Negro Folk song: Wild Negro Bill

I'se wild Nigger Bill
Frum Redpepper Hill.
I never did wo'k, an' I never will.

I'se done killed de Boss.
I'se knocked downde hoss.
I eats up raw goose widout apple sauce!

I'se Run-a-way Bill,
I knows dey mought kill;
But ole Mosser hain't cotch me, an' he never will

Part of an old folk song: Run, Nigger, Run!

Run, Nigger, run! De Patter-rollers'll ketch you.
Run, Nigger, run! It's almos day.

Dat Nigger run'd, dat Nigger flew,
Dat Nigger tore his shu't in two.

All over dem woods and frou de paster,
Dem Patter-rollers shot; but de Nigger git faster,

Oh, dat Nigger whirl'd, dat Nigger wheel'd,
Dat Nigger tore up de whole co'n field

Song: We Raise de Wheat

We raise de wheat,
Dey gib us de corn;
We bake de bread,
Dey bib us de crust;
We sif de meal,
Dey gib us de huss;
We peel de meat,
Dey gib us de skin;
And dat's de way
Dey take us in;
We skim de pot,
Dey gibusde liquor,
And say dat's good enough for nigger.


from Frederick Douglass'
My Bondage and My Freedom, 1853

I Am More Than My Hair

I am more than my desire; more than I even aspire to be
more than they told me I could be, I am me.
Magnificently Black and proud to be
A malignant cancer on their self esteem,
For in my natural mane they find crowns
of memorabilia of raped and drowned queens
who once won the respect of even the Asian,
who sells me hair in indoor flea markets
for gain through Barbie-styled caricatures
of what I am told to be, to be - American

Despite what they might perceive,
whether, or if, they care to care
I am more than the dollar defines,
more than the thick swells between my curvy lines
I am more than my thick lips, more than my skin, however dark or fair
I am more than a consumer, I don’t need a costumer
Why can’t they comprehend this? I am more than my hair!
I have my crown and my convictions, I don’t need extensions
Don’t give me horse hair. There is nothing synthetic about me.
I am human. I feel, I bleed, I shout, I cuss, I eat, I drink,
They doubt, I learn, I love and make love or even pay attention
to the mind games they play with distorted images of me on display
But I am more than what this capital scene is made of

Human hair? Human Hair? From a real live Asian gal?
Why you come in here to try to get me down about my kinky crown?
Oh Lord, the despair!
Who lied and told you we need to cover up our hair?
This Black girl finds no pride in hiding ‘neath a crown of fear!
You must be trying to sell me dead locks
‘Cause I ain’t seen no bald headed Asian gals running around here

by Jessica Holter

"I Was Born" by MC Lyte

Much Too Much

I haven’t even begun to live life and it’s already too hard for me
Tryna do good, be right, you know, hold on to my Christianity.
But sometimes I’m just ready to give up
Let up and rid the struggle(s) shut up
in my bones.
Dull, almost dead is my optimistic tone.
Seems to me that the harder I try
The more I wonder why?
Wanna do right, but the world keeps shutting my out
Separate yourself from the world, yeah but I’m ready to SHOUT
‘cause It. Ain’t. That. Easy.
Believe me.
A devoted Christian am I
But these last few months all I can do is break down and cry.
Trying to do so much while keeping in touch
With the spirit.
Can you hear it?
I’ve gone deaf, I think
‘Cause I haven’t heard a word and I’m on the brink
Of falling.
I’ve been calling
Hoping -
Knowing that He’s listening.
But receiving…nothing?
Hello? I’m in pain.
Surprised I’m still sane
Can’t keep up with this game
It’s turning me lame
And I’m forgetting my name
Righteous.
The world is much too much.
These are the times that I most desire my crutch
Strong when I’m weak
But where is He?
Thought You wanted to mold me.
Why should I suffer with such a silence.
Did I not give You my heart?
Did I not give it all up to You from the start?
I am tired, weak. I’m draining.
I wanna be for You but I can feel my spirit fainting.
So save me O Lord. Come to my rescue right away.
Rest; tranquility is all I ask. Please, give my spirit to lay
That I may worship you with an ease,
That you might take away my pain, and instead give me peace.
Your Servant, Your Image, D.

