The World Will Follow Joy Read online

  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