged the dormant

bulbs to brave the pain of spring.

We, loving, above the whim of

time, did not notice.

Alone. I remember now.

JUST LIKE JOB

My Lord, My Lord,

Long have I cried out to Thee

In the heat of the sun,

The cool of the moon,

My screams searched the heavens for Thee.

My God

When my blanket was nothing but dew,

Rags and bones

Were all I owned.

I chanted Your name

Just like Job.

Father, Father,

My life give I gladly to Thee

Deep rivers ahead

High mountains above

My soul wants only Your love

But fears gather round like wolves in the dark

Have You forgotten my name?

Oh, Lord, come to Your child.

Oh, Lord, forget me not.

You said to lean on Your arm

And I’m leaning

You said to trust in Your love

And I’m trusting

You said to call on Your name

And I’m calling

I’m stepping out on Your word.

You said You’d be my protection,

My only and glorious saviour

My beautiful Rose of Sharon,

And I’m stepping out on Your word.

Joy, joy

Your word.

Joy, joy

The wonderful word of the Son of God.

You said that You would take me to glory

To sit down at the welcome table

Rejoice with my mother in heaven

And I’m stepping out on Your word.

Into the alleys

Into the byways

Into the streets

And the roads

And the highways

Past rumor mongers

And midnight ramblers

Past the liars and the cheaters and the gamblers

On Your word

On Your word.

On the wonderful word of the Son of God

I’m stepping out on Your word.

CALL LETTERS: MRS. V.B.

Ships?

Sure I’ll sail them.

Show me the boat,

If it’ll float,

I’ll sail it.

Men?

Yes I’ll love them.

If they’ve got the style,

To make me smile,

I’ll love them.

Life?

’Course I’ll live it.

Let me have breath,

Just to my death,

And I’ll live it.

Failure?

I’m not ashamed to tell it,

I never learned to spell it.

Not Failure.

THANK YOU, LORD

I see You

Brown-skinned,

Neat Afro,

Full lips,

A little goatee.

A Malcolm,

Martin,

Du Bois.

Sunday services become sweeter when you’re Black,

Then I don’t have to explain why

I was out balling the town down,

Saturday night.

Thank you, Lord.

I want to thank You, Lord

For life and all that’s in it.

Thank You for the day

And for the hour and for the minute.

I know many are gone,

I’m still living on,

I want to thank You.

I went to sleep last night

And I arose with the dawn,

I know that there are others

Who’re still sleeping on,

They’ve gone away,

You’ve let me stay.

I want to thank You.

Some thought because they’d seen sunrise

They’d see it rise again.

But death crept into their sleeping beds

And took them by the hand.

Because of Your mercy,

I have another day to live.

Let me humbly say,

Thank You for this day

I want to thank You.

I was once a sinner man,

Living unsaved and wild,

Taking my chances in a dangerous world,

Putting my soul on trial.

Because of Your mercy,

Falling down on me like rain,

Because of Your mercy,

When I die I’ll live again,

Let me humbly say,

Thank You for this day.

I want to thank You.

SHAKER WHY DON’T YOU SING?

Another book for

GUY JOHNSON and COLIN ASHANTI MURPHY JOHNSON

Thanks to

ELEANOR TRAYLOR for her radiance

ELIZABETH PHILLIPS for her art

RUTH BECKFORD for her constancy

AWAKING IN NEW YORK

Curtains forcing their will

against the wind,

children sleep,

exchanging dreams with

seraphim. The city

drags itself awake on

subway straps; and

I, an alarm, awake as a

rumor of war,

lay stretching into dawn,

unasked and unheeded.

A GOOD WOMAN FEELING BAD

The blues may be the life you’ve led

Or midnight hours in

An empty bed. But persecuting

Blues I’ve known

Could stalk

Like tigers, break like bone,

Pend like rope in

A gallows tree,

Make me curse

My pedigree,

Bitterness thick on

A rankling tongue,

A psalm to love that’s

Left unsung,

Rivers heading north

But ending South,

Funeral music

In a going-home mouth.

All riddles are blues,

And all blues are sad,

And I’m only mentioning

Some blues I’ve had.

THE HEALTH-FOOD DINER

No sprouted wheat and soya shoots

And Brussels in a cake,

Carrot straw and spinach raw,

(Today, I need a steak).

Not thick brown rice and rice pilau

Or mushrooms creamed on toast,

Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,

(I’m dreaming of a roast).

Health-food folks around the world

Are thinned by anxious zeal,

They look for help in seafood kelp

(I count on breaded veal).