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Something Wrong

Was

Running away from everyone in hopes of helping myself
Now lookin around, I've no one, so instead I've hurt myself
To become a diamond, a rock must endure the fire
So how could I have expected better
when I refused to go through the weather?
Family & friends now lost in hopes of emotional wealth
But perhaps I should have realized my error when I began to lose myself
Confused - my spiritual well-being now more derranged
Lonely and afraid, I no longer force my own corrections, but sit and wait for change...

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

The Addiction

The addiction
does not
have hold of you
it has
no hands
no arms
no legs
it has not
ambition
delusion
confusion

The Addiction
does not need you
does not love you
it is not anxious
or
nervous
it is not some guy
or girl you met in a club
out
to possess you tonight

It does not want you

The Addiction does not feel

Addiction does not feel

That is you.
Projecting.
Embellishing.

Testing and pushing
your loved ones away...
You, locking the door
so you
so you can have privacy
so you can have your way with it.
Bind it
Bend it to your will

The Addiction does not have hold of you
it has no hands.

It is you
who will to not
let her go.

by Jessica Holter

The Psalm of Life

What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dark Variation

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me -
That is my dream

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

by Langston Hughes

Suicide

First, suicide notes should be
(not long) but written
second,
all suicide notes
should be signed
in blood
by hand
and to the point -
that point being, perhaps,
that there is none.
Thirdly, if it is the thought
of rest that
fascinates
laziness should be admitted
in the clearest terms.
Then, all things done
ask those outraged
consider their happiest
summer
& tell if the days it
adds up to
is one

Alice Walker

"Nothing is for Nothing" by Jill Scott

Possum Crossing

Backing out the driveway
the car lights cast an eerie glow
in the morning fog centering
on movement in the rain slick street
Hitting brakes I anticipate a squirrel or a cat or sometimes
a little raccoon
I once braked for a blind little mole who try though he did
could not escape the cat toying with his life
Mother-to-be possum occasionally lopes home . . . being
naturally . . . slow her condition makes her even more ginger
We need a sign POSSUM CROSSING to warn coffee-gurgling neighbors:
we share the streets with more than trucks and vans and
railroad crossings
All birds being the living kin of dinosaurs
think themselves invincible and pay no heed
to the rolling wheels while they dine
on an unlucky rabbit
I hit brakes for the flutter of the lights hoping it's not a deer
or a skunk or a groundhog
coffee splashes over the cup which I quickly put away from me
and into the empty passenger seat
I look . . .
relieved and exasperated ...
to discover I have just missed a big wet leaf
struggling . . . to lift itself into the wind
and live

by Nikki Giovanni

Balances

in life
one is always
balancing

like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers

or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average)

3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street

and lately i've begun wondering
if you're trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night
and do things alone together

and i've begun

(as a reaction to a feeling)
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you

by Nikki Giovanni

Mouthin Off

My job is to devulge the feelings of the time
Through my incondescent rhymes
And fiery metaphors
I open up
Young mind doors
To the quiet tongue fo there inner souls
I say what the normal man wouldn't
What most people couldn't
I'm the tongue of the mute
Ear of the death
Sight of the blind
I'm the young word genuis
Trapped in a poetic mind.

by Jay Horne

Shafro

Now that my afro's as big as Shaft's
I feel a little better about myself.
How it warms my bullet-head in Winter,
black halo, frizzy hat of hair.
Shaft knew what a crown his was,
an orb compared to the bush
on the woman sleeping next to him.
(There was always a woman
sleeping next to him. I keep thinking,
If I'd only talk to strangers. . .
grow a more perfect head of hair.)
His afro was a crown.
Bullet after barreling bullet,
fist-fights & car chases,
three movies & a brief TV series,
never one muffled strand,
never dampened by sweat--
I sweat in even the least heroic of situations.
I'm sure you won't believe this,
but if a policeman walks behind me, I tremble:
What would Shaft do? What would Shaft do?
Bits of my courage flake away like dandruff.
I'm sweating even as I tell you this,
I'm not cool,
I keep the real me tucked beneath a wig,
I'm a small American frog.
I grow beautiful as the theatre dims.

by Terrence Hayes

True Beauty Is...

