by Alice Walker
a place of intrigue and distrust;
news of the illegal sign you carried
that you probably made yourself:
Poverty Is the Greatest Violence of All.
brother cornel. brother west.
what a joy it is
to hear this news of you.
that you have not forgotten
what our best people taught us
as they rose to meet their day:
not to be silent
not to fade into the shadows
not to live and die in vain.
But to glorify
the love that demands
we stand
in danger
shaking off
our chains.
***
Every Revolution Needs Fresh Poems
Every revolution needs fresh poems
that is the reason
poetry cannot die.
It is the reason poets
go without sleep
and sometimes without lovers
without new cars
and without fine clothes
the reason we commit
to facing the dark
and
resign ourselves, regularly, to the possibility
of being wrong.
Poetry is leading us.
It never cares how we will
be held by lovers
or drive fast
or look good
in the moment;
but about how completely
we are committed
to movement
both inner and outer;
and devoted to transformation
and to change.
***
The Foolishness of Captivity
An Open Poem for Who the Shoe Fit
Younger brother,
it is plain as day to those who love you
that you have fallen into the devil’s hands.
It can happen, all too easily, to good people;
look at Jesus: He fell and has kept falling
for over two thousand years;
that is how they keep him
pacified and pale and nailed
to that cross.
How to escape?
First, admit whose hands
you have fallen into:
admit how pleased you were
when you finally
arrived there.
Devils have limos and fine
china to offer;
carpeting made by elves
and all manner of sleek
hovercraft.
You were so poor!
Next, watch carefully
with one eye open
even while asleep
to discover
how much blood
your favorite devil is sucking
from you.
Listen, please, to the old women
in your life.
This same devil held them down
for eons
burning them with pleasure
for his devilish advancement,
any time he needed to.
But really they,
like the devil, himself,
appear to be
Indestructible;
though I could be wrong.
The point is: learn to hear something
besides your own voice.
It doesn’t seem to belong to you
anymore. It is his. It is hers.
I see, as you must,
the vampires
who have “succeeded”
playing the devil’s game.
They are all over the
talk shows now;
fresh blood absorbed,
beakers of it
from around the globe,
they have become plump
and disturbingly shiny.
Perhaps this bloated look
of satisfaction,
of hastily devoured “enemies”
is one to which you aspire?
Like a Botox fix
though,
it isn’t lasting, little brother,
I can assure you.
Wake up!
Ruling the earth
is not the fun
it might have seemed.
How many butterflies
do you get to notice
on a regular basis
& write haiku
about?
And do you even know
where they’ve stashed
your kayak
and
your bike?
It is not too late
to transform!
Remember Milarepa?
The murderer who turned into a poet and a saint?
I like to. He cures my every desire
to be perfect and never bad.
“Murderer. Magician. Saint.” That is how
among certain Buddhists
he is described. There is a film about him
by a director from Bhutan. You should watch it
to see how far you can fall
and still get back up. Though not back up
into the same location. Please.
He too fell into the devil’s
hands. Hands attached to his mother’s
grief, in his case,
and memories of his own mistreatment,
by greedy neighbors and selfish relatives, as a boy.
He was so angry,
he destroyed his whole village!
People he knew intimately. Which might be worse
than destroying a whole village
of people you don’t know;
a problem you could have.
Of course they were
terrorists
(who made his childhood hell)
but what of his own
soul, even so?
Whenever you wake up
and find yourself
in the devil’s hands
there is always something you can do:
usually it is the thing we think of first: so of course
we dismiss it right away!
You can jump out.
And that is my advice.
Jump
out quickly. Take only your wife,
your children, your animals and other
kin. Grab your umbrella, too,
and flee.
Trust me, there is no shame
in this. Only sanity
and
soul preservation.
It’s a smart move.
Not everyone has the good sense
to resign
to quit the devil’s employment.
To see through the silky
carpet underfoot at
the Commander’s desk
to the dirt floor
beneath;
under which there are
so many buried things.
Besides,
working for the devil (temporarily)
is sometimes, curiously, a necessity
for future growth.
There can be, after many disasters,
a bit of progression!
Milarepa, again.
“Murderer. Magician. Saint.”
Listen:
Go to the forest. Get lost there. Find a shack to
live in. A shack that, like your soul, might need
endless days and nights of repair. Let your
hair grow out. Your soul reviving, you’ll look
great with locks!
In any case: Disappear from the devil’s plantation;
let him harvest his own poisoned crops.
It’s just a job. This charade called ruling.
A thankless one, at that.
There is life, so much life
beyond the stressful “glamour”
of the devil’s hands.
Or, Come to the caves
that open
to the wind
above t
he blue
and
ceaseless counsel of the sea.
Weren’t you born
within the sound
of deep water?
Some of us, coming back
from our own
lethal employments
can meet you there:
we can bring drums, guitars,
tambourines and flutes.
A singing bowl!
We can bring backpacks filled
with medicine
and stories from the ancestors
about
how they escaped
from the foolishness
of captivity;
to make the long journey back
to peace;
to The Beloved
and to the soul.
***
My own definition of “the devil”: In human affairs
it is the force that operates without empathy.
Also:
“The Beloved”: whatever one feels as “God.”