No Smoking signs, raw mustard greens,

Zucchini by the ton,

Uncooked kale and bodies frail

Are sure to make me run

to

Loins of pork and chicken thighs

And standing rib, so prime,

Pork chops brown and fresh ground round

(I crave them all the time).

Irish stews and boiled corned beef

and hot dogs by the scores,

or any place that saves a space

For smoking carnivores.

A GEORGIA SONG

We swallow the odors of Southern cities,

Fat back boiled to submission,

Tender evening poignancies of

Magnolia and the great green

Smell of fresh sweat.

In Southern fields,

The sound of distant

Feet running, or dancing,

And the liquid notes of

Sorrow songs,

Waltzes, screams and

French quadrilles float over

The loam of Georgia.

Sing me to sleep, Savannah.

Clocks run down in Tara’s halls and dusty

Flags droop their unbearable

Sadness.

Remember our days, Susannah.

Oh, the blood-red clay,

Wet still with ancient

Wrongs, and Abenaa

Singing her Creole airs to

Macon.

We long, dazed, for winter evenings

And a whitened moon,

And the snap of controllable fires.

Cry for our souls, Augusta.

We need a wind to strike

Sharply, as the thought of love

Betrayed can stop the heart.

An absence of tactile

Romance, no lips offering

Succulence, nor eyes

Rolling, disconnected from

A Sambo face.

Dare us new dreams, Columbus.

A cool new moon, a

Winter’s night, calm blood,

Sluggish, moving only

Out of habit, we need

Peace.

Oh Atlanta, oh deep, and

Once lost city,

Chant for us a new song. A song

Of Southern peace.

UNMEASURED TEMPO

The sun rises at midday.

Nubile breasts sag to waistlines while

young loins grow dull,

so late.

Dreams are petted, like

cherished lap dogs

misunderstood and loved

too well.

Much knowledge

wrinkles the cerebellum,

but little informs.

Leaps are

made into narrow mincings.

Great desires strain

into petty wishes.

You did arrive, smiling,

but too late.

AMOEBAEAN FOR DADDY

I was a pretty baby.

White folks used to stop

My mother

Just to look at me.

(All black babies

Are Cute). Mother called me

Bootsie and Daddy said …

(Nobody listened to him).

On the Union Pacific, a

Dining-car waiter, bowing and scraping,

Momma told him to

Stand up straight, he shamed her

In the big house

(Bought from tips) in front of her

Nice club ladies.

His short legs were always

Half bent. He could have posed as

The Black jockey Mother found

And put on the lawn.

He sat silent when

We ate from the good railroad china

And stolen silver spoons.

Furniture crowded our

Lonely house.

But I was young and played

In the evenings under a blanket of

Licorice sky. When Daddy came home

(I might be forgiven) that last night,

I had been running in the

Big back yard and

Stood sweating above the tired old man,

Panting like a young horse,

Impatient with his lingering. He said

“All I ever asked, all I ever asked, all I ever—”

Daddy, you should have died

Long before I was a

Pretty baby, and white

Folks used to stop

Just to look at me.

RECOVERY

for Dugald

A last love,

proper in conclusion,

should snip the wings

forbidding further flight.

But I, now,

reft of that confusion,

am lifted up

and speeding toward the light.

IMPECCABLE CONCEPTION

I met a Lady Poet

who took for inspiration

colored birds, and whispered words

a lover’s hesitation.

A falling leaf could stir her.

A wilting, dying rose

would make her write, both day and night,

the most rewarding prose.

She’d find a hidden meaning

in every pair of pants,

then hurry home to be alone

and write about romance.

CAGED BIRD

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

AVEC MERCI, MOTHER

From her perch of beauty

posing lofty,

Sustained upon the plaudits

of the crowd,

She praises all who kneel and

whispers softly,

“A genuflection’s better

with head bowed.”

Among the mass of people

who adore her

A solitary figure

holds her eyes.

His salty tears invoke

her sweet reaction,

“He’s so much like his daddy

when he cries.”

ARRIVAL

Angels gather.

The rush of mad air

cyclones through.

Wing tips brush the

hair, a million

strands

stand; waving black anemones.

Hosannahs crush the

shell’s ear tender, and

tremble

down clattering

to the floor.

Harps sound,

undulate their

sensuous meanings.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

You

beyond the door.

A PLAGUED JOURNEY

There is no warning rattle at the door

nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards.

Safe in the dark prison, I know that

light slides over

the fingered work of a toothless

woman in Pakistan.

Happy prints

an invisible time are illumined.

