THE ESSENTIAL ETHERIDGE KNIGHT

ETHERIDGE KNIGHT

University of Pittsburgh Press

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa. 15260
Copyright © 1986, Etheridge Knight
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Printed on acid-free paper
10 9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Knight, Etheridge.
  The essential Etheridge Knight

  (Pitt poetry series)
  I. Title. II. Series.
PS3561.N45A6   1986   811'.54   86-6989
ISBN 0-8229-3529-5
ISBN 0-8229-5378-1 (pbk.)

Most of these poems have been previously published under the title Born of a Woman (Houghton Mifflin, 1980), and others have appeared in Poetry East, The American Poetry Review, Hanging Loose, The Mickle Street Review, and The Painted Bride Quarterly. “Circling the Daughter” was first published as a broadside by Slash and Burn Press, Philadelphia.

I thank and acknowledge my editor, Ed Ochester, for his ideas and guidance; I thank Lynne Walker, and the poets of the Toledo Poetry Center for support and encouragement; I thank Deta (Salome) Galloway, whose love and support was, and is, a Delight and a Dilemma; thanks to Doug Margolis for typing and suggesting, and for fighting the racism in South Africa; thanks to the Reverend Gerald Cunningham, a Fellow Traveler, for supporting me in too many ways to list; and finally, my thanks—all praises due—to Elizabeth Gordon McKim for the Light of her Love, and for her tidal toleration.

ISBN-13: 978-0-8229-9109-0 (electronic)

The publication of this book is supported by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts in Washington, D.C., a Federal agency, and the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.

Dedicated to my family

my mother, Mrs. Belzora Knight Taylor;
my brother, Sgt. Floyd Knight (U.S. Army, retired);
my sisters, Clyneese Knight Bennett, Eunice Knight Bowens, and Janice Juanita Knight

And to the memory of

my father, BuShie; my brother, Charles;
and my sister, Lois Ivy Knight

GENESIS

the skin

of my poems

May be green, yes,

and sometimes

wrinkled

or worn

the snake shape

of my song

may cause

the heel

of Adam & Eve

to bleed…

split my skin

with the rock

of love old

as the rock

of Moses

my poems

love you

1

HARD ROCK RETURNS TO PRISON FROM THE HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINAL INSANE

Hard Rock / was / “known not to take no shit

From nobody,” and he had the scars to prove it:

Split purple lips, lumbed ears, welts above

His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut

Across his temple and plowed through a thick

Canopy of kinky hair.

The WORD / was / that Hard Rock wasn't a mean nigger

Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head,

Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity

Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back,

Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose,

Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status.

And we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep,

To see if the WORD was true.

As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak

Of his exploits: “Man, the last time, it took eight

Screws to put him in the Hole.” “Yeah, remember when he

Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?” “He set

The record for time in the Hole—67 straight days!”

“Ol Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy nigger.”

And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had once bit

A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit.

The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was really tame.

A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch

And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock

From before shook him down and barked in his face.

And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and looked silly,

His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.

And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock

Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name,

We told ourselves that he had just wised up,

Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long,

And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed.

He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things

We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do,

The fears of years, like a biting whip,

Had cut deep bloody grooves

Across our backs.

CELL SONG

Night    Music    Slanted

Light strike the cave

of sleep. I alone

tread the red circle

and twist the space

with speech.

Come now, etheridge, don't

be a savior; take

your words and scrape

the sky, shake rain

on the desert, sprinkle

salt on the tail

of a girl,

can there anything

good come out of

prison

HE SEES THROUGH STONE

He sees through stone

he has the secret eyes

this old black one

who under prison skies

sits pressed by the sun

against the western wall

his pipe between purple gums

the years fall

like overripe plums

bursting red flesh

on the dark earth

his time is not my time

but I have known him

in a time gone

he led me trembling cold

into the dark forest

taught me the secret rites

to make it with a woman

to be true to my brothers

to make my spear drink

the blood of my enemies

now black cats circle him

flash white teeth

snarl at the air

mashing green grass beneath

shining muscles

ears peeling his words

he smiles

he knows

the hunt the enemy

he has the secret eyes

he sees through stone

THE IDEA OF ANCESTRY

1

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black

faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-

fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,

cousins (1st & 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare

across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know

their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,

they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;

they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.

