The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou Page 7

  Romance, no lips offering

  Succulence, nor eyes

  Rolling, disconnected from

  A Sambo face.

  Dare us new dreams, Columbus.

  A cool new moon, a

  Winter's night, calm blood,

  Sluggish, moving only

  Out of habit, we need

  Peace.

  O Atlanta, O deep, and

  Once-lost city,

  Chant for us a new song. A song

  Of Southern peace.

  Unmeasured Tempo

  The sun rises at midday.

  Nubile breasts sag to waistlines while

  young loins grow dull,

  so late.

  Dreams are petted, like

  cherished lapdogs

  misunderstood and loved

  too well.

  Much knowledge

  wrinkles the cerebellum,

  but little informs.

  Leaps are

  made into narrow mincings.

  Great desires strain

  into petty wishes.

  You did arrive, smiling,

  but too late.

  Amoebaean for Daddy

  I was a pretty baby.

  White folks used to stop

  My mother

  Just to look at me.

  (All black babies

  Are Cute.) Mother called me

  Bootsie and Daddy said …

  (Nobody listened to him).

  On the Union Pacific, a

  Dining-car waiter, bowing and scraping,

  Momma told him to

  Stand up straight, he shamed her

  In the big house

  (Bought from tips) in front of her

  Nice club ladies.

  His short legs were always

  Half bent. He could have posed as

  The Black jockey Mother found

  And put on the lawn.

  He sat silent when

  We ate from the good railroad china

  And stolen silver spoons.

  Furniture crowded our

  Lonely house.

  But I was young and played

  In the evenings under a blanket of Licorice sky. When Daddy came home

  (I might be forgiven) that last night,

  I had been running in the

  Big backyard and

  Stood sweating above the tired old man,

  Panting like a young horse,

  Impatient with his lingering. He said

  “All I ever asked, all I ever asked, all I ever—”

  Daddy, you should have died

  Long before I was a

  Pretty baby, and white

  Folks used to stop

  Just to look at me.

  Recovery

  FOR DUGALD

  A last love,

  proper in conclusion,

  should snip the wings,

  forbidding further flight.

  But I, now,

  reft of that confusion,

  am lifted up

  and speeding toward the light.

  Impeccable Conception

  I met a Lady Poet

  who took for inspiration

  colored birds, and whispered words,

  a lover's hesitation.

  A falling leaf could stir her.

  A wilting, dying rose

  would make her write, both day and night,

  the most rewarding prose.

  She'd find a hidden meaning

  in every pair of pants,

  then hurry home to be alone

  and write about romance.

  Caged Bird

  A free bird leaps

  on the back of the wind

  and floats downstream

  till the current ends

  and dips his wing

  in the orange sun rays

  and dares to claim the sky.

  But a bird that stalks

  down his narrow cage

  can seldom see through

  his bars of rage

  his wings are clipped and

  his feet are tied

  so he opens his throat to sing.

  The caged bird sings

  with a fearful trill

  of things unknown

  but longed for still

  and his tune is heard

  on the distant hill

  for the caged bird

  sings of freedom.

  The free bird thinks of another breeze

  and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

  and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

  and he names the sky his own.

  But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

  his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

  his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

  so he opens his throat to sing.

  The caged bird sings

  with a fearful trill

  of things unknown

  but longed for still

  and his tune is heard

  on the distant hill

  for the caged bird

  sings of freedom.

  Avec Merciy Mother

  From her perch of beauty

  posing lofty,

  Sustained upon the plaudits

  of the crowd,

  She praises all who kneel and

  whispers softly,

  “A genuflection's better

  with head bowed.”

  Among the mass of people

  who adore her

  A solitary figure

  holds her eyes.

  His salty tears invoke

  her sweet reaction,

  “He's so much like his daddy

  when he cries.”

  Arrival

  Angels gather.

  The rush of mad air

  cyclones through.

  Wing tips brush the

  hair, a million

  strands

  stand; waving black anemones.

