BLACK PANTHER
Pushed into the corner
Of the hobnailed boot,
Pushed into the corner of the
“l-don’t-want-to-die” cry,
Pushed into the corner of
“I don’t want to study war no more,”
Changed into “Eye for eye,”
The Panther in his desperate boldness
Wears no disguise,
Motivated by the truest
Of the oldest
Lies.
FINAL CALL
SEND FOR THE PIED PIPER AND LET HIM PIPE THE RATS
AWAY.
SEND FOR ROBIN HOOD TO CLINCH THE ANTI-POVERTY
CAMPAIGN.
SEND FOR THE FAIRY QUEEN WITH A WAVE OF THE
WAND
TO MAKE US ALL INTO PRINCES AND PRINCESSES.
SEND FOR KING ARTHUR TO BRING THE HOLY GRAIL.
SEND FOR OLD MAN MOSES TO LAY DOWN THE LAW.
SEND FOR JESUS TO PREACH THE SERMON ON THE
MOUNT.
SEND FOR DREYFUS TO CRY, “J’ACCUSE!”
SEND FOR DEAD BLIND LEMON TO SING THE B FLAT
BLUES.
SEND FOR ROBESPIERRE TO SCREAM, “ÇA IRA! ÇA IRA!
ÇA IRA!”
SEND (GOD FORBID—HE’S NOT DEAD LONG ENOUGH!)
FOR LUMUMBA TO CRY “FREEDOM NOW!”
SEND FOR LAFAYETTE AND TELL HIM, “HELP! HELP ME!”
SEND FOR DENMARK VESEY CRYING, “FREE!”
FOR CINQUE SAYING, “RUN A NEW FLAG UP THE MAST.”
FOR OLD JOHN BROWN WHO KNEW SLAVERY COULDN’T
LAST.
SEND FOR LENIN! (DON’T YOU DARE!—HE CAN’T COME
HERE!)
SEND FOR TROTSKY! (WHAT? DON’T CONFUSE THE ISSUE,
PLEASE!)
SEND FOR UNCLE TOM ON HIS MIGHTY KNEES.
SEND FOR LINCOLN, SEND FOR GRANT.
SEND FOR FREDERICK DOUGLASS, GARRISON, BEECHER,
LOWELL.
SEND FOR HARRIETT TUBMAN, OLD SOJOURNER TRUTH.
SEND FOR MARCUS GARVEY (WHAT?) SUFI (WHO?)
FATHER DIVINE (WHERE?)
DUBOIS (WHEN?) MALCOLM (OH!) SEND FOR STOKELY.
(NO?) THEN
SEND FOR ADAM POWELL ON A NON-SUBPOENA DAY.
SEND FOR THE PIED PIPER TO PIPE OUR RATS AWAY.
(And if nobody comes, send for me.)
2
AMERICAN HEARTBREAK
AMERICAN HEARTBREAK
I am the American heartbreak—
The rock on which Freedom
Stumped its toe—
The great mistake
That Jamestown made
Long ago.
GHOSTS OF 1619
Ghosts of all too solid flesh,
Dark ghosts come back to haunt you now,
These dark ghosts to taunt you—
Yet ghosts so solid, ghosts so real
They may not only haunt you—
But rape, rob, steal,
Sit-in, stand-in, stall-in, vote-in
(Even vote for real in Alabam’)
And in voting not give a damn
For the fact that white was right
Until last night.
Last night?
What happened then?
Flesh-and-blood ghosts
Became flesh-and-blood men?
Got tired of asking, When?
Although minority,
Suddenly became majority
(Metaphysically speaking)
In seeking authority?
How can one man be ten?
Or ten be a hundred and ten?
Or a thousand and ten?
Or a million and ten
Are but a thousand and ten
Or a hundred and ten
Or ten—or one—
Or none—
Being ghosts
Of then?
OCTOBER 16: THE RAID
Perhaps
You will remember
John Brown.