I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,

1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),

and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece

(she sends me letters written in large block print, and

her picture is the only one that smiles at me).

I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,

and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took

off and caught a freight (they say). He's discussed each year

when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in

the clan, he is an empty space. My father's mother, who is 93

and who keeps the Family Bible with everybody's birth dates

(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no

place in her Bible for “whereabouts unknown.”

2

Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown

hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric

messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr / like a salmon quitting

the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birthstream / I

hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my pocket and a

monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.

I walked barefooted in my grandmother's backyard / I smelled the old

land and the woods / I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men /

I flirted with the women / I had a ball till the caps ran out

and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother

and split / my guts were screaming for junk / but I was almost

contented / I had almost caught up with me.

(The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker's crib for a fix.)

This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when

the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk

and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them,

they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children

to float in the space between.

ON THE YARD

A slim

young fascist

fresh from the Hole

slid into me

murdered me

with his eyes

and said, “Man,

why ain't you

doing something?”

All night

I sat up

All night

wrote 5,000 words

explaining how

I

was doing something

but the slim cat—

beautiful fascist

didn't buy

it—nor

did I

completely.

A WASP WOMAN VISITS A BLACK JUNKIE IN PRISON

After explanations and regulations, he

Walked warily in.

Black hair covered his chin, subscribing to

Villainous ideal.

“This can not be real,” he thought, “this is a

Classical mistake;

This is a cake baked with embarrassing icing;

Somebody's got

Likely as not, a big fat tongue in cheek!

What have I to do

With a prim and proper-blooded lady?”

Christ in deed has risen

When a Junkie in prison visits with a Wasp woman.

“Hold your stupid face, man,

Learn a little grace, man; drop a notch the sacred shield.

She might have good reason,

Like: ‘I was in prison and ye visited me not,’ or—some such.

So sweep clear

Anachronistic fear, fight the fog,

And use no hot words.”

After the seating

And the greeting, they fished for a denominator,

Common or uncommon;

And could only summon up the fact that both were human.

“Be at ease, man!

Try to please, man!—the lady is as lost as you:

‘You got children, Ma'am?’” he said aloud.

The thrust broke the dam, and their lines wiggled in the water.

She offered no pills

To cure his many ills, no compact sermons, but small

And funny talk:

“My baby began to walk…simply cannot keep his room clean…”

Her chatter sparked no resurrection and truly

No shackles were shaken

But after she had taken her leave, he walked softly,

And for hours used no hot words.

HAIKU

1

Eastern guard tower

glints in sunset; convicts rest

like lizards on rocks.

2

The piano man

is stingy at 3 A.M.

his songs drop like plum.

3

Morning sun slants cell.

Drunks stagger like cripple flies

On jailhouse floor.

4

To write a blues song

is to regiment riots

and pluck gems from graves.

5

A bare pecan tree

slips a pencil shadow down

a moonlit snow slope.

6

The falling snow flakes

Cannot blunt the hard aches nor

Match the steel stillness.

7

Under moon shadows

A tall boy flashes knife and

Slices star bright ice.

8

In the August grass

Struck by the last rays of sun

The cracked teacup screams.

9

Making jazz swing in

Seventeen syllables AIN'T

No square poet's job.

FOR FRECKLE-FACED GERALD

Now you take ol Rufus. He beat drums,

was free and funky under the arms,

fucked white girls, jumped off a bridge

(and thought nothing of the sacrilege),

he copped out—and he was over twenty-one.

Take Gerald. Sixteen years hadn't even done

a good job on his voice. He didn't even know

how to talk tough, or how to hide the glow

of life before he was thrown in as “pigmeat”

for the buzzards to eat.

Gerald, who had no memory or hope of copper hot lips—

of firm upthrusting thighs

to reinforce his flow,

let tall walls and buzzards change the course

of his river from south to north.

(No safety in numbers, like back on the block:

two's aplenty. three? definitely not.

four? “you're all muslims.”

five? “you were planning a race riot.”

plus, Gerald could never quite win

with his precise speech and innocent grin

the trust and fists of the young black cats.)

