The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou Read online

  But when I start to tell them,

  They think I'm telling lies.

  I say,

  It's in the reach of my arms,

  The span of my hips,

  The stride of my step,

  The curl of my lips.

  I'm a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That's me.

  I walk into a room

  Just as cool as you please,

  And to a man,

  The fellows stand or

  Fall down on their knees.

  Then they swarm around me,

  A hive of honey bees.

  I say,

  It's the fire in my eyes,

  And the flash of my teeth,

  The swing in my waist,

  And the joy in my feet.

  I'm a woman

  Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman,

  That's me.

  Men themselves have wondered

  What they see in me.

  They try so much

  But they can't touch

  My inner mystery.

  When I try to show them,

  They say they still can't see.

  I say,

  It's in the arch of my back,

  The sun of my smile,

  The ride of my breasts,

  The grace of my style.

  I'm a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That's me.

  Now you understand

  Just why my head's not bowed.

  I don't shout or jump about

  Or have to talk real loud.

  When you see me passing,

  It ought to make you proud.

  I say,

  It's in the click of my heels,

  The bend of my hair,

  the palm of my hand,

  The need for my care.

  ‘Cause I'm a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That's me.

  Men

  When I was young, I used to

  Watch behind the curtains

  As men walked up and down

  The street. Wino men, old men.

  Young men sharp as mustard.

  See them. Men are always

  Going somewhere.

  They knew I was there. Fifteen

  Years old and starving for them.

  Under my window, they would pause,

  Their shoulders high like the

  Breasts of a young girl,

  Jacket tails slapping over

  Those behinds,

  Men.

  One day they hold you in the

  Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you

  Were the last raw egg in the world. Then

  They tighten up. Just a little. The

  First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.

  Soft into your defenselessness. A little

  More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a

  Smile that slides around the fear. When the

  Air disappears,

  Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,

  Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.

  It is your juice

  That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.

  When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue,

  Your body has slammed shut. Forever.

  No keys exist.

  Then the window draws full upon

  Your mind. There, just beyond

  The sway of curtains, men walk.

  Knowing something.

  Going someplace.

  But this time, you will simply

  Stand and watch.

  Maybe.

  Refusal

  Beloved,

  In what other lives or lands

  Have I known your lips

  Your hands

  Your laughter brave

  Irreverent.

  Those sweet excesses that

  I do adore.

  What surety is there

  That we will meet again,

  On other worlds some

  Future time undated.

  I defy my body's haste.

  Without the Promise

  Of one more sweet encounter

  I will not deign to die.

  Just for a Time

  Oh how you used to walk

  With that insouciant smile

  I liked to hear you talk

  And your style

  Pleased me for a while.

  You were my early love

  New as a day breaking in Spring

  You were the image of

  Everything

  That caused me to sing.

  I don't like reminiscing

  Nostalgia is not my forte

  I don't spill tears

  On yesterday's years

  But honesty makes me say,

  You were a precious pearl

  How I loved to see you shine,

  You were the perfect girl.

  And you were mine.

  For a time.

  For a time.

  Just for a time.

  Junkie Monkey Reel

  Shoulders sag,

  The pull of weighted needling.

  Arms drag, smacking wet in soft bone

  Sockets.

  Knees thaw,

  Their familiar magic lost. Old bend and

  Lock and bend forgot.

  Teeth rock in fetid gums.

  Eyes dart, die, then float in

  Simian juice.

  Brains reel,

  Master charts of old ideas erased. The

  Routes are gone beneath the tracks

  Of desert caravans, pre-slavery

  Years ago.

  Dreams fail,

  Unguarded fears on homeward streets

  Embrace. Throttling in a dark revenge

  Murder is its sweet romance.

  How long will

  This monkey dance?

  The Lesson

  I keep on dying again.

  Veins collapse, opening like the

  Small fists of sleeping

  Children.

  Memory of old tombs,

  Rotting flesh and worms do

  Not convince me against

  The challenge. The years

  And cold defeat live deep in

  Lines along my face.

