by Alice Walker
Heart
Your loyalty
& true
Devotion
To a little
Sister
Who needs
It
As she brings
Into being
Music
That honors
& uplifts
Life.
You are
The sister
Of all our dreams
Of sisterhood.
May all
Your years
Reflect
The loveliness
& magnitude
Of your
Great
Heart.
The Same as Gold
Now that I
Understand
That grief
Emotionally speaking
Is the same
As gold
I do not despair
That we are
All of us
Born to grieve.
There was a
Small dark
Girl
In my dream
The other night;
She had been
Left with me
By strange women
On their way
Somewhere
Else.
Taking her into
My arms
Into my house
Which had no roof
My tears
Covered us
Like rain.
My Friend Calls
My Friend Calls
My friend
Calls
From her front porch
That overlooks
The ocean.
She is sitting
In her sky
Chair
Her feet
Up
Watching
The world
Go by.
How I love
The joy
Ringing
In her voice
The satisfaction
I feel
In her smile.
She calls
Because
Gospel music
Is on the air
Where she
Lives
Angels
Are on her mind.
Coming Back from Seeing Your People
Coming back
From seeing your people
You were
So wonderfully
Full
Of yourself.
But now
You have supped
With vampires
They have fed
Feasted
On you.
They arise
Bright-eyed
Fit.
You alone have lost
Not only
Your sleep
But also
Your glow
The luster of
Affection
Heart welcome
Your people
Sent home
With you.
Beloved
You must learn
To walk alone
To hold
The precious
Silence
To bring home
And keep the precious
Little
That is left
Of yourself.
Someone I Barely Know
Someone I barely know
Except he used to
Make me smile
Slipped another woman
& her odd furniture
Into my house.
It was roomy enough
For two
& she was vaguely
Familiar.
Still, she was not a tenant
I chose myself
& her dining room
Table & chairs
Though a rich blue
I like
Had the look
Of gouged plastic &
Tarnished chrome.
The man I barely know
Who used to be so tickling
But now walks
Without the old spring in his
Step
Was looking for
Important papers.
Of course I did not know
Where they were.
While we searched
& I pretended to care
(Though distracted by the almost familiar
Woman & her misplaced chest of drawers)
He mentioned his old friend
Steve
Who had stopped laughing
Some time ago.
Steve was only five years
Younger than me
Had a heart attack
& died
He said
Scrutinizing moldy documents
With an anxious frown.
He is forty-five, this man,
& has lost
His virility
It is this old passport
That he
Is looking for.
Forget about the strange woman moving in with me,
I thought.
May we dwell in peace!
To be happy
I said
One must laugh
One must walk
& then, almost
As an afterthought
(& meaning sex)
One must make love.
But I did not seem
Too sure of this.
Anyway. No documents appeared.
To walk, to smile,
These can be done
From a very early age
I said into his stricken face
But perhaps
In childhood
Again in old age
It is not necessary
In order
To be happy
To fuck.
Despite the Hunger
Despite
the hunger
we cannot
possess
more
than
this:
Peace
in a garden
of
our own.
My African
Last night
Early in the morning
Just as it began
To rain
And I became weary
Longing
For sleep
I dreamed
Of you.
African man,
African chin
Nose, eyes, lips
& hair.
Blue is your color
& so it was
In this dream
The blue of the ocean
We can see from
Your green house.
We were in bed
Together
And I was content
Entwined
With you.
On the other side of me
In the blue bed
With the blue
Disappearing walls
There was a second
African man
Younger, not fearless like you.
Decidedly more in need
Of my care.
Just for a moment
I embraced him. Feeling wedded
To you & knowing you are too sure
Of my love
To be jealous.
We were in conversation
With two other
Dreamers, sitting attentive,
Beside our bed.
A younger woman
Seeking to learn
From me &
A man in his prime
Still thinking it possible
To nail everything down.
Apparently our conversation was about Literature.
It is not about
Writing
But about living
I said in the face
Of the hammer
He brought.
How Different You Are
How different
you are
from me.
A Portuguese
pirate
is hiding
in your curls.
Your skin
is bronzed
as ancient
gold.
You smell of mango
wild tobacco
coconut
milk
& sea.
All the things
I like.
New House Moves
New House Moves
I dreamed
Last night
That I had moved
Into a roomy new house.
How many new houses
Have I moved into?
And isn’t there
Something always
Behind
These new house
Moves?
When I was a child
We moved each year
My parents
Working hard
Making nothing
For themselves
Except decency
That went
To the bone.
Now
In and out of dreams
I am always
Moving.
Finding shacks
& rundown
Houses
Fixing them up
& then moving
On.