John Brown
Who took his gun,
Took twenty-one companions
White and black,
Went to shoot your way to freedom
Where two rivers meet
And the hills of the
South
Look slow at one another—
And died
For your sake.
Now that you are
Many years free,
And the echo of the Civil War
Has passed away,
And Brown himself
Has long been tried at law,
Hanged by the neck,
And buried in the ground—
Since Harpers Ferry
Is alive with ghosts today,
Immortal raiders
Come again to town—
Perhaps
You will recall
John Brown.
LONG VIEW: NEGRO
Emancipation: 1865
Sighted through the
Telescope of dreams
Looms larger,
So much larger,
So it seems,
Than truth can be.
But turn the telescope around,
Look through the larger end—
And wonder why
What was so large
Becomes so small
Again.
FREDERICK DOUGLASS: 1817–1895
Douglass was someone who,
Had he walked with wary foot
And frightened tread,
From very indecision
Might be dead,
Might have lost his soul,
But instead decided to be bold
And capture every street
On which he set his feet,
To route each path
Toward freedom’s goal,
To make each highway
Choose his compass’ choice,
To all the world cried,
Hear my voice!…
Oh, to be a beast, a bird,
Anything but a slave! he said.
Who would be free
Themselves must strike
The first blow, he said.
He died in 1895.
He is not dead.
STILL HERE
I been scared and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,
Looks like between ’em they done
Tried to make me
Stop laughin’, stop lovin’, stop livin’—
But I don’t care!
I’m still here!
WORDS LIKE FREEDOM
There are words like Freedom
Sweet and wonderful to say.
On my heartstrings freedom sings
All day everyday.
There are words like Liberty
That almost make me cry.
If you had known what I know
You would know why.
3
THE BIBLE BELT
; CHRIST IN ALABAMA
Christ is a nigger,
Beaten and black:
Oh, bare your back!
Mary is His mother:
Mammy of the South,
Silence your mouth.
God is His father:
White Master above
Grant Him your love.
Most holy bastard
Of the bleeding mouth,
Nigger Christ
On the cross
Of the South.
BIBLE BELT
It would be too bad if Jesus
Were to come back black.
There are so many churches
Where he could not pray
In the U.S.A.,
Where entrance to Negroes,
No matter how sanctified,
Is denied,
Where race, not religion,
Is glorified.
But say it—
You may be
Crucified.
MILITANT
Let all who will
Eat quietly the bread of shame.
I cannot,
Without complaining loud and long,
Tasting its bitterness in my throat,
And feeling to my very soul
It’s wrong.
For honest work
You proffer me poor pay,
For honest dreams
Your spit is in my face,
And so my fist is clenched
Today—
To strike your face.
OFFICE BUILDING: EVENING
When the white folks get through
Here come you:
Got to clean awhile.
When daytime folks
Have made their dough,
Away they go:
You clean awhile.
When white collars get done,
You have your “fun”
Cleaning awhile.
“But just wait, chile …”
FLORIDA ROAD WORKERS
Hey, Buddy!
Look at me!
I’m makin’ a road
For the cars to fly by on,
Makin’ a road
Through the palmetto thicket
For light and civilization
To travel on.
I’m makin’ a road
For the rich to sweep over
In their big cars
And leave me standin’ here.
Sure,
A road helps everybody.
Rich folks ride—
And I get to see ’em ride.
I ain’t never seen nobody
Ride so fine before.
Hey, Buddy, look!
I’m makin’ a road!
SPECIAL BULLETIN
Lower the flags
For the dead become alive,
Play hillbilly dirges
That hooded serpents may dance,
Write obituaries
For white-robed warriors
Emerging to the fanfare
Of death rattles.
Muffled drums in Swanee River tempo.
Hand-high salutes—heil!
Present arms
With ax handles
Made in Atlanta,
Sieg
Heil!
Oh, run, all who have not
Changed your names.
