Once (2 page)

couple there alone

In prayer?

vii

There is no need for

Sadness

After the dying boy

There is the living girl

Who throws you a kiss.

viii

How bright the little

girl’s

Eyes were!

a first sign of

Glaucoma.

ix

The Karamojans

Never civilized

A proud people

I think there

Are

A hundred left.

i

Green lawn

a picket fence

flowers—

My friend smiles

she had heard

that Southern

jails

were drab.

Looking up I see

a strong arm

raised

the Law

Someone in America

is being

protected

(from me.)

In the morning

there was

a man in grey

but the sky

was blue.

ii

“Look at that nigger

with those white folks!”

My dark

Arrogant friend

turns calmly, curiously

helpfully,

“Where?” he

asks.

It was the fifth

arrest

In as many

days

How glad I am

that I can

look

surprised

still.

iii

Running down

Atlanta

streets

With my sign

I see heads

turn

Eyes

goggle

“a nice girl

like her!”

A Negro cook

assures

her mistress—

But I had seen

the fingers

near her eyes

wet with

tears.

iv

One day in

Georgia

Working around

the Negro section

My friend got a

letter

in

the mail

—the letter

said

“I hope you’re

having a good

time fucking all

the niggers.”

“Sweet,” I winced.

“Who

wrote it?”

“mother.”

she

said.

That day she sat

a long time

a little black girl

in pigtails

on her lap

Her eyes were very

Quiet.

She used to tell the big colored ladies

her light eyes just

the same

“I am alone

my mother died.”

Though no other

letter

came.

v

It is true—

I’ve always loved

the daring

ones

Like the black young

man

Who tried

to crash

All barriers

at once,

wanted to

Swim

At a white

beach (in Alabama)

Nude.

vi

Peter always

thought

the only

way to

“enlighten”

southern towns

was to

introduce

himself

to

the county

sheriff

first thing.

Another thing

Peter wanted—

was to be

cremated

but we

couldn’t

find him

when he needed it.

But he was just a yid

seventeen.

vii

I

never liked

white folks

really

it

happened quite

suddenly

one

day

A pair of

amber

eyes

I

think

he

had.

viii

I
don’t
think

integration

entered

into it

officer

You see

there was

this little

Negro

girl

Standing here

alone

and her

mother

went into

that store

there

then—

there came by

this little boy

here

without his

mother

& eating

an

ice cream cone

—see there it is—

strawberry

Anyhow

and the little

     girl was

     hungry

and stronger

       than

    the little

      boy—

Who is too

fat

really,

anyway.

ix

Someone said

to

me

that

if

the South

rises

again

it will do so

“from

the grave.”

Someone

else

said

if the South

rises

again

he would

“step on

it.”

Dick Gregory

said that

if the

South

rises

again

there is

a

secret

plan.

But I say—

if the

South

rises

again

It will not

do

so

in my presence.

x

“but I don’

really

give a fuck

Who

my daughter

marries—”

the lady

was

adorable—

it was in a

tavern

i remember

her daughter

sat there

beside her

tugging

at

her arm

sixteen—

very shy

and

very
pim

pled.

xi

then there

was

the charming

half-wit

who told

the judge

re: indecent exposure

“but when I

step out

of the

tub

I look

Good—

just because

my skin

is black

don’t mean

it ain’t

pretty

you old bastard!)

what will we

finally do

with

prejudice

some people like

to take a walk

after a bath.

xii

“look, honey

said

the

blond

amply

boobed

babe

in the

green

g

string

“i like you

sure

i ain’t

prejudiced

but the

lord didn’t

give me

legs

like

these

because

he

wanted

to see’m

dangling

from a

poplar!”

“But they’re so

much

prettier

than mine.

Would you really mind?”

he asked

wanting her to dance.

xiii

I remember

seeing

a little girl,

dreaming—perhaps,

hit by

a

van truck

“That nigger was

in the way!” the

man

said

to

understanding cops.

