Once Page 2

  fat

  really,

  anyway.

  ix

  Someone said

  to

  me

  that

  if

  the South

  rises

  again

  it will do so

  “from

  the grave.”

  Someone

  else

  said

  if the South

  rises

  again

  he would

  “step on

  it.”

  Dick Gregory

  said that

  if the

  South

  rises

  again

  there is

  a

  secret

  plan.

  But I say—

  if the

  South

  rises

  again

  It will not

  do

  so

  in my presence.

  x

  “but I don’

  really

  give a fuck

  Who

  my daughter

  marries—”

  the lady

  was

  adorable—

  it was in a

  tavern

  i remember

  her daughter

  sat there

  beside her

  tugging

  at

  her arm

  sixteen—

  very shy

  and

  very pim

  pled.

  xi

  then there

  was

  the charming

  half-wit

  who told

  the judge

  re: indecent exposure

  “but when I

  step out

  of the

  tub

  I look

  Good—

  just because

  my skin

  is black

  don’t mean

  it ain’t

  pretty

  you old bastard!)

  what will we

  finally do

  with

  prejudice

  some people like

  to take a walk

  after a bath.

  xii

  “look, honey

  said

  the

  blond

  amply

  boobed

  babe

  in the

  green

  g

  string

  “i like you

  sure

  i ain’t

  prejudiced

  but the

  lord didn’t

  give me

  legs

  like

  these

  because

  he

  wanted

  to see’m

  dangling

  from a

  poplar!”

  “But they’re so

  much

  prettier

  than mine.

  Would you really mind?”

  he asked

  wanting her to dance.

  xiii

  I remember

  seeing

  a little girl,

  dreaming—perhaps,

  hit by

  a

  van truck

  “That nigger was

  in the way!” the

  man

  said

  to

  understanding cops.

  But was she?

  She was

  just eight

  her mother

  said

  and little

  for

  her age.

  xiv

  then there was

  the

  picture of

  the

  bleak-eyed

  little black

  girl

  waving the

  american

  flag

  holding it

  gingerly

  with

  the very

  tips

  of her

  fingers.

  CHIC FREEDOM’S REFLECTION

  (for Marilyn Pryce)

  One day

  Marilyn marched

  beside me (demon-

  stration)

  and we ended up

  at county farm

  no phone

  no bail

  something about

  “traffic vio-

  lation”

  which irrelevance

  Marilyn dismissed

  with a shrug

  She

  had just got

  back

  from

  Paris France

  In

  the

  Alabama

  hell

  she

  smell-

  ed

  so

  wonderful

  like

  spring

  & love

  &

  freedom

  She

  wore a

  SNCC pin

  right between

  her breasts

  near her

  heart

  & with a chic

  (on “jail?”)

  accent

  & nod of

  condescent

  to frumpy

  work-house

  hags

  powdered her nose

  tip-

  toe

  in a badge.

  SOUTH:

  THE NAME OF HOME

  i

  all that night

  I prayed for eyes to see again

  whose last sight

  had been

  a broken bottle

  held negligently

  in a racist

  fist

  God give us trees to plant

  and hands and eyes to

  love them.

  ii

  When I am here again

  the years of ease between

  fall away

  The smell of one

  magnolia

  sends my heart

  running through the swamps.

  iii

  the earth is red

  here— the trees bent, weeping

  what secrets will not

  the ravished land

  reveal

  of its abuse?

  iv

  an old mistress

  of my mother’s

  gives me

  bloomers for Christmas

  ten sizes

  too big

  her intentions are

  good my father

  says

  but typical—

  neither the color

  she knows

  nor the

  number.

  HYMN

  I well remember

  A time when

  “Amazing Grace” was

  All the rage

  In the South.

  ‘Happy’ black mothers arguing

  Agreement with

  Illiterate sweating preachers

  Hemming and hawing blessedness

  Meekness

  Inheritance of earth, e.g.,

  Mississippi cotton fields?

  And in the North

  Roy Hamilton singing

  “What is America to me?”

