The nation remembers Martin Luther King on Monday, so let's take a look at three poems that highlight different aspects of the civil rights movement.
"I, Too, Sing America" by Langston Hughes--simple, direct, but emotionally powerful--is one of my favorite poems. It confronts the extreme race-based inequality that used to be the norm in America, and dramatizes Hughes' determination to overcome it. It's remarkable (at least for someone my age) to think that he wrote this just over 50 years ago.
I, Too, Sing America
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
Contrast Hughes' quiet but challenging tone with the anger and violence in Gwendolyn Brooks' poem "Riot" below. So called "race riots" weren't uncommon in the late 60s, and a particularly ugly one (sadly) took place in Chicago in reaction to Dr. King's assassination. Brooks' blunt and brutal poem brings a riot to life, and focuses on a fictitious victim--a man named John Cabot--whom Brooks paints in a very unsympathetic light. Even though Cabot is ostensibly killed in the poem, one could argue that Brooks doesn't want us to see him as a victim at all.
Riot
A riot is the language of the unheard.
--Martin Luther King
John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe,
all whitebluerose below his golden hair,
wrapped richly in right linen and right wool,
almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff;
almost forgot Grandtully (which is The
Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost
forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray
and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim's,
the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri.
Because the Negroes were coming down the street.
Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty
(not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka)
and they were coming toward him in rough ranks.
In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud.
And not detainable. And not discreet.
Gross. Gross. "Que tu es grossier!" John Cabot
itched instantly beneath the nourished white
that told his story of glory to the World.
"Don't let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!" he whispered
to any handy angel in the sky.
But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove
and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath
the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili,
malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old
averted doubt jerked forward decently,
cried, "Cabot! John! You are a desperate man,
and the desperate die expensively today."
John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire
and broken glass and blood, and he cried "Lord!
Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do."
It's easy to imagine why some critics accused Brooks of celebrating violence here, though the poem is more complex than that. And notice how Brooks employs an epigraph from Dr. King: she uses a quote from a man committed to non-violence in a way that seems to justify violence. Don't blame the rioters too much for harming Cabot, the epigraph implies, they were "unheard" and needed a way to speak.
While "Riot" mined the anger underlying the civil rights movement and the violence that sprung up from it, Nikki Giovanni's "A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy" meditates on the grief born from the movement's losses. Bobby Kennedy was, of course, a key figure in the movement, and Giovanni probably had Dr. King--assassinated just two months before--in mind as well.
A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy
Trees are never felled . . . in summer . . . Not when the fruit . . .
is yet to be borne . . . Never before the promise . . . is fulfilled . . .
Not when their cooling shade . . . has yet to comfort . . .
Yet there are those . . . unheeding of nature . . . indifferent to
ecology . . . ignorant of need . . . who . . . with ax and sharpened
saw . . . would . . . in boots . . . step forth damaging . . .
Not the tree . . . for it falls . . . But those who would . . . in
summer's heat . . . or winter's cold . . . contemplate . . . the
beauty . . .
Thankfully, we can still contemplate the beauty of Martin Luther King's message, and contemplate the success of that message. Monday, in "winter's cold," is as suitable a time as any to do just that.
Citizen born into a fire, just a baby drowning in the rushing tide
The tide of my life, my soul, my hold on this time
Told to be a patriot
I wonder why I have not escaped yet
What holds me here is the duty of love
It makes me a shepherd in the hating fields where I dwell
Charred flesh, ruined lives, and rotting souls
The wretched stench of the foul smell
It fills my lungs and causes me to choke
Lazy and high on the perilous smoke
What of Africa
If you say that
They laugh at you
Malcolm quipped, “You left your mind in Africa”
I surely must have
For here on these shores
There is no joy in the earth
On the wind, I hear no laughs
Just plaintive moans of the dispossessed
Those of us still walking around here
Still going, not quite dead yet
I want to go back home
But colonialism was already there
It ravaged the land
It is killing the people
I cannot go home
I have no home
I cannot go anywhere, to rid myself of this feeling born of despair
I find myself trapped here in this land of peaches and cream, honey and milk
I stand surrounded by zombies locked in a dream
In pursuit of their fortunes, the diamonds, the gold, and the silk
Yet, I know not home, only where I roam
Yet, I know not peace, only the disease of the mind
The mind that can find no rest
The mind put to the maximum test
Go on living, though all meaning is lost
Keep on going, pay whatever cost
For the duty of love commits me
The spirit of GOD is with me
I cannot let the innocent down, though I have
I do not want to hurt anyone, or make anyone mad, I have to stay until I go
This is the hardship; this is the weight and the burden of the load I tow
This is the truth of my station
This is the reality I am facing
A grim situation that haunts
I cannot go back home
No matter how much I may want to
Home is not here
Home is not there
Home is not anywhere
I do not salute to a flag on stolen ground
Until truth prevails, I will keep on roaming
Heart broken, feet hurting, head down, face turned in a frown
Truth is the home I crave
Truth is the land of the brave
Through countless moments, I travel to find the truth
The answer that reveals, the concrete proof
Take me back home to find the truth.
