Horses Make a Landscape Look More Beautiful Read online

  they will discern the inevitable:

  We do not worship them.

  We do not worship them.

  We do not worship what they have made.

  We do not trust them.

  We do not believe what they say.

  We do not love their efficiency.

  Or their power plants.

  We do not love their factories.

  Or their smog.

  We do not love their television programs.

  Or their radioactive leaks.

  We find their papers boring.

  We do not worship their cars.

  We do not worship their blondes.

  We do not envy their penises.

  We do not think much

  of their Renaissance.

  We are indifferent to England.

  We have grave doubts about their brains.

  In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance

  or sing

  share the intelligence and thus the fate

  of all our people

  in this land.

  We are not different from them,

  neither above nor below,

  outside nor inside.

  We are the same.

  And we do not worship them.

  We do not worship them.

  We do not worship their movies.

  We do not worship their songs.

  We do not think their newscasts

  cast the news.

  We do not admire their president.

  We know why the White House is white.

  We do not find their children irresistible;

  We do not agree they should inherit the earth.

  But lately you have begun to help them

  bury us. You who said: King was just a womanizer;

  Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry,

  a traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer,

  merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer:

  reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor;

  Agnes Smedley, a spy.

  I look into your eyes;

  you are throwing in the dirt.

  You, standing in the grave

  with me. Stop it!

  Each one must pull one.

  Look, I, temporarily on the rim

  of the grave,

  have grasped my mother’s hand

  my father’s leg.

  There is the hand of Robeson

  Langston’s thigh

  Zora’s arm and hair

  your grandfather’s lifted chin

  the lynched woman’s elbow

  what you’ve tried to forget

  of your grandmother’s frown.

  Each one, pull one back into the sun

  We who have stood over

  so many graves

  know that no matter what they do

  all of us must live

  or none.

  WHO?

  Who has not been

  invaded

  by the Wasichu?

  Not I, said the people.

  Not I, said the trees.

  Not I, said the waters.

  Not I, said the rocks.

  Not I, said the air.

  Moon!

  We hoped

  you were safe.

  WITHOUT

  COMMERCIALS

  Listen,

  stop tanning yourself

  and talking about

  fishbelly

  white.

  The color white

  is not bad at all.

  There are white mornings

  that bring us days.

  Or, if you must,

  tan only because

  it makes you happy

  to be brown,

  to be able to see

  for a summer

  the whole world’s

  darker

  face

  reflected

  in your own.

  *

  Stop unfolding

  your eyes.

  Your eyes are

  beautiful.

  Sometimes

  seeing you in the street

  the fold zany

  and unexpected

  I want to kiss

  them

  and usually

  it is only

  old

  gorgeous

  black people’s eyes

  I want

  to kiss.

  **

  Stop trimming

  your nose.

  When you

  diminish

  your nose

  your songs

  become little

  tinny, muted

  and snub.

  Better you should

  have a nose

  impertinent

  as a flower,

  sensitive

  as a root;

  wise, elegant,

  serious and deep.

  A nose that

  sniffs

  the essence

  of Earth. And knows

  the message

  of every

  leaf.

  ***

  Stop bleaching

  your skin

  and talking

  about

  so much black

  is not beautiful

  The color black

  is not bad

  at all.

  There are black nights

  that rock

  us

  in dreams.

  Or, if you must,

  bleach only

  because it pleases you

  to be brown,

  to be able to see

  for as long

  as you can bear it

  the whole world’s

  lighter face

  reflected

  in your own.

  ****

  As for me,

  I have learned

  to worship

  the sun

  again.

  To affirm

  the adventures

  of hair.

  For we are all

  splendid

  descendants

  of Wilderness,

  Eden:

  needing only

  to see

  each other

  without

  commercials

  to believe.

  Copied skillfully

  as Adam.

  Original

  as Eve.