In the dream
I said
To the silver-haired professor
Who introduced me
To the Communist Manifesto:
In this new house
I am going to paint
One of the rooms
Red!
It will probably be
A small room
He said
Laughing. In such a large
House.
How am I to live
In such prosperity?
Sharing everything
Still
My cup
Overflows
& I receive more
It appears to me
Than I ever give.
Poverty never prepared me
For this wealth.
Or to live
In the houses
My parents
Stubbornly
Dreamed.
Trapdoors to the Cellar Spring-Grass Green
In this new house
Of many colors
Mauve and blue
Magenta and lilac
With trapdoors
To the cellar
Spring-grass green
I came upon
A room
Large, all white
With pleated doors
And a bed
Curving the length
Of the long wall.
My brother
Whom I had feared
Was moving in.
He stood there
Philosophical
Explaining the room
To me.
It had been
The room
Where all the junk
Was thrown
Especially those items
Tossed from
The renovation
Of many toilets
(Hence the row at one end of what used to be
toilet doors).
Now he said
He would claim
It as
His own.
In fact
He lived there
Already.
His only possession:
A quilt
That resembled
A map
Its destinations
Not easy
To read.
It is beautiful
I said.
And it was:
A fresh vision
Of a room. Spacious, light.
Nothing much in it
Every angle new.
At the end
Of the long room
That smelled of plaster
And newly opened paint
There hung a white
Antique
Cookstove
The most appealing
Art.
Why is it upside down
I asked
Though I admired it
As it was. And was thinking
Too
What a long time
It takes some of us
To cook.
Like some periods of Life
It works better
Upside down
He said.
And indeed
I realized
Enjoying
Him
At last
It had already
Worked
On me.
Whiter Than Bone
Last night
I dreamed
I was in
A fine
New house
Whiter than bone inside
With tall
Blue windows
Etched
In ancient
Art
I had forgotten
I was supposed
To be
Somewhere else
Speaking to a band
Of musicians
Whose name
I couldn’t
Pronounce.
Lucky for me
A woman
Appeared
Who kept track
Of such things.
Off I went
To do my
Duty
Passing
Water spirits
Holding
Dog-face
Boys
On the way.
The woman
Who keeps track
Stopped to chat.
I noticed
The thick
Hair on
One little face
Was starting
To lift.
I saw that
I am passing
Out of a life
That kept me covered
& leaving it
With
The one who keeps track
To hold.
Even When I Walked Away
i
There were odd
New flowers
In a vase
Beside the door
The door
To my strange
New underground
There in the
Semi-dark
They sparkled
Like
Blue
Jewels.
Even when I
Walked away
Explored other
Rooms of
The new and spacious house
They beckoned me.
Come, they said
We are strange
We are new
We did not grow
Overnight
Although it is
Just now
That you see
Us
And we are yours.
Red Petals Sticking Out
ii
I could not accept
That such strange
Enchanting blossoms
Belonged to me.
Wearing my loosest coat
I snuck into my own
Dim foyer
And stole
A portion
Of the generous
Bouquet.
Sneaking it
Through the street
Concealed but poorly
Against my chest
Red petals
Sticking out
I came upon my other
Doors.
Inside My Rooms
iii
Inside my rooms
I began to mix them
With the flowers
I already had
The too familiar
Snapdragon
The overly sniffed
Daffodil
The hollyhock
Ho-hum.
A woman who
Did not love
Herself
Passed by
As I shaped
This new
Bouquet.
She said: I’m leaving.
I did not know
She was still
Inside my house.
Let Change Play God
Refrigerator Poems
While visiting a friend I wrote these poems using words I found on magnets scattered across the front of her refrigerator.
i
Let
Change
Play
God.
ii
Morning
Storm
Essential
Worship
Listen.
iii
Cloud
Said
To flower
Rain.
Just at Dusk
Just at dusk
I ventured out
Beyond my street
Two tawny cats
Waist high
Ran out to greet me
Or so I thought.
Sticking out
My hand
To pat
The larger one
I looked into its
Eyes and saw it intended
To eat me up.
Is this always
Where the lure
Of wildness
Leads?
Blood on the trail
The hand of the seeker vanished
Down some “tame”
Creature’s throat?
The Moment I Saw Her
The moment
I saw her
Looked upon
Her
Without
Fear
& to admire
Her many
Legs
& her beauty
Only
In that
Moment
The
Entire
History
Of basket making
Was revealed
To me.
The old ones
Would have
Studied
Her.
They would have
Started with
Reeds
In a circle
Like
Her body
& kept them
Going
From leg
To
Leg
Weaving in
& out