  Such a good question

  From a nice slum

  In North Philly.

  My God! the songs and

  The people and the lives

  Started here—

  Weaned on ‘happy’ tears

  Black fingers clutching black teats

  On black Baptist benches—

  Some mother’s troubles that everybody’s

  Seen

  And nobody wants to see.

  I can remember the rocking of

>   The church

  And embarrassment

  At my mother’s shouts

  Like it was all—‘her happiness’—

  Going to kill her.

  My father’s snores

  Punctuating eulogies

  His loud singing

  Into fluffy grey caskets

  A sleepy tear

  In his eye.

  Amazing Grace

  How sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch

  Like me

  I once was lost

  But now I’m found

  Was blind

  But now

  I see.

  Mahalia Jackson, Clara Ward, Fats Waller,

  Ray Charles,

  Sitting here embarrassed with me

  Watching the birth

  Hearing the cries

  Bearing witness

  To the child,

  Music.

  THE DEMOCRATIC ORDER:

  SUCH THINGS IN TWENTY YEARS

  I UNDERSTOOD

  My father

  (back blistered)

  beat me

  because I

  could not

  stop crying.

  He’d had

  enough ‘fuss’

  he said

  for one damn

  voting day.

  THEY WHO FEEL DEATH

  (for martyrs)

  They who feel death close as a breath

  Speak loudly in unlighted rooms

  Lounge upright in articulate gesture

  Before the herd of jealous Gods

  Fate finds them receiving

  At home.

  Grim the warrior forest who present

  Casual silence with casual battle cries

  Or stand unflinchingly lodged

  In common sand

  Crucified.

  ON BEING ASKED TO LEAVE A PLACE OF HONOR FOR ONE OF COMFORT; PREFERABLY IN THE NORTHERN

  SUBURBS

  (for those who work and stay in the ragged Mississippis of the world)

  In this place of helmets and tar

  the anxious burblings of recreants

  buzz over us

  we bent laughing to oars of gold

  We regard them as Antigone her living kin

  Fat chested pigeons

  resplendent of prodigious riches

  reaped in body weight

  taking bewildered pecks

  at eagles

  as though muck

  were God.

  THE ENEMY

  in gray, scarred Leningrad

  a tiny fist unsnapped to show

  crumpled heads

  of pink and yellow flowers

  snatched hurriedly on the go

  in the cold spring shower—

  consent or not

  countries choose

  cold or hot

  win or lose

  to speak of wars

  yellow and red

  but there is much

  let it be said

  for children.

  COMPULSORY CHAPEL

  i

  A quiet afternoon

  the speaker

  dull

  the New Testament

  washed out

  Through the window

  a lonely

  blue-jay

  makes noisy song.

  ii

  The speaker crashes

  on

  through his speech

  All eyes are

  upon him

  Over his left

  ear

  the thick hair

  is beginning

  to slip.

  iii

  I would not mind

  if I were

  a sinner,

  but as it is

  —let me assure you—

  I sleep alone.

  TO THE MAN

  IN THE YELLOW TERRY

  Dawn came at six today

  Held back by hope

  A lost cause—

  Melted like snow

  In the middle of

  The day.

  The sun shines clear fire

  The earth once more

  Like it was—

  Old promises

  Rise up

  (Our honored

  Ghosts)

  And the lonely truths

  Of love

  Pledged.

  Here we lie

  You and I—

  Your mind, unaccountable,

  My mind simply

  Stopped—

  Like a clock struck

  By the treachery

  Of time.

  The sky blue, empty,

  Unfathomable—

  As I am.

  Look at it brighten

  And fill and

  Astonish

  With each movement

  Of your

  Eyes.

  The wren who does not

  Sing

  I take my simple

  Flight

  Silent, unmetaphoric

  Dressed in brown

  I say

  Good-bye.

  Will you think it funny

  Later on

  To find you had

  Almost

  Given shelter

  To a

  Thief?