Take me back home where the cool water flows
Take me back home
From whence I came
It is there I crave to go
Back Home,
Back home,
Back Home.
Per usual, I will make myself vulnerable to arrows of disdain and submit a stream of thought from my teen years that seems appropriate in these times where some are openly questioning the restlessness apparent in certain demographic groups. Read carefully and free of any sense of self is all I will say beforehand to the arrow-slingers. Find the commonality in the words I will present in humility and with an eye towards giving and service versus hate and self-promotion.
I knew a man
I knew a man
He had no color
That is the nature of a brother
Oh he had hue and tint
Just that….both of us were hell-bent
On not wasting precious sweet time
On the ugly, the worst kind, versus the sublime nature of brotherhood
The higher virtue – the common good
Stars shining brighter in our world than anything ever produced in Hollywood
With all due respect love and admiration to the skilled director actor and actress
Respectively hanging out on the red carpet in a smooth tailored suit or a black tight dress
I knew a man and he had no color
I called that man brother
I had his back and his front
I was going to be on the field to cover his touchdown, his fumble, his zigzag, or his punt
I would fight through hell and fiery rain
Just to see that man’s smile again
I knew a man and he had no color
Thanks the essence -- what is love was not above us
So all the years he lived
We knew laughter and not tears
And when my brother died the message was – “please nobody cry”, but party on
Way, way, way, way past the break of dawn, the swan song, and the coming storm
In family, friendship, neighborliness (we miss you Mr. Rogers), community we find life. Yet the society is a fragmented network with outages of humanity reported here and there.
Don’t let hate fragment your vital data of love and care.
Keep it secure and whole and stay on a roll for love
The love you receive may be your own coming back in
From where it grew flowers from seeds planted hour after hour in fields tended to and nurtured way back then, way back when before innocence waned and you began to look for something or someone to blame for your woe. Do not function as a hoe in the garden of your life.
Get down on your knees and say please may I continue this gift of life….for it is a blessing…we need to stop stressing and start addressing the fundamental issues of all time.
Can we be such that there is the optimal expression of every you and every me?
Or will we continue to suffer the heavy toll of a tilted and slanted society?
Things change and they stay the same…via name change
...and thank you gracious host for encouraging one who thinks via written word.
This ain't no game.
Now That He Is Safely Dead
By Carl Wendell Hines
Now that he is safely dead
Let us praise him
build monuments to his glory
sing hosannas to his name.
Dead men make
such convenient heroes: They
cannot rise
to challenge the images
we would fashion from their lives.
And besides,
it is easier to build monuments
than to make a better world.
than to make a better world."
Statues in the park never did “nothing” to bring relief and illumination to the dismal and dark circumstances of humankind. Statues in the park, such legacies shall crumble over time, where spirit of love in action can never die. That is why MLK can still move me to action and make me cry, for he lives in my heart………….and not by virtue of any erected statue in the park.
And never lets the question rest
With sly deception put it off
'Til thunders clap we doubt and scoff
A mind's direction to perceive
Of things we thought we could believe
Which is to say, your message of self-sufficiency is powerful and relevant.
America Chosen
The man-god brooded o'er the world,
He held within him all the past,
And with the map of life unfurled
Would find his home at last.
He glanced afar at Eastern lands,
And counted o'er their long-worn story;
He glimpsed the pole, the torrid sands,
Yet sought another glory.
His seasoned soul grew tempered, fixed -
The phoenix of the nations' fable -
His choice, the West where races mixed
And harmonized their babel.
Here take I stand, my standard raise,
Time's noblest progeny here dwells,
Composite type of highest praise,
That truth's last spirit tells.
So spoke the man-god as he stood,
Facing the light of liberty.
That of the soul and law he would
Confirm to all Eternity.
Ah, not the freedom that would take
A brother's work and not his hand,
But sharing both and love would make
The State a friendly, home-like band.
That would not smother heart or light,
Though license spread its net and snare,
For lose or gain in freedom's fight,
Best notes are struck and forth they fare.