  They dull my eyes, yet

  I keep on dying,

  Because I love to live.

  California Prodigal

  FOR DAVID P-B

  The eye follows, the land

  Slips upward, creases down, forms

  The gentle buttocks of a young

  Giant. In the nestle,

  Old adobe bricks, washed of

  Whiteness, paled to umber,

  Await another century.

  Star Jasmine and old vines

  Lay claim upon the ghosted land,

  Then quiet pools whisper

  Private childhood secrets.

  Flush on inner cottage walls

  Antiquitous faces,

  Used to the gelid breath

  Of old manors, glare disdainfully

  Over breached time.

  Around and through these

  Cold phantasmatalities,

  He walks, insisting

  To the languid air,

  Activity, music,

  A generosity of graces.

  His lupin fields spurn old

  Deceit and agile poppies dance

  In golden riot. Each day is Fulminant, exploding brightly

  Under the gaze of his exquisite

  Sires, frozen in the famed paint

  Of dead masters. Audacious

  Sunlight casts defiance

  At their feet.

  My Arkansas

  There is a deep brooding

  in Arkansas.

  Old crimes like moss pend

  from poplar trees.

  The sullen ear
th

  is much too

  red for comfort.

  Sunrise seems to hesitate

  and in that second

  lose its

  incandescent aim, and

  dusk no more shadows

  than the noon.

  The past is brighter yet.

  Old hates and

  ante-bellum lace are rent

  but not discarded.

  Today is yet to come

  in Arkansas.

  It writhes. It writhes in awful

  waves of brooding.

  Through the Inner City to the Suburbs

  Secured by sooted windows

  And amazement, it is

  Delicious. Frosting filched

  From a company cake.

  People. Black and fast. Scattered

  Watermelon seeds on

  A summer street. Grinning in

  Ritual, sassy in pomp.

  From a slow-moving train

  They are precious. Stolen gems

  Unsaleable and dear. Those

  Dusky undulations sweat of forest

  Nights, damp dancing, the juicy

  Secrets of black thighs.

  Images framed picture perfect

  Do not move beyond the window

  Siding.

  Strong delectation:

  Dirty stories in changing rooms

  Accompany the slap of wet towels and

  Toilet seats.

  Poli-talk of politician

  Parents: “They need shoes and

  Cooze and a private Warm latrine. I had a colored Mammy …”

  The train, bound for green lawns

  Double garages and sullen women

  In dreaded homes, settles down

  On its habit track.

  Leaving

  The dark figures dancing

  And grinning. Still

  Grinning.

  Lady Luncheon Club

  Her counsel was accepted: the times are grave.

  A man was needed who would make them think,

  And pay him from the petty cash account.

  Our woman checked her golden watch,

  The speaker has a plane to catch.

  Dessert is served (and just in time).

  The lecturer leans, thrusts forth his head

  And neck and chest, arms akimbo

  On the lectern top. He summons up

  Sincerity as one might call a favored

  Pet.

  He understands the female rage,

  Why Eve was lustful and

  Delilah's

  Grim deceit.

  Our woman thinks:

  (This cake is much too sweet).

  He sighs for youthful death

  And rape at ten, and murder of

  The soul stretched over long.

  Our woman notes:

  (This coffee's much too strong). The jobless streets of

  Wine and wandering when

  Mornings promise no bright relief.

  She claps her hands and writes

  Upon her pad: (Next time the

  Speaker must be brief).

  Momma Welfare Roll

  Her arms semaphore fat triangles,

  Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips

  Where bones idle under years of fatback

  And lima beans.

  Her jowls shiver in accusation

  Of crimes clichéd by

  Repetition. Her children, strangers

  To childhood's toys, play

  Best the games of darkened doorways,

  Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of

  Other people's property.

  Too fat to whore,

  Too mad to work,

  Searches her dreams for the

  Lucky sign and walks bare-handed

  Into a den of bureaucrats for

  Her portion.

  “They don't give me welfare.

  I take it.”

  The Singer Will Not Sing

  FOR A. L.