Gerald, sun-kissed ten thousand times on the nose

and cheeks, didn't stand a chance,

didn't even know that the loss of his balls

had been plotted years in advance

by wiser and bigger buzzards than those

who now hover above his track

and at night light upon his back.

THE WARDEN SAID TO ME THE OTHER DAY

The warden said to me the other day

(innocently, I think), “Say, etheridge,

why come the black boys don't run off

like the white boys do?”

I lowered my jaw and scratched my head

and said (innocently, I think), “Well, suh,

I ain't for sure, but I reckon it's ’cause

we ain't got nowheres to run to.”

MY LIFE, THE QUALITY OF WHICH

My life, the quality of which

From the moment

My Father grunted and comed

Until now

As the sounds of my words

Bruise your ears

IS

and can be felt

In the one word: DESPERATION

But you have to feel for it

Jefferson, Missouri
June 9,1972

A POEM FOR BLACK RELOCATION CENTERS

Flukum couldn't stand the strain. Flukum

wanted inner and outer order, so

he joined the army where U.S. Manuals made

everything plain—even how to button his shirt,

and how to kill yellow men. (If Flukum

ever felt hurt or doubt about who his enemy

was, the Troop Information Officer or the Stars

and Stripes straightened him out.)

And, we must not forget

that Flukum was paid well to let the Red

Blood. And sin? If Flukum ever thought about sin

or Hell for squashing the yellow men, the good Chaplain

(Holy by God and by Congress) pointed out with

Devilish skill that to kill the colored men was not

altogether a sin.

Flukum marched back from the war, straight and tall,

and with presents for all: a water pipe for daddy,

teeny teacups for mama, sheer silk for tittee, and

a jade inlaid dagger for me. But, with a smile

on his face in a place just across the bay,

Flukum, the patriot, got shot that same day,

got shot in his great wide chest, bedecked with good

conduct ribbons. He died surprised, he had thought

the enemy far away on the other side of the sea.

2

YOU ARE

—for E.C. A.

You are a Sunrise

And a bright Star

And the Light that Lingers

in the middle of my Lake.

THE VIOLENT SPACE (or when your sister sleeps around for money)

Exchange in greed the ungraceful signs. Thrust

The thick notes between green apple breasts.

Then the shadow of the devil descends,

The violent space cries and angel eyes,

Large and dark, retreat in innocence and in ice.

(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)

The violent space cries silently,

Like you cried wide years ago

In another space, speckled by the sun

And the leaves of a green plum tree,

And you were stung

By a red wasp and we flew home.

(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)

Well, hell, lil sis, wasps still sting.

You are all of seventeen and as alone now

In your pain as you were with the sting

On your brow.

Well, shit, lil sis, here we are:

You and I and this poem.

And what should I do? should I squat

In the dust and make strange markings on the ground?

Shall I chant a spell to drive the demon away?

(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)

In the beginning you were the Virgin Mary,

And you are the Virgin Mary now.

But somewhere between Nazareth and Bethlehem

You lost your name in the nameless void.

“O Mary don't you weep don't you moan”

O Mary shake your butt to the violent juke,

Absorb the demon puke and watch the white eyes pop,

(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)

And what do I do. I boil my tears in a twisted spoon

And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.

I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.

I am not bold. I cannot yet take hold of the demon

And lift his weight from you black belly,

So I grab the air and sing my song.

(But the air cannot stand my singing long.)

A POEM FOR A CERTAIN LADY ON HER 33rd BIRTHDAY

Who are we, S. S.,

to ride the curves of air

or to worry about the waning moon?

The mountains will not tremble

and the sea will not give up her dead.

Time is now, said the African Poet.

Unfelt as our touch

across these seasons

unending as the circle

of our dead fathers and unborn sons—

the rise and fall of our laughter—

the measure of our steps

as we move to each other.

Years are the strips of tinsel

hanging on hunky brains

Our time is the constant blooming

of our love.