Is my hair permed, relaxed, or texturized like the most of us?
No. But believe and trust
that I am still black from dawn to dusk.
Are my thighs thick? Or are they voluptuous?
No, but best believe brothas go crazy as they fall in lust.
Is my lower back round, full, firm?
No. But why should that be of anyone’s concern?

No I’m not thick in the thighs or big in the booty,
but I’d like to think that I’m worth more than that, truly.
I’m not just a piece a meat hoping for someone to notice me.
I’m a woman with a spirit so bright and so real
that even the angels above applaud me.
I lure my men with my character and moral attributes,
not with the flesh on my body and my sassy attitudes.

My faith and spirituality shines through
in all that I say and in all that I do.
Females look at me and think,
“Why would he want her?”
But Fellahs look at me and see
that I’m worth more than diamonds, gems, or pearls.

My beauty is unlike any other; it can’t be compared.
My gorgeousness is that of my own, so it can’t be shared.
And do you know what is most amazing, outrageous, astounding?
It is that this beauty springs from the inside me
and blesses all that is within my surrounding.

People look at me and see something new, different; something fresh.
And when I speak, they learn to understand that beauty isn’t just something of the flesh.
No. It goes deeper than that.
This blessing, it’s much stronger than that.

It is a blessing within itself realizing your worth, understanding your value,
But I can’t make it happen. That’s all up to you.

Females trip about being treated wrong,
and their agitation, aggravation, irritation - it’s strong.
Yet we never take the time to analyze ourselves and who we say we are.
We tell people we’re sweet, respectful, selfless - but is all that really in our hearts?
We must be willing to check out our soul, our spirit, our inner lady
because there, and only there, will we finally be able to interpret our true inner beauty.

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Tired

See now, I’m just so...tired
of all these…liars
Brothahs and sistahs
claimin to be real
When all I truly feel
is…tired.
Tired of the same ol’ same ol’ same ol’ message
Him, Her, They, - touching, groping, feeling on cleavage
And what do we sing about?
What is it that we write about?
Kicks, money, and SEX
Now this all leave me perplexed
‘cause is this really all we are?
Shallow; is this the depth of out heart?
Perversity, erotica, fornication.
This is the make up of our communication -
and I’m tired.
Can we try and speak on something new?
I mean, there’s more to us than our “Bedroom Boom”
…Right?
When I read you work, I wanna be moved.
When we speak, I want convo that’s smooth
healthy
real
Something I can learn from
not something I can “cum” from
When I enter into discussion, I want to be blown away, impressed
yet this language of sin is unknown to me, and it refuses to grant me rest.
Disgusted am I at what our mentality has metamorphed in to
We’ve degraded ourselves and we inspire no more like we used to
I ask myself, As a people, what are our morals, our beliefs, our values
Have they all diminished, deteriorated, and come to a minimum too?
Who are we? What stands us out and makes us beautiful?
Our culture uplifts this thing called sex – but it only makes us pitiful.
We are an intelligent, wise, potent set of people; an able congregation
Ignorance leads us to our own death and I'm not sure how long I can be patient.
So now tell me, is lust our prized possession?
If it is, than we are a disgrace.
And my people, I’ve got a confession.
...
I ...
am ...
tired ...
(sigh)

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Erykah Badu: Fans, Friends, Artists must meet. Which are you, Which One are Me?

Endangered Species

The Color of violence is black.
Those are the facts, spreadeagled
against a white background,
where policemen have cornered the enemy,
where he shouldn't be, which is seen.
Of course, they can't always believe their eyes,
so they have to rely on instinct,
which tells them I am incapable
of civilized behavior,
therefore, I am guilty
of driving through my own neighborhood
and must take my punishment
must relax and enjoy
like a good boy.
If not, they are prepared to purge me
of my illusions of justince, of truth,
which is indeed elusive,
much like Sasquatch,
whose footprints and shit
are only the physical evidence
of what cannot be proved to exist,
much like me,
the "distinguished" professor of lit,
pulled from my car
because I look suspicious.
My briefcase, filled with today's assignment
could containdrugs,
instead of essays arranged
according to quality of content,
not my students' color of skin,
but then who am I to say
that doesn't require a beating too? -
a solution that leaves no confunsion
as to who can do whatever he wants to whom,
because there is a line directly
from slave to perpetrator,
to my face staring out of newspapers and TV,
or described over and over as a black male.
I am deprived of my separate identity
and must always be a race instead of a man
going to work in the land of opportunity,
because slavery didn't really disappear.
It simply put on a new mask
and now it feeds off fear
that is mostly justified,
because the suicides of the ghetto
have chosen to take somebody with them
and it may as well be you
passing through fire,
as I'm being taught
that injustice is merely another way
of looking at the truth.
At some point, we will meet
at the tip of the bullet,
the blade, or the whip
as it draws blood,
but only one of us will change,
only one of us will slip
past the captain and crew of this ship
and the other submit to the chains
of a nation
that delivered rhetoric
in exchange for its promises.

