by Alice Walker
Pre–rainy season
Convention.
They do not see WAR
Huge tires
Of a
Camouflaged
Vehicle
About to
Squash
Them flat.
Though War has a mind of its own
War never knows
Who
It is going
To hit.
Picture a donkey
Peacefully
Sniffing a pile
Of straw.
A small boy
Holds
The end
Of its
Frayed
Rope
Bridle.
They do not see it
They are both thinking
Of dinner.
The boy
Is hoping for
Polenta & eggs
Maybe a carrot
Or apple
For
Dessert.
Just above
Them
Something dark
Big as
A car
Is
Dropping.
Though War has eyes
Of its own
Gas
& mahogany trees
& every shining thing
Under
The earth
When it comes
To nursing
Mothers
It is blind;
Milk, especially
Human,
It cannot
See.
Picture a woman
Beside a window.
She is blissful
Singing
A lullaby.
A baby twirls
A lock of her
Dark hair
Suckles
For all
It is
Worth.
They do not smell War
Dressed in
Green & brown
Imitating
Their fields
Marching slowly
Toward them
Up
The steep
Hill.
Though War is Old
It has not
Become wise.
It will not hesitate
To destroy
Things that
Do not
Belong to it
Things very
Much older
Than itself.
Picture the forest
With its
Rivers
& rocks
Its pumas
Its
Parakeets
Its turtles
Leopards
Snakes.
High above them War
Has turned itself
Into a white cloud
Trailing
An
Airplane
That
Dusts
Everything
Below
With
A powder
That
Kills.
War has bad manners.
War eats everything
In its path
& what
It doesn’t
Eat
It
Dribbles
On:
Here
War is
Munching on
A village
Its missiles
Taking chunks
Big bites out
Of it.
War’s
Leftover
Gunk
Seeps
Like
Saliva
Into
The
Ground.
It
Is finding
Its
Way
Into the
Village
Well.
War tastes terrible
& smells
Bad. It never
Considers
Body
Odor
Or
Weird
Side
Effects.
When added
To water
It makes
You sick
Sip by sip.
You could die
While
Choking
Holding
Your
Nose.
Now, suppose You
Become War.
It happens
To some of
The nicest
People
On earth:
& one day
You have
To drink
The
Water
In this place.
The Award
The Award
Though not
A contest
Life
Is
The award
& we
Have
Won.
Though We May Feel Alone
Though we may feel
Alone
We never
Really are.
The ancestors
The one called
God
The one called
Death
Prominent
Among them
Rest on our
Shoulders
Always.
It is as if
We carried two
Birds’ nests
Just below
Our ears;
In these
Like so many eggs
The ancestors
Sit.
They ride along
Overhearing
Every conversation
Every
Thought
Watching everything
We do.
Fragile as eggs
But tough
Cookies
Too
It does not matter
To them
If we lose our
Way
On occasion
That we become
Lost
Or fall down.
Missteps are
Common
On every path
They’ve seen
(& they’ve seen lots!).
What matters to them
Is that
We right ourselves
Keep a better watch
Over where we’re going
That they retain
The high view
They like
& what is most
Crucial
For helping us:
Balance.
When We Let Spirit Lead Us
When we let Spirit
Lead us
It is impossible
To know
Where
We are being led.
All we know
All we can believe
All we can hope
Is that
We are going
Home
That wherever
Spirit
Takes us
Is where
We
Live.
Dream
Sometimes
When I dream
About
My mother
She is in
One of the
Shacks
Her art
Made
Radiant.
She might
Be lying
All in pink
Just
In
The doorway
Sunlight
Warm
Upon her
Singing.
In Life,
A Methodist
Then an
Atonal
Jehovah’s
Witness
My mother
Did not
Sing.
At least
Not the
Subversive
Jazzy
Melodies
She favors
In
My
Dream.
On my altar
For years
Two women’s
Framed
Faces
Have inspired
Challenged
Nourished me
In every way:
(Although I had not noticed, before my dream, their
resemblance, as close as twins.)
One contained
Righteous
In her garden
My mother;
The other an Outlaw
In a smoky
Nightclub
Lady Day.
We Are All So Busy
We are all so busy.
We say: I am on fire
To see you
But next week
I’ll be away
In Boston
& the
Week after that
I have
An important
Meeting
In Kalamazoo.
Ah, Kalamazoo.
A place
I spend
Far
Too much
Time in
Myself.
The Backyard, Careyes
The Backyard, Careyes
Autumn 2001
Lying grateful
Under a tree
Wind blows.
Yellow leaves
Cover me.
Gold
Leaf shower.
Practice
Though
Like you
I am awake
At least
Some
Of the
Time
Deep
Slumber is far
From
Unknown
I am
A
Practicing
Alice.
