Black History Month Day 22.
Many of you probably know Elizabeth Alexander from President Obama’s inauguration when she read her poem, “Praise Song for the Day.”
Race
By Elizabeth Alexander (1962-)
Sometimes I think about Great-Uncle Paul who left Tuskegee,
Read the complete poem here.
Listen to the poem here.
Black History Month Day 21.
The Barrier
By Claude McKay (1889–1948)
I must not gaze at them although
Your eyes are dawning day;
I must not watch you as you go
Your sun-illumined way;
I hear but I must never heed
The fascinating note,
Which, fluting like a river reed,
Comes from your trembling throat;
I must not see upon your face
Love’s softly glowing spark;
For there’s the barrier of race,
You’re fair and I am dark.
This poem is in the public domain.
Coal Once
I warped back home ninety summers
before I was born, before the north valley train
swelled against trees during a drought, before
the marsh birds haunted their wings with wolves.
I think my grandfather was drunk or had swallowed
lightning, or had imagined his release from prison
as a sign of rain, a synonym for the body in one room
and the mind along the canal road, praying, prying
lifting voices from bread that had molded, but tasted
like heaven’s own wild, swirling feast. And this was
not even where he lived. His story was sunk in coal.
His language left him. He shepherded a machine
through slate rock like a worm, or something burning.
He couldn’t see that I had warped there into his time.
He thought I must be another striker who had given up,
kissed the foreman’s shadow, eaten breakfast in dust,
or had been raised like a soft pillow turned almost
human. I wanted to say grandfather. I wanted to
hand him money, real money, easy money, a stash
that would feel like the face of God placed there
in his mind, far from his home. It was like a human
shadow in Virginia. There was a laugh. It was like
water washing the coal, always sloshing and echoing
and growing and bending into a house. That was where
I forgot who I might have been, had I been real then.
Editor’s Note:
Who knows what you will find when you are mining for your ancestors. The narrator visits his grandfather in a time-warp situation and discovers something about himself. The grandfather was “lifting voices from bread that had molded,” and “His story was sunk in coal./His language left him.” It’s the narrator’s turn now to give the language/voice to the grandfather.
Clyde Kessler lives in Radford, VA with his wife Kendall and their son Alan. In 2017 Cedar Creek published his book Fiddling At Midnight’s Farmhouse, which Kendall illustrated.
Black History Month Day 20.
“I don’t usually talk to strangers…”
By Claudia Rankine (1963-)
I don’t usually talk to strangers, but it is four o’clock and I can’t get a cab.
Read and listen to the complete poem here.
Black History Month Day 19.
Here’s another contemporary black female poet to read.
Violence, I know you
By Khadijah Queen
so well it’s like you’re my real
lover, the reason I can’t stay
Read the complete poem here.
Black History Month Day 18.
Today I would like to introduce a young emerging poet.
Pyriscence
By Angelique Zobitz (1980-)
for Breonna, Oluwatoyin, Rekia, Riah, Kayla, Dominique, Michelle, Nina, Miriam, Sandra, Atatiana, Monica, Charleena, Chynal, Korryn, India, Alexia, Mya, Tanisha, Sheneque, Natasha, Tanisha, Kendra, LaTanya, Danette, Muhlaysia, Margaret, Dana, Eleanor, Bee Love, Frankie Ann, Alberta, Tarika, Aiyana, Bailey, Shereese, Sharmel, Alesia, Shelly, & all the ones we have not learned of #SayHerName)
Read the complete poem here.
Black History Month Day 17.
Oughta Be a Woman
By June Jordan (1936-2002)
Washing the floors to send you to college
Staying at home so you can feel safe
Read the complete poem here.
Listen to the poem here.
Black History Month Day 16.
For My People
By Margaret Walker (1915-1998)
For my people everywhere singing their slave songs
Read and listen to the complete poem here.
Osiers
The willows severed from the branch slipped between glass among water
still live
fragile buds in vibrant green unfurling on the windowsill
in indirect light
During this sheltering, I wake some mornings feeling not the amputee
but the amputated
the lower leg or arm up to the shoulder cut off and tossed, the awful desire
to be reunited with the body
but every day without the blood of concourse and attachment
loss grows
I have become more moderate with others, less expectant of ambition
overriding circumstance,
more attuned to the minuscule warmth of the moonlight on my face
in a crisp night, the smell of tannin,
the development of language in a child and the slow crawl his letters take
on a page as if blooming.
Editor’s Note: This poem describes the distress of sheltering during the pandemic and the survival of the human spirit using tender images from nature. The last line hints at the future hope and progress.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County and works in mental health. He has contributed to Gold Man Review, Williwaw Journal, Red Wolf Journal, Sheila-na-Gig, and Heartwood.
Black History Month Day 15.
Mr. Roosevelt Regrets (Detroit Riot, 1943)
By Pauli Murray (1910–1985)
Upon reading PM newspaper’s account of Mr. Roosevelt’s statement on the recent race clashes: “I share your feeling that the recent outbreaks of violence in widely spread parts of the country endanger our national unity and comfort our enemies. I am sure that every true American regrets this.”
The Literary Nest 