by Ai

Lynching and Burning

Men lean toward the wood.
Hoods crease
Unitl they find people
Where there used to be hoods.
Instead of a story,
The whole thing becomes a scream
then time, place, far
late in the country,
alone,
an old man's farm.
Children we used to call charcoal,
Now they smell that way - deliberately,
And the mood stares at smike like iced tea.

Daughter,
Once there was a place we called the earth.
People lived there. Now we live there...

by Primus St. John

Grandfather Says

"Sit in my hand."
I'm ten.
I can't see him,
but I hear him breathing
in the dark.
It's after dinner playtime.
We're outside,
hidden by trees and shrubbery.
He calls it hide-and-seek,
but only my little sister seeks us
as we hide
and she can't find us,
as grandfather picks me up
and rubs his hands between my legs.
I only feel a vague stirring
at the edge of my consciousness.
I don't know what it is,
but I like it.
It gives me pleasure
that I can't identify.
It's not like eating candy,
but it's just as bad,
because I had to lie to grandmother
when she asked,
"What do you do out there?"
"Where?" I answered.
Then I said, "Oh, play hide-and-seek."
She looked hard at me,
then she said, "That was the last time.
I'm stopping that game."
So it ended and I forgot.
Ten years passed, thirtyfive,
when I began to reconstruct the past.
When I asked myself
why I was attracted to men who disgusted me
I traveled back through time
to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life
I thought was gone,
but it had only sunk from view
into the quicksand of my mind.
It was pulling me down
and there I found grandfather waiting,
his hand outstretched to lift me up,
naked and wet
where he rubbed me.
"I'll do anything for you," he whispered,
"but let you go."
And I cried, "Yes," then "No."
"I don't understand how you can do this to me.
I'm only ten years old,"
and he said, "That's old enough to know."

by Ai

When I Know the Power of My Black Hand

I do not know the power of my hand,
I do not know the power of my black hand.
I sit slumped in the conviction that I am powerless,
tolerate ceilings that make me bend.
My godly mind stoops, my ambition is crippled;

I do not know the power of my hand.
I see my children stunted,
my young men slaughtered,

I do not know the mighty power of my hand.
I see the power over my life and death in another man's hands,
and sometimes I shake my woolly head and wonder:
'Lord have mercy.' What would it be like . . . to be free?

But when I know the mighty power of my black hand
I will snatch my freedom from the tyrant's mouth,
know the first taste of freedom on my eager tongue,
sing the miracle of freedom with all the force of my lungs,
christen my black land with exuberant creation,
stand independent in the hall of nations,
root submission and dependence from the soil of my soul
and pitch the monument of slavery from my back
when I know the mighty power of my hand!

by Lance Jeffers

Between the World & Me

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled
suddenly upon the thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly
oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting
themselves between the world and me....

There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
upon a cushion of ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt
finger accusingly at the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and
a scorched coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat,
and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches,
butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
drained gin-flask, and a whore's lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the
lingering smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow
surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull....

And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
for the life that was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by
icy walls of fear--
The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the
grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods
poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the
darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
my flesh.

The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red
upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that
my life be burned....

