Where Have You Gone by Mari Evans Where have you gone with your confident walk with

your crooked smile why did you leave me when you took your laughter and departed are you aware that with you went the sun all light and what few stars there were? where have you gone with your confident walk your crooked smile the rent money in one pocket and my heart in another . . .

IS TRUTH LIBERATING? by Haki R. Madhubuti if it is truth that binds why are there so many lies between lovers? if it is truth that is liberating why are people told: they look good when they don't they are loved when they aren't everything is fine when it ain't glad you're back when you're not. Black people in america may not be made for the truth we wrap our lives in disco and sunday sermons while selling false dreams to our children. lies are refundable, can be bought on our revolving charge cards as we all catch truth on the next go round if it doesn't hurt.

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note (For Kellie Jones, Born 16 May 1959) by Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka Lately, I've become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelops me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad-edged silly music the win Makes when I run for the bus... Things have come to that. And now, each night I count the stars, And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave. Nobody sings anymore. And then last night, I tiptoed up To my daughter's room and heard her Talking to someone, and when I opened The door, there was no one there... Only she on her knees, peeking into Her own clasped hands.

Nobody Riding the Roads Today by June Jordan Nobody riding the roads today But I hear the living rush far away from my heart Nobody meeting on the streets But I rage from the crowded overtones of emptiness Nobody sleeping in my bed But I breathe like windows broken by emergencies Nobody laughing anymore But I see the world split and twisted up like open stone Nobody riding the roads today But I hear the living rush far away from my heart

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever than ked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?

I Said to Poetry by Alice Walker I said to Poetry:"I'm finished with you." Having to almost die before some wierd light comes creeping through is no fun. "No thank you, Creation, no muse need apply. Im out for good times-at the very least, some painless convention." Poetry laid back and played dead until this morning. I wasn't sad or anything, only restless. Poetry said: "You remember the desert, and how glad you were that you have an eye to see it with? You remember that, if ever so slightly?" I said: "I didn't hear that. Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m. I'm not getting up in the dark to talk to you." Poetry said: "But think about the time you saw the moon over that small canyon that you liked so much better than the grand one--and how suprised you were that the moonlight was green and you still had one good eye to see it with Think of that!"

"I'll join the church!" I said, huffily, turning my face to the wall. "I'll learn how to pray again!" "Let me ask you," said Poetry. "When you pray, what do you think you'll see?" Poetry had me. "There's no paper in this room," I said. "And that new pen I bought makes a funny noise." "Bullshit," said Poetry. "Bullshit," said I.

We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks The Pool Player. Seven at the Golden Shovel. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

A City's Death by Fire by Derek Walcott After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky, I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire; Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire. All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales, Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar; Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire. By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why Should a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails? In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths; To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breath Rebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails, Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.

Homage to My Hips by Lucille Clifton Read these hips are big hips. they need space to move around in. they don't fit into little petty places. these hips are free hips. they don't like to be held back. these hips have never been enslaved, they go where they want to go they do what they want to do. these hips are mighty hips. these hips are magic hips. i have known them to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top!

CONJUGAL VISITS by Al Young By noon we'll be deep into it -up reading out loud in bed. Or in between our making love I'll paint my toenails red. Reece say he got to change his name from Maurice to Malik. He think I need to change mine too. Conversion, so to speak. "I ain't no Muslim yet," I say. "Besides, I like my name. Kamisha still sounds good to me. I'll let you play that game." "I'd rather play with you," he say, "than trip back to the Sixties." "The Sixties, eh?" I'm on his case. "Then I won't do my striptease." This brother look at me and laugh; he know I love him bad and, worse, he know exactly how much loving I ain't had. He grab me by my puffed up waist and pull me to him close. He say, "I want you in my face . Or on my face, Miss Toes." What can I say? I'd lie for Reece, but I'm not quitting school. Four mouths to feed, not counting mine. Let Urban Studies rule! I met him in the want ads, we fell in love by mail. I say, when people bring this up, "Wasn't no one up for sale." All these Black men crammed up in jail, all this I.Q. on ice,

while governments, bank presidents, the Mafia don't think twice. They fly in dope and make real sure they hands stay nice and clean. The chump-change Reece made on the street -what's that supposed to mean? "For what it cost the State to keep you locked down, clothed and fed, you could be learning Harvard stuff, and brilliant skills," I said. Reece say, "Just kiss me one more time, then let's get down, make love. Then let's devour that special meal I wish they'd serve more of." They say the third time out's a charm; I kinda think they're right. My first, he was the Ace of Swords, which didn't make him no knight. He gave me Zeus and Brittany; my second left me twins. This third one ain't about no luck; we're honeymooners. Friends. I go see Maurice once a month while Moms looks after things. We be so glad to touch again, I dance, he grins, he sings. When I get back home to my kids, schoolwork, The Copy Shop, ain't no way Reece can mess with me. They got his ass locked up.