  NO ONE CAN

  WATCH THE

  WASICHU

  No one can watch

  the Wasichu

  anymore

  He is always

  penetrating

  a people

  whose country

  is too small

  for him

  His bazooka

  always

  sticking up

  from some

  howling

  mother’s

  backyard.

  No one can watch

  the Wasichu

  anymore

  He is always

  squashing

  something

  Somebody’s guts

  trailing

  his shoe.

  No one can watch

  the Wasichu

  anymore

  He is scalping

  the earth

  till she runs

  into the ocean

  The dust of her

  flight

  searing

  our sight.

  No one can watch

  the Wasichu

  anymore

  Smirking

  into our bedrooms

  with his

  terrible

  Nightly News …

  No one can watch

  the Wasichu

  anymore.

  Regardless.

  He has filled

  our every face

  with his window.

  Our every window

 
; with

  his face.

  THE THING ITSELF

  Now I am going

  to rape you,

  you joked;

  after a pleasure

  wrung

  from me.

  With playful roughness

  you dragged my body

  to meet yours;

  on your face

  the look of

  mock

  lust

  you think

  all real women

  like

  As all “real” women

  really

  like rape.

  Lying

  barely breathing

  beneath

  your heaving

  heaviness

  I fancied I saw

  my great-great-grandmother’s

  small hands

  encircle

  your pale neck.

  There was no

  pornography

  in her world

  from which to learn

  to relish the pain.

  (She was the thing

  itself.)

  Oh, you who seemed

  the best of them,

  my own sad

  Wasichu;

  in what gibberish

  was our freedom

  engraved on

  our chains.

  TORTURE

  When they torture your mother

  plant a tree

  When they torture your father

  plant a tree

  When they torture your brother

  and your sister

  plant a tree

  When they assassinate

  your leaders

  and lovers

  plant a tree

  When they torture you

  too bad

  to talk

  plant a tree.

  When they begin to torture

  the trees

  and cut down the forest

  they have made

  start another.

  WELL.

  Well.

  He was a poet

  a priest

  a revolutionary

  compañero

  and we were right

  to be seduced.

  He brought us greetings

  from his countrypeople

  and informed us

  with lifted

  fist

  that they would not

  be moved.

  All his poems

  were eloquent.

  I liked

  especially

  the one

  that said

  the revolution

  must

  liberate

  the cougars, the trees,

  and the lakes;

  when he read it

  everyone

  breathed

  relief;

  ecology

  lives

  of all places

  in Central

  America!

  we thought.

  And then he read

  a poem

  about Grenada

  and we

  smiled

  until he began

  to describe

  the women:

  Well. One woman

  when she smiled

  had shiny black

  lips

  which reminded him

  of black legs

  (vaselined, no doubt),

  her whole mouth

  to the poet

  revolutionary

  suddenly

  a leg

  (and one said

  What?)

  Another one,

  duly noted by

  the priest,

  apparently

  barely attentive

  at a political

  rally

  eating

  a mango

  Another wears

  a red dress,

  her breasts

  (no kidding!)

  like coconuts .…

  Well. Nobody ever said

  supporting other people’s revolutions

  wouldn’t make us

  ill:

  But what a pity

  that

  the poet

  the priest

  and the revolution

  never seem

  to arrive

  for the black woman,

  herself.

  Only for her black lips

  or her black leg

  does one or the other

  arrive;

  only for her

  devouring mouth

  always depicted

  in the act

  of eating

  something colorful

  only for her breasts

  like coconuts

  and her red dress.

  SONG

  The world is full of colored

  people

  People of Color

  Tra-la-la

  The world is full of

  colored people

  Tra-la-la-la-la.

  They have black hair

  and black and brown

  eyes

  The world is full of

  colored people

  Tra-la-la.

  The world is full of colored

  people

  People of Color

  Tra-la-la

  The world is full of colored

  people

  Tra-la-la-la-la.

  Their skins are pink and yellow

  and brown

  All colored people

  People of Color

  Colored people

  Tra-la-la.

  Some have full lips

  Some have thin

  Full of colored people

  People of Color

  Colored lips

  Tra-la-la.