And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my
black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as
they bound me to the sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from
me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into
my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a
baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot
sides of death.
Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
yellow surprise at the sun....

by Richard Wright

POW (Prisoner of Words) by Alicia Keys

Sunday Afternoon on Chocolate City

It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City.
I only came to visit,
but I drank of a bittersweet brown elixir
and came down with an allergic reaction to leaving
My endorphins got all swollen
with the spiritual notion
of Black Love

It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City
My lover is on bended knee beside me
We had been fighting over nothing in particular,
Perhaps just because the thing between us is so strong
We barely have room for our own selves.
So we pray.
Pray for love
Pray for strength
Each for someone else
Then for one another
Together we Pray
for the anger to go away

Ask for understanding of a love so strong it chokes
and we can only breath together
we share the air between us
always, out of breath
always, needing more
Just like that,
reaching for a tissue,
an accidental brush
we are twisted limbs of amber and mahogany
backsliding into one another
sweaty in humidity
our wetness caramelizing on the floor
It is Sunday afternoon in Chocolate City
And we forgot to say "Amen"

by Ghetto Girl Blue/Jessica Holter

Ghost of Temptation

The devil’s hold is strong on me, mixing with my flesh
Temptation is what he calls himself, desire on me he press.
With beautiful faces & hard handsome bod’s
He moves & teases me, makes droop slip from my jaw.
Surely, pure white spirits turn away frightened
when soft untamed muscles tighten.
The pulse quickens and the body is shaken
by this unseen demon;
The Ghost of temptation.

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Could I Be Your Black

Let me ask you something,
If I smiled at you, would you take a chance and consider me?
If I flashed my pearly whites at you, could you ever accept me?
I’m probably twenty shades darker than you,
and knowing this, tell me: What would you do?
Would you, white man, offer to be the milk in my coffee?
Would you put aside your white chocolate and have some of my toffee?
Or would you simply blow me off without even a thought?
Could I be the woman to change your life? Stir your pot?
What would you do if I licked my lips real soft, real slow?
Could I sit as brown sugar next to your Sweet-n-Low?
C’mon baby, I promise not to be offended, just let me know.
Would you let me be the pepper next to your salt,
or would you do me like they do malt?
Steeped, germinated, and dried.
C’mon, be honest with me. I see no need to lie.
Could you love me with my weave or my short and nappy curls?
With my rough feet and tough hands, could you refer to me as your girl?
Could you come to care for me with my two inch nails
and the color of my flesh - which isn’t too pale?
Would you take notice if I sashayed my hips when my existence passed yours?
Tell me, if I did like Michael(J.) would you like me more?
Could I be your cookie and you my cream?
Or is all this more likely to occur in a dream?
If I grooved next to you would I be a relevant thought or would you give me no regard, pay me no heed?
If I told you I loved you, would you wave me off or devote your time to me like you would your creed?
Would you hate me if I were the spots on your dalmatian, the stripes on your zebra?
Would you like me better if my name were Ashley or Amanda instead of Shenique or Jemimah?
Could I be the black tie against your white suit
or would you turn me away, kicking me to the curb with your boot?
Does my color offend you? Does my shade scare you?
Does my questioning our being together bother you?
Is it because I question whether you think we could ever be,
or is it because you could simply never see yourself with me?
Could I be the ink against your paper,
The black on your leather?
If I grinned, smiled, let my dimples show
would you smile back and allow emotions for me to grow?
If I permed my hair - maybe relaxed it, curled it some,
Would you nurture me like you nurse your rum?
With all the daintiness, sensitivity, and grace that I may lack
My dear, could I possibly, ever, be your black?

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Why I Love You by Shanelle Gabriel

Song For a Dark Girl

Way down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
They hung my dark young lover
In a cross roads tree.

Way down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer

Way down south in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.

by Langston Hughes

Frederick Douglass

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty
this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usuable as the earth; when it belongs at last to our
children,
when it is truly instict, brainmatter, diastole, systole,
reflex action, when it is finally won; when it is more

than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered - oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the needful beautiful thing.



by Robert Hayden

Our Grandmothers

She lay, skin down in the moist dirt,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.

She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.

She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomorrow?

Yes.
Unless you keep walking more
and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,

I shall not be moved.

In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve
of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands, she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,

I shall not be moved.

Her universe, often summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her feet,
made her cry each time into a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed.

yet, I must not be moved.