  Hosannahs crush the

  shell's ear tender, and

  tremble

  down clattering

  to the floor.

  Harps sound,

  undulate their

  sensuous meanings.

  Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

  You

  beyond the door.

  A Plagued Journey

  There is no warning rattle at the door

  nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards.

  Safe in the dark prison, I know that

  light slides over

  the fingered work of a toothless

  woman in Pakistan.

  Happy prints of

  an invisible time are illumined.

  My mouth agape

  rejects the solid air and

  lungs hold. The invader takes

  direction and

  seeps through the plaster walls.

  It is at my chamber, entering

  the keyhole, pushing

  through the padding of the door.

  I cannot scream. A bone

  of fear clogs my throat.

  It is upon me. It is

  sunrise, with Hope

  its arrogant rider.

  My mind, formerly quiescent

  in its snug encasement, is strained

  to look upon their rapturous visages,

  to let them enter even into me.

  I am forced

  outside myself to

  mount the light and ride joined with Hope. Through all the bright hours

  I cling to expectation, until

  darkness comes to reclaim me

  as its own. Hope fades, day is gone

  into its irredeemable place

  and I am thrown back into the familiar

  bonds of disconsolation.

  Gloom crawls around

  lapping lasciviously

  between my toes, at my ankles,

  and it sucks the strands of my

  hair. It forgives my heady


  fling with Hope. I am

  joined again into its

  greedy arms.

  Starvation

  Hurray! Hurry!

  Come through the keyhole.

  Don't mind the rotting

  sashes, pass into the windows.

  Come, good news.

  I'm holding my apron

  to catch your plumpness.

  The largest pot shines

  with happiness. The slack

  walls of my purse, pulsing

  pudenda, await you with

  a new bride's longing.

  The bread bin gapes and

  the oven holds its cold

  breath.

  Hurry up! Hurry down!

  Good tidings. Don't wait

  out my misery. Do not play

  coy with my longing.

  Hunger has grown old and

  ugly with me. We hate from

  too much knowing. Come.

  Press out this sour beast which

  fills the bellies of my children

  and laughs at each eviction notice.

  Come!

  Contemporary Announcement

  Ring the big bells,

  cook the cow,

  put on your silver locket.

  The landlord is knocking at the door

  and I've got the rent in my pocket.

  Douse the lights,

  hold your breath,

  take my heart in your hand.

  I lost my job two weeks ago

  and rent day's here again.

  Prelude to a Parting

  Beside you, prone,

  my naked skin finds

  fault in touching.

  Yet it is you

  who draws away.

  The tacit fact is:

  the awful fear of losing

  is not enough to cause

  a fleeing love

  to stay.

  Martial Choreograph

  Hello, young sailor.

  You are betrayed and

  do not know the dance of death.

  Dandy warrior, swaying to

  Rick James on your

  stereo, you do not hear the

  bleat of triumphant war, its

  roar is not in

  your ears, filled with Stevie Wonder.

  “Show me how to do like you.

  Show me how to do it.”

  You will be surprised that

  trees grunt when torn from

  their root sockets to fandango into dust,

  and exploding bombs force a lively Lindy

  on grasses and frail bodies.

  Go galloping on, bopping,

  in the airport, young sailor.

  Your body, virgin

  still, has not swung the bloody buck-and-wing.

  Manhood is a newly delivered

  message. Your eyes,

  rampant as an open city,

  have not yet seen life steal from

  limbs outstretched and trembling

  like the arms of dancers

  and dying swans.

  To a Suitor

  If you are Black and for me,

  press steady, as the weight

  of night. And I will show

  cascades of brilliance, astrally.

  If you are Black and constant,

  descend importantly,

  as ritual, and I will arch

  a crescent moon, naturally.

  Insomniac

  There are some nights when

  sleep plays coy,

  aloof and disdainful.

  And all the wiles

  that I employ to win

  its service to my side

  are useless as wounded pride,

  and much more painful.