A MOTHER SPEAKS: THE ALGIERS MOTEL INCIDENT, DETROIT by Michael Harper It's too dark to see black in the windows of Woodward or Virginia Park. The undertaker pushed his body back into place with plastic and gum but it wouldn't hold water. When I looked for marks or lineament or fine stitching I was led away without seeing this plastic face they'd built that was not my son's. They tied the eye torn out by shotgun into place and his shattered arm cut away with his buttocks that remained. My son's gone by white hands though he said to his last word-"Oh I'm so sorry, officer, I broke your gun."

Heroes by Rita Dove A flower in a weedy field make it a poppy. You pick it. Because it begins to wilt you run to the nearest house to ask for a jar of water. The woman on the porch starts screaming: you've picked the last poppy in her miserable garden, the one that gives her the strength every morning to rise! It's too late for apologies though you go through the motions, offering trinkets and a juicy spot in the written history she wouldn't live to read, anyway So you strike her, she hits her head on a white boulder, and there's nothing to be done but break the stone into gravel to prop up the flower in the stolen jar you have to take along, because you're a fugitive now and you can't leave clues. Although the story's starting to unravel, the villagers stirring as your heart pounds into your throat. O why did you pick that idiot flower? Because it was the last one and you knew it was going to die.

beware : do not read this poem by Ishmael Reed tonite, thriller was abt an ol woman, so vain she surrounded herself w / many mirrors it got so bad that finally she locked herself indoors & her whole life became the mirrors one day the villagers broke into her house , but she was too swift for them . she disappeared into a mirror each tenant who bought the house after that , lost a loved one to the ol woman in the mirror : first a little girl then a young woman then the young woman/s husband the hunger of this poem is legendary it has taken in many victims back off from this poem it has drawn in yr feet back off from this poem it has drawn in yr legs back off from this poem it is a greedy mirror you are into this poem . from the waist down nobody can hear you can they ? this poem has had you up to here belch this poem aint got no manners you cant call out frm this poem relax now & go w / this poem

move & roll on to this poem do not resist this poem this poem has yr eyes this poem has his head this poem has his arms this poem has his fingers this poem has his fingertips this poem is the reader & the reader this poem statistic : the us bureau of missing persons reports that in 1968 over 100,000 people disappeared leaving no solid clues nor trace only a space in the lives of their friends

Bedtime Story by Wanda Coleman bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room trying to ignore them in the morning, especially Sunday mornings it will not let me up. you must sleep longer, it says facing south the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back while i prefer a westerly fetal position facing the wall the bed sucks me sideways into it when i sit down on it to put on my shoes. this persistence on its part forces me to dress in the bathroom where things are less subversive the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to scratch my dusky thighs my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to the bed. it makes strange little sighs which distract me from my work sadistically i pull back the covers put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on the bed complains that i'm difficult duty its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i blanket it with books and papers. it tells me it's made for blood and bone lately spiders ants and roaches have invaded it searching for food

Kissie Lee by Margaret Walker Toughest gal I ever did see Was a gal by the name of Kissie Lee; The toughest gal God ever made And she drew a dirty, wicked blade. Now this here gal warn't always tough Nobody dreamed she'd turn out rough But her Grammaw Mamie had the name Of being the town's sin and shame. When Kissie Lee was young and good Didn't nobody treeat her like they should Allus gettin' beat by a no-good shine An' allus quick to cry and whine. Till her Grammaw said, "Now listen to me, I'm tiahed of yoah whinin', Kissie Lee. People don't ever treat you right, A n' you allus scrappin' or in a fight." "Whin I was a gal wasn't no soul Could do me wrong an' still stay whole. Ah got me a razor to talk for me An' aftah that they let me be." Well Kissie Lee took her advice And after that she didn't speak twice 'Cause when she learned to stab and run She got herself a little gun. And from that time that gal was mean, Meanest mama you ever seen. She could hold her likker and hold her man And she went thoo life jus' raisin' san'. One night she walked in Jim's salloon And seen a guy what spoke too soon; He done her dirt long time ago When she was good and feeling low.

Kissie bought her drink and she paid her dime Watchin' this guy what beat her time And he was making for the outside door When Kissie shot him to the floor. Not a word she spoke but she switched her blade And flashing that lil ole baby paid: Evvy livin' guy got out of her way Because Kissie Lee was drawin' her pay. She could shoot glass offa the hinges, She could take herself on the wildest binges. And she died with her boots on switching blades On Talladega Mountain in the likker raids.

Life is Fine Langston Hughes I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn't, So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered! I came up twice and cried! If that water hadn't a-been so cold I might've sunk and died. But it was Cold in that water! It was cold! I took the elevator Sixteen floors above the ground. I thought about my baby And thought I would jump down. I stood there and I hollered! I stood there and I cried! If it hadn't a-been so high I might've jumped and died. But it was High up there! It was high! So since I'm still here livin', I guess I will live on. I could've died for love-But for livin' I was born Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die. Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!