She heard the names,
swirling ribbons in the wind of history:
nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, But my description cannot
fit your tongue, for
I have a certain way of being in this world,
and I shall not, I shall not be moved.

No angel stretched protecting wings
above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of reason
into the confusions of their lives.
The sprouted like young weeds,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away, underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless.
When you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,

I shall not be moved.

She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.

She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother, Enter here.

Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God, I go forth
along, and stand as ten thousand.
The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.

The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my
feet without ceasing into the
camp of the righteous and into the tents of the free.

These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple,
honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted
down a pyramid for years.
She is Sheba the Sojourner,
Harriet and Zora,
Mary Bethune and Angela,
Annie to Zenobia.

She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of handouts.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners,
hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.

Centered on the world's stage,
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
however my ignorance and conceits,
lay aside your fears that I will be undone,

for I shall not be moved.

by Maya Angelou

A Moment Please

When I gaze at the sun
I walked to the subway booth
for change for a dime
and know that this great earth
Two adolescent girls stood there
alive with eagerness to know
is but a fragment from it thrown
in their new found world
all there was for them to know
in a heat and flame a billion years ago,
they look at me and brightly asked
"Are you Arabian"
that then this world was lifeless
I smiled and cautiously
- for one growns cautious -
shook my head.
as, a billion hence,
"Egyptian?"
it shall again be,


Again I smiled and shook my head
and walked away.
what a moment is it that I am betrayed,
I've gone but seven paces now
oppressed, cast down
and from behind comes swift the sneer
or warm with love or triumph?
"Or Nigger?"

A moment, please
What is it that to fury I am roused?
for still it takes a moment
What meaning for me
and now
in the homeless clan
I'll turn
the dupe of space
and smile
the toy of time?

and nod my head

by Samuel Allen (Paul Vesey)

KA'AB

A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and black people
call across or scream across or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will

Our world is full of sound
Our world is more lovely than anyone's
tho we suffer, and kill each other
and sometimes fail to walk the air

We are beautiful people
with african imaginations
full of masks and dances and swelling chants
with african eyes, and noses, and arms,
though we sprawl in gray chains in a place
full of winters, when what we want is sun.

We have been captured,
brothers. And we labor
to make our getaway, into
the ancient image, into a new
correspondence with ourselves
and our black family. We need magic
now we need t he spells, to raise up
return, destroy, and create. What will be

the sacred words?

by Amiri Baraka

Juke Box Love Song

I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue buses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make it a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day -
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.



by Langston Hughes

now poem. for us.

dont let them die out
all these old/blk/people
don't let them cop out
with their memories
of slavery/survival
it is our
heritage.
u know. part/african
part/negro.
part/slave
sit down with em brothas and sistuhs.
talk to em. listen to their
tales of victories/woes/sorrows.
listen to their blk/
myths.
record them talken their ago talk
for our tomorrows.
ask them bout the songs of
births. the herbs
that cured
their aches.
the crazy/
niggers blowen
some cracker's cool.

by Sonia Sanchez

Bronzeville Man With a Belt in the Back

In such an armor he may rise and raid
the dark cave after midnight, unafraid
And slice the shadows with his able sword
Of good broad nonchalence, hashing them down.

And come out and accept the gasping crowd,
Shake off the praises with an airiness.
And, searching, see love shining in an eye,
But never smile.

In such an armor he cannot be slain.

by Gwendolyn Brooks

Nikki-Rose

Childhood remembrances are always a drag
if you're Black
You always remember things like lving in Woodlawn
with no inside toilet
And if you become famous of something
they never talk about how happy you were to have your mother
all to yourself and
how good the water felt when you got your bath from one of those
big tubs that folk in Chicago barbeque in
and somehow when you talk about home
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father's pain as he sells his stock
and another dream goes
and though they fought a lot
it isn't your father's drinking that makes any difference
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good Christmasses
and I really hope no white person ever has cause to write about me
because they never understand Black love is Black wealth and they'll
probably talk about my hard childhood and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy

By Nikki Giovanni

Me and the Mule

My old mule,
He's got a grin on his face.
He's been a mule for so long
He's forgot about his race.