Edwin Manners 1909/1910
the lands down under
lands of the frozen deserts
from the lands of the jungles
from see to shining sea
they bled, generation after generation
coming to the lost generations
sent to other lands
workers, child workers
for a fine new beginning
to work the fields
from see to shining sea
the lost generations
the disinherited
the disenfranchised
the motherless, fatherless
familyless
the lost generations
are prey.
commodities for the machines
from the stink of profits
from cheaper shoes, shirts, pants
and christmas ornaments
the lost generations feed us.
the daily markets of the world
sell the childrens' arms, eyes
ears and hearts
it is not called slavery in the 21century
it is now globalized smart business.
Rolf Krogsæther C.2010
There are so many abuses and tragedies of a historic nature the world over and the good news is that in this day of global connectivity via encapsulated logic and hard technology, one can be instantly informed reminded or otherwise "plugged-in" to the on-going struggle against human inumanity to other humans.
Thanks for raising the spirit of the Aborigine for more eyes to see and for more hearts to hold.
Your response was much appreciated, thank you.
Norge
Martin Luther King Jr. ...
Might as well go for broke if you are going down anyway. Press the case for change in the hardest most moral terms -- but press the case.
Ignorance and stupidity -- by whose definition?
Dr. King 9167 Nobel speech
I dreamed a dream,
Eve, she stopped listening,
Cain he only loved his brother.
Noah, he never got drunk,
Abraham yes he cut the pigeon's.
Mosses he diden't strike the rock again.
Jesus lived and never died.
And we walked and talked with God in the cool of the evening.
We never fell and Love diden't hurt,
I left my bags at the station.
I'm on the train with all mankind,
We are all the chosen people'
I dreamed a dream. KO.
Hapiness is the shadow of love,
When God is our only reality
We are our brother's keeper.
The willingness to suffer eliminates my pain.
I rise reborn refreshed.
Our vision compared to his glory,
Was the flash of a firefly.
Your wealth increased, the spirit betrayed.
The house divided; what does it profit.?
On that day His love shall overwhelm.
Our victory is honored
In Satan's overthrow.
O'America preserve your blessing.
Bring my children "Home" Kieran M O'Neill.
I talk of love as if our very lives depend on it. I can only imagine that when people read my expressions of love, eyebrows may rise. It is difficult to change a mind and it is difficult to openly speak your mind. I read in the comments section of a thread once that there is somehow no value to creative writing in a critical analysis, issue dissection, and process of technical debate of and on the merits of this or that developed program or supposed solution.
I just smile and say all the while people debate and cannot relate to love, the best conceived plans of woman and man go astray from the rails of calculation and analytical rigor due to the absence of love and the rigidity that comes from lack of imagination otherwise known as creativity. The answer is a mix of fate and will, providence and skill, God and the steps taken by the people in that long trek over the existential hill.
Thank you for your creative voice in the long struggle forward onward upward and inward. It takes courage to write your heart or your mind. Keep going – love is the tonic for the ages and we all have a production plant to keep us in ample supply. I see your smokestack from here, pouring out healing love into the atmosphere.
I remember, when I saw a picture in the newspaper of a little naked girl running in terror from a mushroom cloud, and I wondered, why did that girl have to run for her life in her hometown, when in mine, everyone was safe and happy?
That girl in the picture wasn’t safe, and she was not happy. I wondered about her, and me, and my hometown, and America.
I am an old crone now and I still wonder...
When images from Vietnam were on the TV screen, I was a mom of three and seven months pregnant with twins.
I went into early labor on the day a shot rang out in my hometown, and America’s prophet bled to death on the concrete of Memphis...
The rest @
http://wearewideawake.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=1342&Itemid=222
Youth lives in the heart and is measured by the flexibility that love provides.
From here, you seem to be in tip top youthful condition.
You could not write what you did if you were hampered by the arthritis of an uncaring heart.
Pushups, sit-ups, bending and stretching........ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh feels good. All the more so when we work our empathy muscles.
The work goes on.
The cause endures.
Hope still lives and the dream shall never d_i_e.
The cause endures.
Hope still lives and the dream shall never die."
Never!
By Nordette Adams
I remember him in the misted vision of toddler years
and again in girlhood, the booming voice on TV,
someone grown-ups talked about, eyelids flapped wide.
Elders huddled 'round the screen enraptured,
in fear for him, in awe.
I remember him.
His words swept the land, singing our passion.
Dogs growled in streets. Men in sheets.
Police battering my people. (Water, a weapon.)
Yet my people would rejoice... And mourn.
I remember him, a fearsome warrior crying peace,
a man--blemished by clay, the stain of sin as
any other, calling on the Rock--
Death's sickle on his coat tails,
yet he spied glory.
Shall we walk again and remember him,
not as the Madison Aveners do,
but in solitude and hope
with acts of courage and compassion,
with lives of greater scope
carving fresh paths of righteousness?
I remember.
Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!
Love still remains, it flickers but never extinguishes. It burns on as an eternal flame.