But was she?

She was

just eight

her mother

said

and little

for

her age.

xiv

then there was

the

picture of

the

bleak-eyed

little black

girl

waving the

american

flag

holding it

gingerly

with

the very

tips

of her

fingers.

(for Marilyn Pryce)

One day

Marilyn marched

beside me (demon-

stration)

and we ended up

at county farm

no phone

no bail

something about

“traffic vio-

lation”

which irrelevance

Marilyn dismissed

with a shrug

She

had just got

back

from

Paris France

In

the

Alabama

hell

she

smell-

ed

so

wonderful

like

spring

& love

&

freedom

She

wore a

SNCC pin

right between

her breasts

near her

heart

& with a chic

(on “jail?”)

accent

& nod of

condescent

to frumpy

work-house

hags

powdered her nose

tip-

toe

in a badge.

i

all that night

I prayed for eyes to see again

whose last sight

had been

a broken bottle

held negligently

in a racist

fist

God give us trees to plant

and hands and eyes to

love them.

ii

When I am here again

the years of ease between

fall away

The smell of one

magnolia

sends my heart

running through the swamps.

iii

the earth is red

here— the trees bent, weeping

what secrets will not

the ravished land

reveal

of its abuse?

iv

an old mistress

of my mother’s

gives me

bloomers for Christmas

ten sizes

too big

her intentions are

good my father

says

but typical—

neither the color

she knows

nor the

number.

I well remember

A time when

“Amazing Grace” was

All the rage

In the South.

‘Happy’ black mothers arguing

Agreement with

Illiterate sweating preachers

Hemming and hawing blessedness

Meekness

Inheritance of earth, e.g.,

Mississippi cotton fields?

And in the North

Roy Hamilton singing

“What is America to me?”

Such a good question

From a nice slum

In North Philly.

My God! the songs and

The people and the lives

Started here—

Weaned on ‘happy’ tears

Black fingers clutching black teats

On black Baptist benches—

Some mother’s troubles that everybody’s

Seen

And nobody wants to see.

I can remember the rocking of

The church

And embarrassment

At my mother’s shouts

Like it was all—‘her happiness’—

Going to kill her.

My father’s snores

Punctuating eulogies

His loud singing

Into fluffy grey caskets

A sleepy tear

In his eye.

Amazing Grace

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch

Like me

I once was lost

But now I’m found

Was blind

But now

I see.

Mahalia Jackson, Clara Ward, Fats Waller,

Ray Charles,

Sitting here embarrassed with me

Watching the birth

Hearing the cries

Bearing witness

To the child,

Music.

My father

(back blistered)

beat me

because I

could not

stop crying.

He’d had

enough ‘fuss’

he said

for one damn

voting day.

(for martyrs)

They who feel death close as a breath

Speak loudly in unlighted rooms

Lounge upright in articulate gesture

Before the herd of jealous Gods

Fate finds them receiving

At home.

Grim the warrior forest who present

Casual silence with casual battle cries

Or stand unflinchingly lodged

In common sand

Crucified.

(for those who work and stay in the ragged Mississippis of the world)

In this place of helmets and tar

the anxious burblings of recreants

buzz over us

we bent laughing to oars of gold

We regard them as Antigone her living kin

Fat chested pigeons

resplendent of prodigious riches

reaped in body weight

taking bewildered pecks

at eagles

as though
muck

were God.

in gray, scarred Leningrad

a tiny fist unsnapped to show

crumpled heads

of pink and yellow flowers

snatched hurriedly on the go

in the cold spring shower—

consent or not

countries choose

cold or hot

win or lose

to speak of wars

yellow and red

but there is much

let it be said

for children.

i

A quiet afternoon

the speaker

dull

the New Testament

washed out

Through the window

a lonely

blue-jay

makes noisy song.

ii

The speaker crashes

on

through his speech

All eyes are

upon him

Over his left

ear

the thick hair

is beginning