I'm like that old mule -
Black - and don't give a damn!
You got to take me
Like I am.

by Langston Hughes

Touched By An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

By Maya Angelou

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

by: Langston Hughes

We Real Cool

The pool players. Seven at the golden shovel.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

by Gwendolyn Brooks

Flashy Words by Shihan

Epilogue: The Wife of Noble Character

Serenity by Laurie Cooper

A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
She selects wool and flax
and works with eager hands
She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark;
she provides food for her family
and portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it;
out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable,
and her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes covering for her bed;
she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate,
where he take his seat among the elders of the land.
She makes linen garments and sells them,
and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Give her the reward she has earned,
and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

-Proverbs 31 vs. 10-31

This Belly Rumbles

He reaches out and places his arm around her back, holds her shoulder. Whispering sweet some-things into her ear, she smiles, giggles, laughs. His lips brush her forehead in a kiss doubled over. Her face reveals the security she feels within his arms; soft smiles – a sort of peace.

My belly rumbles in hunger.

Sitting together, they make great effort to test each other's warmth. Arm kissing arm, leg brushing leg, they long to feel. Her fingers reach to point, he grabs them, holds on. Fingering the edge of her palm until she slowly open her hand and lets him in. In caution, fingers gently grace each other - not wanting to set off any unneeded emotions in such a public place. In understanding, her head leans onto his shoulder. In satisfaction, his head leans over her head.
Peace. Peace. Peace.

My belly rumbles in hunger.

So I sit.
And I watch...

them being them, them loving them, me feeling them…wanting them to be me.
No, not completely understanding what it is I see but needing to be in that mix.
My lips flip
upwards in a smile for them. Wondering when I'll find myself comfortably positioned between the lap of a man so sweetly kissing my cheek, wrapping his arms around me. Me loving him, he loving me...
This belly rumbles in hunger.

So I sit.
And I watch
patiently


Spaghetti. He feeds her. She feeds him. Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. You hear that? Yes. You hear that. Small talk. They make small talk that un-doubt-ably will force beautiful imprints on her mind – and they'll last forever. She'll lay in bed one evening far from now and think of this irrelevant moment. Through her heartache, through her pain, through her hate and confusion, she'll close her eyes…and smile.

You remember
This belly rumbles in hunger.

Eyes watch them. Eyes analyze. Eyes try to make it work, try to make it match, try to understand. Eyes watch. What they have…the potency of it - whatever it may be - makes them careless and unaware of the world around them, of the eyes that surround them. No. It's just them. See. It's just them. Their world – who else belongs? No one.
They won't let me in – and I just want a taste. Be it bitter or sweet…just a taste.

So I watch, and
My belly rumbles in hunger.

You hear it, don't you.
You hear it.
Cause my belly…this belly…it's yours too.
Our belly.
Mmmm.
Yes, it rumbles in hunger.

By: Dorlette Pierre-Louis

When It Was Just Yesterday...

Do you remember yesterday?

Yesterday when the world thought you were beautiful? When the world looked into your eyes and found himself lost; smiled a smile of confusion but remained because nothing could amount to the moment of right then.

Do you remember yesterday?

Yesterday, when the moon approached you while you slept and asked you to wake. When the moon wanted to know you; perused your character, your attitude, your you and claimed to have fallen into your pool – your love.

Do you remember yesterday?

Of course you do. Yesterday you were beautiful. Yesterday you were the sun’s aphrodisiac. Yesterday. Yesterday. Yesterday, every aspect of the universe turned and watched you as you walked by. Yesterday stars decorated your ears, your fingers, your wrists. Your hair swung wonderfully and shined in the light of your moon, your sun, your world. Yes. Yesterday you were crowned.

Yesterday. Yesterday.

Today.
Last night, thoughts of the moon – not yet yours – kept you from sleep. So today, today your eyes are decorated with the nights darkness, your lips peels from constant talk of wishes…false promises. Those stars flee from your arms and wish to adorn that of another. So. So you dress yourself in rags hoping that yesterday’s universe will embrace you in all your natural essence today.

But today.