  THE KISS

  i was kissed once

  by a beautiful man

  all blond and

  czech

  riding through bratislava

  on a motor bike

  screeching “don’t yew let me fall off heah naow!”

  the funny part was

  he spoke english

  and setting me gallantly

  on my feet

  kissed me for

  not anyhow looking

  like aunt jemima.

  WHAT OVID TAUGHT ME

  What does it matter? you ask

  If protocol

  falls

  After artichokes

  and steak,

  Vivaldi

  and

  No

  Wine

  For God’s sake

  Let’s not be traditional!

  But I,

  Unused bed

  All tousled

  Sing nursery rhymes

  Chant

  Strange

  Chants

  Count stray insects

  On the ceiling

  and

  Wonder—

  Why don’t you shut up and

  get in?

  MORNINGS / of an impossible love

  On the morning you woke beside me—already thinking of going away—the sun did not fill my window as it does most mornings. Instead there was cloud and threat of snow. How I wish it could always be this way—that on mornings he cannot come himself, the sun might send me you.

  Watching you frown at your face in the mirror this morning I almost thought you disapproved of the little dark shadow standing behind you its arms around your waist.…

  Two mornings ago you left my little house. Only two steps from my fingers & you were gone, swallowed down swiftly by my spiral stairs.…

  Why do you wish to give me over to someone else? “Such and such young man you’re sure to like” you say “for he is a fine, cheerful fellow, very sensitive” one thing and another. Sometimes it is as if you’d never listened to my heartbeat, never heard my breathing in your ear, never seen my eyes when you say such things.…

  This is what you told me once. Must I believe you? “We are really Easterners, you and I. The rising of the Sun brings with it our whole Philosophy.”

  SO WE’VE COME AT LAST TO FREUD

  Do not hold my few years

  against me

  In my life, childhood

  was a myth

  So long ago it seemed, even

  in the cradle.

  Don’t label my love with slogans;

  My father can’t be blamed

  for my affection

 
; Or lack of it;

  ask him.

  He won’t understand you.

  Don’t sit on holy stones

  as you,

  Loving me

  and hating me, condemn.

  There is no need for that.

  I like to think that I, though

  young it’s true,

  Know what

  I’m doing.

  That I, once unhappy, am

  Now

  Quite sanely

  jubilant,

  & that neither you

  Nor I can

  Deny

  That no matter how

  “Sick”

  The basis

  is

  Of what we have,

  What we do have

  Is Good.

  JOHANN

  You look at me with children

  In your eyes,

  Blond, blue-eyed

  Teutons

  Charmingly veiled

  In bronze

  Got from me.

  What would Hitler say?

  I am brown-er

  Than a jew

  Being one step

  Beyond that Colored scene.

  You are the Golden Boy,

  Shiny but bloody

  And with that ancient martial tune

  Only your heart is out of step—

  You love.

  But even knowing love

  I shrink from you. Blond

  And Black; it is too charged a combination.

  Charged with past and present wars,

  Charged with frenzy

  and with blood

  Dare I kiss your German mouth?

  Touch the perfect muscles

  Underneath the yellow shirt

  Blending coolly

  With your yellow

  Hair?

  I shudder at the whiteness

  Of your hands.

  Blue is too cold a color

  For eyes.

  But white, I think, is the color

  Of honest flowers,

  And blue is the color

  Of the sky.

  Come closer then and hold out to me

  Your white and faintly bloodied hands.

  I will kiss your German mouth

  And will touch the helpless

  White skin, gone red,

  Beneath the yellow shirt.

  I will rock the yellow head against

  My breast, brown and yielding.

  But I tell you, love,

  There is still much to fear.

  We have only seen the

  First of wars

  First of frenzies

  First of blood.

  Someday, perhaps, we will be

  Made to learn

  That blond and black

  Cannot love.

  But until that rushing day

  I will not reject you.

  I will kiss your fearful

  German mouth.

  And you—

  Look at me boldly

  With surging, brown-blond teutons

  In your eyes.

  THE SMELL OF LEBANON

  in balmy

  iconic

  prague

  I offered

  my bosom

  to a wandering arab student