  The world is full of

  colored people

  People of Color

  Colorful people

  Tra-la-la!

  THESE DAYS

  Some words for people I think of as friends.

  These days I think of Belvie

  swimming happily in the country pond

  coating her face with its mud.

  She says:

  “We could put the whole bottom of this pond in jars

  and sell it to the folks

  in the city!”

  Lying in the sun she dreams

  of making our fortune, à la Helena Rubenstein.

  Bottling the murky water

  too smelly to drink,

  offering exotic mud facials and mineral baths

  at exorbitant fees.

  But mostly she lies in the sun

  dreaming of water, sun and the earth

  itself—

  Surely the earth can be saved for Belvie.

  These days I think of Robert

  folding his child’s tiny shirts

  consuming TV dinners (“A kind of processed flavor”)

  rushing off each morning to school—then to the office,

  the supermarket, the inevitable meeting: writing,

  speaking, marching against oppression, hunger,

  ignorance.

  And in between having a love affair

  with tiny wildflowers and gigantic

  rocks.

  “Look at this one!” he cries,

  as a small purple face

  raises its blue eye to the sun.

  “Wow, look at that one!” he says,

  as we pass a large rock

  reclining beside the road.

  He is the man with child

  the new old man.

  Brushing hair, checking hands, nails

  and teeth.

  A sick child finds comfort

  lying on his chest all night

  as do I.

  Surely the earth can be saved for Robert.

  These days I think of Elena.

  In the summers, for years, she camps

  beside
the Northern rivers

  sometimes with her children

  sometimes with women friends

  from “way, way back.”

  She is never too busy to want at least

  to join a demonstration

  or to long to sit

  beside

  a river.

  “I will not think less of you

  if you do not attend this meeting,” she says,

  making us compañeras for life.

  Surely the earth can be saved for Elena.

  These days I think of Susan;

  so many of her people lost

  in the Holocaust. Every time I see her

  I can’t believe it.

  “You have to have some of my cosmos seeds!”

  she says

  over the phone. “The blooms

  are glorious!”

  Whenever we are together

  we eat a lot.

  If I am at her house

  it is bacon, boiled potatoes,

  coffee and broiled fish:

  if she is at my house it is

  oyster stew, clams, artichokes

  and wine.

  Our dream is for time in which

  to walk miles together, a couple

  of weeds stuck between our teeth,

  comfy in our yogi pants

  discoursing on Woolf

  and child raising,

  essay writing and gardening.

  Susan makes me happy

  because she exists.

  Surely the earth can be saved for Susan.

  These days I think of Sheila.

  “‘Sheila’ is already a spiritual name,” she says.

  And “Try meditation and jogging both.”

  When we are together we talk

  and talk

  about The Spirit.

  About What is Good and What is Not.

  There was a time she applauded my anger,

  now she feels it is something I should outgrow.

  “It is not a useful emotion,” she says. “And besides,

  if you think about it, there’s nothing worth

  getting angry about.”

  “I do not like anger,” I say.

  “It raises my blood pressure.

  I do not like violence. So much has been done to me.

  But having embraced my complete being

  I find anger

  and the capacity for violence

  within me.

  Control

  rather than eradication

  is about the best

  I feel I can do.

  Besides, they intend to murder us,

  you know.”

  “Yes, I understand,” she says.

  “But try meditation

  and jogging both;

  you’ll be surprised how calm you feel.”

  I meditate, walk briskly, and take deep, deep breaths

  for I know the importance of peace to the inner self.

  When I talk to Sheila

  I am forced to honor

  my own ideals.

  Surely the earth can be saved for Sheila.

  These days I think of Gloria.

  “The mere sight of an airplane puts me to sleep,”

  she says.

  Since she is not the pilot, this makes sense.

  If this were a courageous country,

  it would ask Gloria to lead it

  since she is sane and funny and beautiful and smart

  and the National Leaders we’ve always had

  are not.