“Peace”: the fruit of justice done especially to the
Self
“Soul”: all that one has, ultimately, as guide and
deliverer.
Despair Is the Ground Bounced Back From
When the best mothering
you can muster
is kicked to the curb
with a sneer;
when the best fathering
you have in you
to provide
is banished
and ridiculed;
there is still something
to be gained
to be learned
to be
absorbed
even in this pit.
Despair is the ground
bounced back
from:
How else are we to learn
intimately
the pain
of Mother Earth
the deep sorrow
of Father Sky.
Giving their all
every second
to all they engender
together.
Not one minute
in all Eternity
bereft of their
best
effort.
Yet kicked
with disdain
to the curb of human
relevance;
as humans
orphaned now
drift
in meaningless
tantrum
bereft not only
of parents
but of a future.
***
Occupying Mumia’s Cell
I Sing of Mumia
brilliant and strong
and of the captivity
that
few black men escape
if they are as free
as he has become.
What a teacher he is for all of us.
Nearly thirty years in solitary
and still,
Himself.
He will die himself.
A black man;
whom many consider to be
a Muslim, though this is not
how he narrows down
the criss-crossing paths of
his soul’s journey.
Perhaps it is simpler
to call him
a lover of truth
who refuses
to be silenced.
Is anything more persecuted
in this land?
No boots will be allowed
of course
so he will not
die with them on;
but there will always be
boots
of the mind and spirit
and of the heart and soul.
His will be black and shining
(or maybe the color of rainbows)
and they will sprout wings.
Mumia
they have decided
finally
not to kill you
hoping no blood will
stain their hands
at the tribunal
of the people;
but to let you continue
to die slowly
creating and singing
your own songs
as you pace
alone, sometimes terrorized,
for decades of long nights
in your small cage
of a cell.
We lament our impotence: that we have failed
to get you out of there.
Your regal mane may have thinned
as our locks too, those flags of our self sovereignty, may even have
disappeared;
waiting out this unjust sentence,
until we, like you, have become old.
Still,
if you will: accept our gratitude
that you stand, even bootless,
on your feet. We see
that few of those around us,
well shod and walking, even owning, the streets
are freed.
Somehow you have been.
Enough to remind us
of freedom’s devout
internal and
ineradicable seed.
What a magnificent Lion
you have been all these
disastrous years
and still are,
indeed.
***
Another Way to Peace
It is compelling to watch
the few
still free
of it.
Who were never caged
within the false bright light
of “the set”
nor ever pinned to the couch
by TV.
Interviewed by a mannequin
they do not seem to notice
the silent eye
watching them;
training them to sit just so
or it will enlarge
their noses
flatten their foreheads
screw up their color
or otherwise
be displeased.
They sit with legs
stretched out.
They yawn.
They rub their cheeks:
make-up be damned.
If they find a piece of lint
on trousers or skirt
they might examine it.
To the TV trained
they must appear
to be from a place
never experienced:
where people do not freeze
when talking to strangers.
A place where it is ok
to look at the sky—before answering
a silly
question—
as if asking the Gods
for help.
Ok to blow one’s nose.
To be free, uncaged,
after years of disobeying,
of ignoring,
television
is another way to peace.
To sink back
quietly
into the unclipped
vegetation of regular Life
where we —despite
the blared stimulation
of incessant programming—
can rest content
to simply be.
***
We Pay a Visit to Those Who Play at Being Dead
For Rudolph, Beverly, Henri, Alice, Garrett, Angel, Pratibha, Kiietti, Arbie
My mother
For instance
Whose
Cheekbones
Greet me
From
A
Recent
Photograph
Of myself.
My father:
Those eyes
In the
Mirror
I would
Recognize
Anywhere.
My brother’s
Tree,
That he planted
Years
Before
He
Was
Planted
Himself,
Is awash
In light
Robustly
Proclaiming
His
Vivid
If
Persistently
Mysterious
Presence.
My grandparents
Henry
& Rachel
Whose voices
Are
Perpetually
Murmuring
Sweet nothings
In my
Heart.
Look!
I say to all
Of them:
The cousins
&
The
Outside
Children
Too—
I have
Brought
Friends!
We sit
Content
&
Munch
Our
Veggie salad
& Forbidden
Potato
Chips
Sitting
Serene
Amongst
Your graves.
You are silent.
A granddaughter
My niece
Who cares
That your
Graves
Are kept
Clean
As she
Has always
Known
Them,
Lowers
Her
Shapely
Form
To rest
On an Army Veteran’s
Tombstone.
So many
Of you—
I had not noticed
This before—
Went off
To fight
Strangers.
Returning
Wounded
Dead
Or
Strangers
Yourselves.
You are quiet, too, as we sit
Munching
Our lunch.
But are
You really
Dead?
Are you not
Perhaps
The reason
I have no
Enthusiasm
Patience
Or admiration
For war?
You,
The
Poor
Dispossessed
Cannon
Fodder
Safer behind
The mule
You
Left
Than
Behind
Any
Gun?
My friend
Pratibha (her name means genius in her
Original language
Which is Hindu)
Brown
Indian
British
With
An accent
That Would
Have
Made
You laugh
(as your own Southern country accent