Today, Today, Neptune’s orbit is still outside of Pluto’s, Saturn shares his rings only with himself, and Mars promises life to no one. Today, the world works as it usually should, not as it wonderfully had. Today your eyes draw who in? Your beauty entrances what amazement? Your character intrigues…no one.
Yes,
Today you’re just you
and nobody’s interested.

by: Dorlette Pierre-Louis




Reflections of a Queen - Monica Stewart

We Wear the Mask

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

By: Paul Laurence Dunbar

a portion of Nelson Mandela's Inaugural speech

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous"
Actually,
who are you not to be?
You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are meant to shine, as children do.
We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
Its not just in some of us, it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears our presence automatically liberates others.

Cross

My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder were I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?

By: Langston Hughes

Ode to my Brothahs...

This is my Ode to all the Brothahs out there because - you inspired me...
(Soul-Mate by Monica Stewart)
What is it about the man that stirs me so?
From his eyes to his lips to the depth of my soul
an awkward connection is made from him to me.
Causing me to tremble from my naps to the soles of my feet.
In he walks
(and unknowingly) my soul he stalks.
Whether he be ebony, chocolate, or caramel,
just by his presence my spirit melts.
Music flows from his voice and I begin to sweat.
My memories scream for him though we hardly even met.
What is it about the man that stirs me so?

Trying for a clue, but I just don't know.
'Cause whether he be tall, short, big, or lean
it's no matter - still, my insides scream.
Smile for me and I'm set on fire
Say something – about nothing – and immediately I'm wired
to who you could possibly be…who you are.
There's just something about you, black man, that resembles art
makes me stop and calls to my heart.

In my shoes, my feet are wet and I begin to perspire
for a man I've never spoken to and yet I desire
Admire
your eyes, your skin, your essence, your…you
Approaching, my heart goes out, and yet you have no clue.
His hair: Nappy, curly, long, or bald,
however you are, my spirit's sprawled
on the floor, unconscious
leaving me useless, breathless, helpless.
Again and again, I wonder how you leave me feeling so queer, so unusual?
I don't know,
but my brotha, all I can say is

Your black - is beautiful

By: Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Niggers Niggas & Niggaz

by Julian Curry

Sorry

An excerpt from:For Colored Girls Who Ever Considered Suicide/ When the Rainbow Aint Enuf

Lady in Blue
One thing I don't need
Is any more apologies.
I got sorry greetin me at my front door,
You can keep yrs.
I don't know what to do with em.
They don't open doors,
Or bring the sun back,
They don't make me happy,
Or get a morning paper.
Didn't nobody stop using my tears to wash cars cuza sorry.

I am simply tired of collecting
I didn't knowI was so important to you
I'm gonna haveta throw some away;
I can't get to the clothes in my closet.
For all the sorries.

I'm gonna tack a sign to my door
Leave a message by the phone
'if you called to say yr sorry
call somebody else
I don't use em anymore'
I let sorry/I didn't meanta/ & how could I have know about that
Take a walk down a dark and musty street in Brooklyn.
I'm gonna do exactly what I want to
And I won't be sorry for none of it.
Letta sorry soothe your soul/I'm gonna soothe mine.

-By: Ntozake Shange

Ego Trippin (there may be a reason why)

(Kenya by Lazlo Emmerich)

I was born in the Congo.
I walked to the fertile crescent and built the sphinx.
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star that only glows every one hundred years falls
into the center giving divine perfect light.
I am bad.
I sat on the throne drinking nectar with allah.
I got hot and sent an ice age to Europe to cool my thirst.
My oldest daughter is Nefertiti. The tears from my birth pains created the Nile.
I am a beautiful woman.....
I gazed on the forest and burned out the Sahara desert.
With a packet of goat's meat and a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours.
I am a gazelle so swift, so swift you can't catch me.....

For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son Hannibal an elephant.
He gave me Rome for mother's day.
My strength flows ever on.....
My son Noah built new ark and
I stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer day.
I turned myself into myself and was Jesus.
Men intone my loving name.All praises All praises.
I am the one who would save.....
I sowed diamonds in my back yard.
My bowels deliver uranium.
The filings from my fingernails are Semi-precious jewels.
On a trip north, I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the Arab world.
I am so hip even my errors are correct.

I sailed west to reach east and had to round off the earth as I went.
The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid across three continents.....
I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal,
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission.
I mean...I...can fly
like a bird in the sky.......

-By: Nikki Giovani