My mouth agape

rejects the solid air and

lungs hold. The invader takes

direction and

seeps through the plaster walls.

It is at my chamber entering

the keyhole, pushing

through the padding of the door.

I cannot scream. A bone

of fear clogs my throat.

It is upon me. It is

sunrise, with Hope

its arrogant rider.

My mind, formerly quiescent

in its snug encasement, is strained

to look upon their rapturous visages,

to let them enter even into me.

I am forced

outside myself to

mount the light and ride joined with Hope.

Through all the bright hours

I cling to expectation, until

darkness comes to reclaim me

as its own. Hope fades, day is gone

into its irredeemable place

and I am thrown back into the familiar

bonds of disconsolation.

Gloom crawls around

lapping lasciviously

between my toes, at my ankles,

and it sucks the strands of my

hair. It forgives my heady

fling with Hope. I am

joined again into its

greedy arms.

STARVATION

Hurray! Hurry!

Come through the keyhole.

Don’t mind the rotting

sashes, pass into the windows.

Come, good news.

I’m holding my apron to

catch your plumpness.

The largest pot shines

with happiness. The slack

walls of my purse, pulsing

pudenda, await you with

a new bride’s longing.

The bread bin gapes and

the oven holds its cold

breath.

Hurry up! Hurry down!

Good tidings. Don’t wait

out my misery. Do not play

coy with my longing.

Hunger has grown old and

ugly with me. We hate from

too much knowing. Come.

Press out this sour beast which

fills the bellies of my children

and laughs at each eviction notice.

Come!

CONTEMPORARY ANNOUNCEMENT

Ring the big bells,

cook the cow,

put on your silver locket.

The landlord is knocking at the door

and I’ve got the rent in my pocket.

Douse the lights,

Hold your breath,

take my heart in your hand.

I lost my job two weeks ago

and rent day’s here again.

PRELUDE TO A PARTING

Beside you, prone,

my naked skin finds

fault in touching.

Yet it is you

who draws away.

The tacit fact is:

the awful fear of losing

is not enough to cause

a fleeing love

to stay.

MARTIAL CHOREOGRAPH

Hello young sailor.

You are betrayed and

do not know the dance of death.

Dandy warrior, swaying to

Rick James on your

stereo, you do not hear the

bleat of triumphant war, its

roar is not in

your ears, filled with Stevie Wonder.

“Show me how to do like you.

Show me how to do it.”

You will be surprised that

trees grunt when torn from

their root sockets to fandango into dust,

and exploding bombs force a lively Lindy

on grasses and frail bodies.

Go galloping on, bopping,

in the airport, young sailor.

Your body, virgin

still, has not swung the bloody buck and wing.

Manhood is a newly delivered

message. Your eyes,

rampant as an open city,

have not yet seen life steal from

limbs outstretched and trembling

like the arms of dancers

and dying swans.

TO A SUITOR

If you are Black and for me,

press steady, as the weight

of night. And I will show

cascades of brilliance, astrally.

If you are Black and constant,

descend importantly,

as ritual, and I will arch

a crescent moon, naturally.

INSOMNIAC

There are some nights when

sleep plays coy,

aloof and disdainful.

And all the wiles

that I employ to win

its service to my side

are useless as wounded pride,

and much more painful.

WEEKEND GLORY

Some dichty folks

don’t know the facts,

posin’ and preenin’

and puttin’ on acts,

stretchin’ their necks

and strainin’ their backs.

They move into condos

up over the ranks,

pawn their souls

to the local banks

Buying big cars

they can’t afford,

ridin’ around town

actin’ bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right,

they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant

ain’t the biggest bet,

but I pay my bills

and stay out of debt.

I get my hair done

for my own self’s sake,

so I don’t have to pick

and I don’t have to rake.

Take the church money out

and head cross town

to my friend girl’s house

where we plan our round.

We meet our men and go to a joint

where the music is blues

and to the point.

Folks write about me.

They just can’t see

how I work all week

at the factory.

Then get spruced up

and laugh and dance

And turn away from worry

with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin’

from day to day,

but who are they kiddin’?

So are they.

My life ain’t heaven

but it sure ain’t hell.

I’m not on top

but I call it swell

if I’m able to work

and get paid right

and have the luck to be Black

on a Saturday night.

THE LIE

Today, you threaten to leave me.

I hold curses, in my mouth,

which could flood your path, sear

bottomless chasms in your road.

I keep, behind my lips,

invectives capable of tearing

the septum from your

nostrils and the skin from your back.

