The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou Read online

and when you solve my riddles

  you don't even have to talk.

  When Great Trees Fall

  When great trees fall,

  rocks on distant hills shudder,

  lions hunker down

  in tall grasses,

  and even elephants

  lumber after safety.

  When great trees fall

  in forests,

  small things recoil into silence,

  their senses

  eroded beyond fear.

  When great souls die,

  the air around us becomes

  light, rare, sterile.

  We breathe, briefly.

  Our eyes, briefly,

  see withva hurtful clarity.

  Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

  examines,

  gnaws on kind words

  unsaid, vpromised walks

  never taken.

  Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us.

  Our souls,

  dependent upon their

  nurture,

  now shrink, wizened.

  Our minds, formed

  and informed by their

  radiance,

  fall away.

  We are not so much maddened

  as reduced to the unutterable ignorance

  of dark, cold

  caves.

  And when great souls die,

  after a period peace blooms,

  slowly and always

  irregularly. Spaces fill

  with a kind of

  soothing electric vibration.

  Our senses, restored, never

  to be the same, whisper to us.

  They existed. They existed.

  We can be. Be and be

  better. For they existed.

  A Rock, A River, A Tree

  Hosts to species long since departed,

  Marked the mastodon,

  The dinosaur, who left dried tokens

  Of their sojourn here

  On our planet floor,

  Any broad alarm of their hastening doom

  Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

  But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

  Come, you may stand upon my

  Back and face your distant destiny,

  But seek no haven in my shadow,

  I will give you no hiding place down here.

  You, created only a little lower than

  The angels, have crouched too long in

  The bruising darkness

  Have lain too long

  Facedown in ignorance,

  Your mouths spilling words

  Armed for slaughter.

  The Rock cries out to us today,

  You may stand upon me,

  But do not hide your face.

  Across the wall of the world,

  A River sings a beautiful song. It says,

  Come, rest here by my side.

  Each of you, a bordered country,

  Delicate and strangely made proud,

  Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

  Your armed struggles for profit

  Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

  Yet today I call you to my riverside,

  If you will study war no more.

  Come, clad in peace,

  And I will sing the songs

  The Creator gave to me when I and the

  Tree and the Rock were one.

  Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

  And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

  The River sang and sings on.

  There is a true yearning to respond to

  The singing River and the wise Rock.

  So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,

  The African, the Native American, the Sioux,

  The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,

  The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,

  The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

  The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.

  They hear. They all hear

  The speaking of the Tree.

  They hear the first and last of every Tree

  Speak to humankind today.

  Come to me,

  Here beside the River.

  Plant yourself beside the River.

  Each of you, descendant of some passed-

  On traveler, has been paid for.

  You, who gave me my first name, you,

  Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you,

  Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then

  Forced on bloody feet,

  Left me to the employment of Other seekers—desperate for gain,

  Starving for gold.

  You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede,

  The German, the Eskimo, the Scot,

  The Italian, the Hungarian, the Pole,

  You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,

  Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare,

  Praying for a dream.

  Here, root yourselves beside me.

  I am that Tree planted by the River,

  Which will not be moved.

  I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree,

  I am yours—your passages have been paid.

  Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need

  For this bright morning dawning for you.

  History, despite its wrenching pain,

  Cannot be unlived, but if faced

  With courage, need not be lived again.

  Lift up your eyes

  Upon this day breaking for you.

  Give birth again

  To the dream.

  Women, children, men,

  Take it into the palms of your hands,

  Mold it into the shape of your most

  Private need. Sculpt it into

  The image of your most public self.

  Lift up your hearts.

  Each new hour holds new chances

  For a new beginning.

  Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally

  To brutishness.

  The horizon leans forward,

  Offering you space

  To place new steps of change.

  Here, on the pulse of this fine day,

  You may have the courage

  To look up and out and upon me,

  The Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

  No less to Midas than the mendicant.

  No less to you now than the mastodon then.

  Here, on the pulse of this new day,

  You may have the grace to look up and out

  And into your sister's eyes,

  And into your brother's face,

  Your country,

  And say simply

  Very simply

  With hope—

  Good morning.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MAYA ANGELOU, author of the best-selling I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Gather Together in My Name, and The Heart of a Woman, has also written five collections of poetry: Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water fore I Diiie; Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well; And Still I Rise; Shaker, Why Don't You Sing?; and I Shall Not Be Moved; as well as On the Pulse of Morning, which was read by her at the inauguration of President William Jefferson Clinton on January 20, 1993. In theater, she produced, directed, and starred in Cabaret for Freedom in collaboration with Godfrey Cambridge at New York's Village Gate, starred in Genet's The Blacks at the St. Mark's Playhouse, and adapted Sophocles’ Ajax, which premiered at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles in 1974. She wrote the original screenplay and musical score for the film Georgia, Georgia and wrote and produced a ten-part TV series on African traditions in American life. In the sixties, at the request of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., she became the northern coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and in 1975 she received the Ladies’ Home Journal Woman of the Year Award in communications. She has received numerous honorary
degrees and was appointed by President Jimmy Carter to the National Commission on the Observance of International Women's Year and by President Gerald R. Ford to the American Revolution Bicentennial Advisory Council. She is on the board of trustees of the American Film Institute. One of the few female members of the Directors Guild, Angelou is the author of the television screenplays I Know Wliy the Caged Bird Sings and The Sisters. Most recently, she wrote the lyrics for the musical King: Drum Major for Love and was both host and writer for the series of documentaries Maya Angelou's America: A Journey of the Heart, along with Guy Johnson. Angelou is currently Reynolds Professor at Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

  ABOUT THE TYPE

  This book was set in Bembo, a typeface based on an old-style Roman face that was used for Cardinal Bembo's tract De Aetna in 1495. Bembo was cut by Francisco Griffo in the early sixteenth century. The Lanston Monotype Company of Philadelphia brought the well-proportioned letterforms of Bembo to the United States in the 1930s.

  Copyright © 1994 by Maya Angelou

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Angelou, Maya.

  [Poems]

  The complete collected poems of Maya Angelou.—ist ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55528-1

  I. Title.

  PS3551.N464A17 1994

  8n′.54—dc20 94-14501

  v30.