  A benison given. Unused,

  no angels promised,

  wings fluttering banal lies

  behind their sexlessness. No

  trumpets gloried

  prophecies of fabled fame.

  Yet harmonies waited in

  her stiff throat. New notes

  lay expectant on her

  stilled tongue.

  Her lips are ridged and

  fleshy. Purpled night birds

  snuggled to rest.

  The mouth seamed, voiceless.

  Sounds do not lift beyond

  those reddened walls.

  She came too late and lonely

  to this place.

  Willie

  Willie was a man without fame,

  Hardly anybody knew his name.

  Crippled and limping, always walking lame,

  He said, “I keep on movin’

  Movin’ just the same.”

  Solitude was the climate in his head,

  Emptiness was the partner in his bed,

  Pain echoed in the steps of his tread,

  He said, “I keep on followin’

  Where the leaders led.

  “I may cry and I will die,

  But my spirit is the soul of every spring,

  Watch for me and you will see

  That I'm present in the songs that children sing.”

  People called him “Uncle,” “Boy” and “Hey,”

  Said, “You can't live through this another day.”

  Then, they waited to hear what he would say.

  He said, “I'm living

  In the games that children play.

  “You may enter my sleep, people my dreams,

  Threaten my early morning's ease,

  But I keep comin’ followin’ laughin’ cryin',

  Sure as a summer breeze.

  “Wait for me, watch for me.

  My spirit is the surge of open seas.

  Look for me, ask for me,

  I'm the rustle in the autumn leaves.

  “When the sun rises

  I am the time.

  When the children sing

  I am the Rhyme.”

  To Beat the Child Was Bad Enough

  A young body, light

  As winter sunshine, a new

  Seed's bursting promise,

  Hung from a string of silence

  Above its future.

  (The chance of choice was never known.)

  Hunger, new hands, strange voices,

  Its cry came natural, tearing.

  Water boiled in innocence, gaily

  In a cheap pot.

  The child exchanged its

  Curiosity for terror. The skin

  Withdrew, the flesh submitted.

  Now, cries make shards

  Of broken air, beyond an unremembered

  Hunger and the peace of strange hands.

  A young body floats.

  Silently.

  Woman Work

  I've got the children to tend

  The clothes to mend

  The floor to mop

  The food to shop

  Then the chicken to fry

  The baby to dry

  I got company to feed

  The garden to weed

  I've got the shirts to press

  The tots to dress

  The cane to be cut

  I gotta clean up this hut

  Then see about the sick

  And the cotton to pick.

  Shine on me, sunshine

  Rain on me, rain

  Fall softly, dewdrops

  And cool my brow again.

  Storm, blow me from here

  With your fiercest wind

  Let me float across the sky

  Till I can rest again.

  Fall gently, snowflakes

  Cover me with white

  Cold icy kisses and

  Let me rest tonight. Sun, rain, curving sky

  Mountain, oceans, leaf and
stone

  Star shine, moon glow

  You're all that I can call my own.

  One More Round

  There ain't no pay beneath the sun

  As sweet as rest when a job's well done.

  I was born to work up to my grave

  But I was not born

  To be a slave.

  One more round

  And let's heave it down,

  One more round

  And let's heave it down.

  Papa drove steel and Momma stood guard,

  I never heard them holler ‘cause the work was hard.

  They were born to work up to their graves

  But they were not born

  To be worked-out slaves.

  One more round

  And let's heave it down,

  One more round

  And let's heave it down.

  Brothers and sisters know the daily grind,

  It was not labor made them lose their minds.

  They were born to work up to their graves

  But they were not born

  To be worked-out slaves.

  One more round

  And let's heave it down,

  One more round

  And let's heave it down.

  And now I'll tell you my Golden Rule,

  I was born to work but I ain't no mule.

  I was born to work up to my grave

  But I was not born

  To be a slave.

  One more round

  And let's heave it down,

  One more round

  And let's heave it down.

  The Traveler

  Byways and bygone

  And lone nights long

  Sun rays and sea waves

  And star and stone

  Manless and friendless

  No cave my home