Tears, copious as a spring rain,

are checked in ducts

and screams are crowded in a corner

of my throat.

You are leaving?

Aloud, I say:

I’ll help you pack, but it’s getting late,

I have to hurry or miss my date.

When I return, I know you’ll be gone.

Do drop a line or telephone.

PRESCIENCE

Had I known that the heart

breaks slowly, dismantling itself

into unrecognizable plots

of misery,

Had I known the heart would leak,

slobbering its sap, with a vulgar

visibility, into the dressed-up

dining rooms of strangers,

Had I known that solitude could

stifle the breath, loosen the joint,

and force the tongue against the

palate,

Had I known that loneliness could

keloid, winding itself around the

body in an ominous and beautiful

cicatrix,

Had I known yet I would have loved

you, your brash and insolent beauty,

your heavy comedic face

and knowledge of sweet

delights,

But from a distance

I would have left you whole and wholly

for the delectation of those who

wanted more and cared less.

FAMILY AFFAIRS

You let down, from arched

Windows,

Over hand-cut stones of your

Cathedrals, seas of golden hair.

While I, pulled by dusty braids,

Left furrows in the

Sands of African beaches.

Princes and commoners

Climbed over waves to reach

Your vaulted boudoirs,

As the sun, capriciously,

Struck silver fire from waiting

Chains, where I was bound.

My screams never reached

The rare tower where you

Lay, birthing masters for

My sons, and for my

Daughters, a swarm of

Unclean badgers, to consume

Their history.

Tired now of pedestal existence

For fear of flying

And vertigo, you descend

And step lightly over

My centuries of horror

And take my hand,

Smiling call me

Sister.

Sister, accept

That I must wait a

While. Allow an age

Of dust to fill

Ruts left on my

Beach in Africa.

CHANGES

Fickle comfort steals away

What it knows

It will not say

What it can

It will not do

It flies from me

To humor you.

Capricious peace will not bind

The severed nerves

The jagged mind

The shattered dream

The loveless sleep

It frolics now

Within your keep.

Confidence, that popinjay,

Is planning now

To slip away

Look fast

It’s fading rapidly

Tomorrow it returns to me.

BRIEF INNOCENCE

Dawn offers

innocence to a half-mad city.

The axe-keen

intent of all our

days for this brief

moment lies soft, nuzzling

the breast of morning,

crooning, still sleep-besotted,

of childish pranks with

angels.

THE LAST DECISION

The print is too small, distressing me.

Wavering black things on the page.

Wriggling polliwogs all about.

I know it’s my age.

I’ll have to give up reading.

The food is too rich, revolting me

I swallow it hot or force it down cold,

and wait all day as it sits in my throat.

Tired as I am, I know I’ve grown old.

I’ll have to give up eating.

My children’s concerns are tiring me.

They stand at my bed and move their lips,

and I cannot hear one single word.

I’d rather give up listening.

Life is too busy, wearying me.

Questions and answers and heavy thought.

I’ve subtracted and added and multiplied,

and all my figuring has come to naught.

Today I’ll give up living.

SLAVE COFFLE

Just Beyond my reaching,

an itch away from fingers,

was the river bed

and the high road home.

Now Beneath my walking,

solid down to China,

all the earth is horror

and the dark night long.

Then Before the dawning,

bright as grinning demons,

came the fearful knowledge

that my life was gone.

SHAKER, WHY DON’T YOU SING?

Evicted from sleep’s mute palace,

I wait in silence

for the bridal croon;

your legs rubbing insistent

rhythm against my thighs,

your breast moaning

a canticle in my hair.

But the solemn moments,

unuttering, pass in

unaccompanied procession.

You, whose chanteys hummed

my life alive, have withdrawn

your music and lean inaudibly

on the quiet slope of memory.

O Shaker, why don’t you sing?

In the night noisome with

street cries and the triumph

of amorous insects, I focus beyond

those cacophonies for

the anthem of your hands and swelling chest,

for the perfect harmonies which are

your lips. Yet darkness brings

no syncopated promise. I rest somewhere

between the unsung notes of night.

Shaker, why don’t you sing?

MY LIFE HAS TURNED TO BLUE

Our summer’s gone,

the golden days are through.

The rosy dawns I used to

wake with you

have turned to gray,

my life has turned to blue.

The once-green lawns

glisten now with dew.

Red robin’s gone,

down to the South he flew.

Left here alone,

my life has turned to blue.

I’ve heard the news

that winter too will pass,

that spring’s a sign

that summer’s due at last.

But until I see you

lying in green grass,

my life has turned to blue.