Dreaming the New World in Careyes
Every night
While
I dream
The New World
Right next door
All night long
A raucous
Gathering
Of idle
White
Men
Is intensely
Partying.
Their music
So loud
It more than
Hurts
My ears
It wounds
My heart.
Their cries of pleasure
So disdainful
Of my
Comfort
I pull the covers
Over my
Head.
They do not listen
When I advise
Stopping. They do not want
To acknowledge
I am
The shadow
That has always
Lived
Next door.
The changes in
The world
They sense
Rather
Than know. Yet they
& we
The dreamers
Are real.
Much of earth
Is enduring
This sleepless
Night.
The night
Of our
Transition.
Of bitter
Revelers, even their play
Turned to war—if only against
Their scribbling, sleepless
Neighbor—
Unhappy
But
Determined
To disrupt
The dream
Of peace.
Patriot
If you
Want to show
Your love
For America
Love
Americans
Smile
When you see
One
Flowerlike
His
Turban
Rosepink.
Rejoice
At the
Eagle feather
In a grandfather’s
Braid.
If a sister
Bus rider’s hair
Is
Especially
Nappy
A miracle
In itself
Praise it.
How can there be
Homeless
In a land
So crammed
With houses
&
Young children
Sold
As sex snacks
Causing our thoughts
To flinch &
Snag?
Love your country
By loving
Americans.
Love Americans.
Salute the soul
& the body
Of who we
Spectacularly &
Sometimes
Pitifully are.
Love us. We are
The flag.
Because Light Is Attracted to Dark
Because light is attracted
To dark
As dark is
To light
Let’s face
It
You’re
Fucked.
What can I tell
You
Lie back
Enjoy it.
You’re about
To lose
That lockpicker
Nose
You
Always
Hated
The predator
Eyes
The
Stringy
Hair
You’re always
Shaking out
In mixed
Company
To reassure
Yourself.
About
To lose
The
Unbecoming
Tendency
To strut into
Other peoples’
Lands
Claim
Everything
As your
Own
Except
The sweetness
Of dark
Angels
Welcoming
You
Home.
When Fidel Comes to Visit Me
When Fidel Comes to Visit Me
Usually
When Fidel comes
To visit me
He helps with all the household
Chores. I am surprised and not surprised
To see him so at home
In my kitchen
Sweeping or mopping
The floor
Doing laundry and worrying
Out offensive smells
Lurking
In my refrigerador.
Sometimes he looks more like Ortega
Than like himself:
How do you make yourself
So short I ask
And brown
As well?
He shrugs. So tall responding
To this question
The tops of his shoulders
Are out of sight.
In my dreams I am an average size
And so I was last night.
Once again Fidel appeared
This time gray & much
Fatigued.
I put him and his aide
Who looked as tired as he
To bed at once. And I began
To sweep my house, mop my kitchen
Floor, clear my refrigerator
And pantry too
Of all unpleasantness.
While I was doing this
They slept.
And then
Just as I stood aside
Admiring my handiwork
(I had waxed and polished all the
Furniture & cooked paella as well!)
The two of them appeared:
The aide relaxed, and seeming
Somew
hat
Fatter.
Fidel refreshed, looking about
For the gifts he’d
Brought as he’d staggered
Upon my porch
A night and a day
Ago;
Grinning
Showing all his teeth
Which seemed to be
All there
& wanting to dance.
In dreams it is said missing teeth signify loss of dignity or “face.” It is said Fidel cannot dance.
No Better Life
There is no better life
Than this
To let the good-looking
Gardener
Go home
Early
To his wife
& New baby.
To lie
On the blue couch
Recuperating
From a
Just
Battle.
To be full
Of soup
Cooked
By a friend.
Someone Should Have Taught You This
(Tenacatita Beach, Mexico)
When the vendor
Looks
Exhausted
& her skin
Is bad
When her body staggers
Stunted
By years of
Dragging
Somebody else’s
Tawdry wares
Across
The sand
When her children
& she herself
Appear more
Shrunken
Each time
You see
Them
And the conquistador’s
Mother Hubbard
Sets her apart
From all
Educational
Medical
Or
Even
Nutritional
Pursuits
When her very
Eyeballs
Shriek
Of injustice
& their
Whites
Are flushed
With blood
When you know
She has
Been on
Her feet
500 years
You should also know
Though greedy
To buy worthless
Trinkets
At half price
That
Today is
No time
To bargain.
Dream of Frida Kahlo
It was big.
It was a sea
Of shit.
Neither she
Nor I
Had any notion
What to do
With
It.
Our mothers came.
One resourceful
The other
Stout
& using
Just
Their thoughts