As for you others—
The skin on your black face,
Peel off the skin,
Peel peel
Peel off
The skin.
MISSISSIPPI
Oh, what sorrow!
Oh, what pity!
Oh, what pain
That tears and blood
Should mix like rain
And terror come again
To Mississippi.
Again?
Where has terror been?
On vacation? Up North?
In some other section
Of the Nation,
Lying low, unpublicized,
Masked—with only
Jaundiced eyes showing
Through the mask?
What sorrow, pity, pain,
That tears and blood
Still mix like rain
In Mississippi.
KU KLUX
They took me out
To some lonesome place.
They said, “Do you believe
In the great white race?”
I said, “Mister,
To tell you the truth,
I’d believe in anything
If you’d just turn me loose.”
The white man said, “Boy,
Can it be
You’re a-standin’ there
A-sassin’ me?”
They hit me in the head
And knocked me down.
And then they kicked me
On the ground.
A klansman said, “Nigger,
Look me in the face—
And tell me you believe in
The great white race.”
JUSTICE
That Justice is a blind goddess
Is a thing to which we black are wise:
Her bandage hides two festering sores
That once perhaps were eyes.
BIRMINGHAM SUNDAY
(September 15, 1963)
Four little girls
Who went to Sunday School that day
And never came back home at all
But left instead
Their blood upon the wall
With spattered flesh
And bloodied Sunday dresses
Torn to shreds by dynamite
That China made aeons ago—
Did not know
That what China made
Before China was ever Red at all
Would redden with their blood
This Birmingham-on-Sunday wall.
Four tiny girls
Who left their blood upon that wall,
In little graves today await
The dynamite that might ignite
The fuse of centuries of Dragon Kings
Whose tomorrow sings a hymn
The missionaries never taught Chinese
In Christian Sunday School
To implement the Golden Rule.
Four little girls
Might be awakened someday soon
By songs upon the breeze
As yet unfelt among magnolia trees.
BOMBINGS IN DIXIE
It’s not enough to mourn
And not enough to pray.
Sackcloth and ashes, anyhow,
Save for another day.
The Lord God Himself
Would hardly desire
That men be burned to death—
And bless the fire.
CHILDREN’S RHYMES
By what sends
the white kids
I ain’t sent:
I know I can’t
be President.
What don’t bug
them white kids
sure bugs me:
We know everybody
ain’t free.
Lies written down
for white folks
ain’t for us a-tall:
Liberty And Justice—
Huh!—For All?
DOWN WHERE I AM
Too many years
Beatin’ at the door—
I done beat my
Both fists sore.
Too many years
Tryin’ to get up there—
Done broke my ankles down,
Got nowhere.
Too many years
Climbin’ that hill,
’Bout out of breath.
I got my fill.
I’m gonna plant my feet
On solid ground.
If you want to see me,
Come down.
4
THE FACE OF WAR
MOTHER IN WARTIME
As if it were some noble thing,
She spoke of sons at war,
As if freedom’s cause
Were pled anew at some heroic bar,
As if the weapons used today
Killed with great élan,
As if technicolor banners flew
To honor modern man—
Believing everything she read
In the daily news,
(No in-between to choose)
She thought that only
One side won,
Not that both
Might lose.
WITHOUT BENEFIT OF DECLARATION
Listen here, Joe,
Don’t you know
That tomorrow
You got to go
Out yonder where
The steel winds blow?
Listen here, kid,
It’s been said
Tomorrow you’ll be dead
Out there where
The rain is lead.
Don’t ask me why.
Just go ahead and die.
Hidden from the sky
Out yonder you’ll lie:
A medal to your family—
In exchange for
A guy.
Mama, don’t cry.
OFFICIAL NOTICE
Dear Death:
I got your message
That my son is dead.
The ink you used
To write it
Is the blood he bled.
You say he died with honor
On the battlefield,
And that I am honored, too,
By this bloody yield.
Your letter
Signed in blood,
The Panther and the Lash Page 2