  Weekend Glory

  Some dichty folks

  don't know the facts,

  posin’ and preenin’

  and puttin’ on acts,

  stretchin’ their necks

  and strainin’ their backs.

  They move into condos

  up over the ranks,

  pawn their souls

  to the local banks.

  Buyin’ big cars

  they can't afford,

  ridin’ around town

  actin’ bored.

  If they want to learn how to live life right,

  they ought to study me on Saturday night.

  My job at the plant

  ain't the biggest bet,

  but I pay my bills

  and stay out of debt.

  I get my hair done

  for my own self s sake,

  so I don't have to pick

  and I don't have to rake.

  Take the church money out

  and head cross town

  to my friend girl's house

  where we plan our round.

  We meet our men and go to a joint

  where the music is blues

  and to the point.

  Folks write about me.

  They just can't see

  how I work all week

  at the factory.

  Then get spruced up

  and laugh and dance

  and turn away from worry

  with sassy glance.

  They accuse me of livin

  ‘ from day to day,

  but who are they kiddin'?

  So are they.

  My life ain't heaven

  but it sure ain't hell.

  I'm not on top

  but I call it swell

  if I'm able to work

  and get paid right

  and have the luck to be Black

  on a Saturday night.

  The Lie

  Today, you threaten to leave me.

  I hold curses, in my mouth,

  which could flood your path, sear

  bottomless chasms in your road.

  I keep, behind my lips,

  invectives capable of tearing

  the septum from your

  nostrils and the skin from your back.

  Tears, copious as a spring rain,

  are checked in ducts

  and screams are crowded in a corner

  of my throat.

  You are leaving?

  Aloud, I say:

  I'll help you pack, but it's getting late,

  I have to hurry or miss my date.

  When I return, I know you'll be gone.

  Do drop a line or telephone.

  Prescience

  Had I known that the heart

  breaks slowly, dismantling itself

  into unrecognizable plots of

  misery,

  Had I known the heart would leak,

  slobbering its sap, with a vulgar

  visibility, into the dressed-up

  dining rooms of strangers,

  Had I known that solitude could

  stifle the breath, loosen the joint,

  and force the tongue against the

  palate,

  Had I known that loneliness could

  keloid, winding itself around

  the body in an ominous and beautiful

  cicatrix,

  Had I known, yet I would have loved

  you, your brash and insolent beauty,

  your heavy comedic face

  and knowledge of sweet

  delights,

  But from a distance.

  I would have left you whole and wholly

  for the delectation of those who

  wanted more and cared less.

  Family Affairs

  You let down, from arched

  Windows,

  Over hand-cut stones of your

  Cathedrals, seas of golden hair.

  While I, pulled by dusty braids,

  Left furrows in the

  Sands of African beaches.

  Princes and commoners

  Climbed over waves to reach

  Your vaulted boudoirs,

  As the sun, capriciously,

&nbs
p; Struck silver fire from waiting

  Chains, where I was bound.

  My screams never reached

  The rare tower where you

  Lay, birthing masters for

  My sons, and for my

  Daughters, a swarm of

  Unclean badgers, to consume

  Their history.

  Tired now of pedestal existence

  For fear of flying

  And vertigo, you descend

  And step lightly over My centuries of horror

  And take my hand,

  Smiling, call me

  Sister.

  Sister, accept

  That I must wait a

  While. Allow an age

  Ofdusttofill

  Ruts left on my

  Beach in Africa.

  Changes

  Fickle comfort steals away

  What it knows

  It will not say

  What it can

  It will not do

  It flies from me

  To humor you.

  Capricious peace will not bind

  The severed nerves

  The jagged mind

  The shattered dream

  The loveless sleep

  It frolics now

  Within your keep.

  Confidence, that popinjay,

  Is planning now

  To slip away

  Look fast

  It's fading rapidly

  Tomorrow it returns to me.

  Brief Innocence

  Dawn offers

  innocence to a half-mad city.

  The axe-keen

  intent of all our

  days for this brief

  moment lies soft, nuzzling