Image: Unsplash, downloaded https://unsplash.com/photos/7UzYfAXUgI8 (8.6.2021.)
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.
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 omen
in dreaded homes, settles down
On its habit track.
Leaving
The dark figures dancing
And grinning. Still
Grinning.
Source: And Still I Rise(Angelou, M. (2009.) And Still I Rise, London: Virago)
Read more about Maya Angelou: https://www.zvonainari.hr/single-post/2019/11/01/weekly-zingers-naslje%C4%91e-bola-pjesme-slobode