THE STRETCHING OF THE BELLY

—for Charlene Blackburn

Marks / of the mother are

Your / self

Stretching

Reaching

For life

For love

Markings are / not to / be mocked

Markings are medicants

Markings / are / signs

Along the hi / way

Scars are / not

Marking scars do / not / come from stars

Or the moon Scars come from wars

From war / men who plunge

Like a bayonet into the gut

Or like a blackjack against the skull

Or prick

Like the end of a safety pin

Scars are stripes of slavery

Like my back

Not your belly

Which / is bright

And bringing forth

Making / music

AS YOU LEAVE ME

Shiny record albums scattered over

the living room floor, reflecting light

from the lamp, sharp reflections that hurt

my eyes as I watch you, squatting among the platters,

the beer foam making mustaches on your lips.

And, too,

the shadows on your cheeks from your long lashes

fascinate me—almost as much as the dimples

in your cheeks, your arms, and your legs.

You

hum along with Mathis—how you love Mathis!

with his burnished hair and quicksilver voice that dances

among the stars and whirls through canyons

like windblown snow, sometimes I think that Mathis

could take you from me if you could be complete

without me. I glance at my watch. It is now time.

You rise,

silently, and to the bedroom and the paint;

on the lips red, on the eyes black,

and I lean in the doorway and smoke, and see you

grow old before my eyes, and smoke. why do you

chatter while you dress? and smile when you grab

your large leather purse? don't you know that when you

leave me I walk to the window and watch you? and light

a reefer as I watch you? and I die as I watch you

disappear in the dark streets

to whistle and smile at the johns.

NO MOON FLOODS THE MEMORY OF THAT NIGHT

No moon floods the memory of that night

only the rain I remember the cold rain

against our faces and mixing with your tears

only the rain I remember the cold rain

and your mouth soft and warm

no moon no stars no jagged pain

of lightning only my impotent tongue

and the red rage within my brain

knowing that the chilling rain was our forever

even as I tried to explain:

“A revolutionary is a doomed man

with no certainties but love and history.”

“But our children must grow up with certainties

and they will make the revolution.”

“By example we must show the way so plain

that our children can go neither right

nor left but straight to freedom.”

“No,” you said. And you left.

No moon floods the memory of that night

only the rain I remember the cold rain

and praying that like the rain

returns to the sky you would return to me again.

UPON YOUR LEAVING

—for Sonia

Night

and in the warm blackness

your woman smell filled the room

and our rivers flowed together. became one

my love's patterns. our sweat / drenched bellies

made flat cracks as we kissed

like sea waves lapping against the shore

rocks rising and rolling and sliding back.

And

your sighs softly calling my name

became love songs child / woman songs

old as a thousand years new as the few

smiles you released like sacred doves. and I

fell asleep, ashamed of my glow of my halo, and

ignoring them who waited below

to take you away when the sun rose…

Day

and the sunlight playing in the green leaves

above us fell across your face traced the tears

in your eyes and love patterns in the wet grass.

and as they waited inside in triumphant patience

to take you away I begged you to stay.

“but, etheridge,” you said, “i don't know what to do.”

and the love patterns shifted and shimmered in your eyes.

And

after they had taken you and gone, the day

turned stark white. bleak. barren like

the nordic landscape. I turned and entered

into the empty house and fell on the floor

laughing. trying to fill the spaces your love had left.

knowing that we would not remain apart long.

our rivers had flowed together.

we are one.

and are strong.

FEELING FUCKED UP

Lord she's gone done left me done packed / up and split

and I with no way to make her

come back and everywhere the world is bare

bright bone white crystal sand glistens

dope death dead dying and jiving drove

her away made her take her laughter and her smiles

and her softness and her midnight sighs—

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky

fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds

and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth

fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and

democracy and communism fuck smack and pot

and red ripe tomatoes fuck Joseph fuck mary fuck

god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon

and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck

the whole muthafucking thing

all i want now is my woman back

so my soul can sing

INDIANA HAIKU—2

Vigo County

Beyond the brown hill

Above the silent cedars,

Blackbirds flee April rains.

The Penal Farm

The wire fence is tall.

The lights in the prison barracks

Flick off, one by one.

Crown Hill Cemetery, Indianapolis

A black and white dog

Sniffs gravestone to gravestone:

Pees on Hoosier Poet.

Indianapolis War Memorial

Young boys play in pairs,

Touch the War weapons: tanks, guns,

Dreaming blood and Death.

Harlem

Streetwalking woman,

Leaning in Harlem Hallway:

Sister of my soul!

FOR LANGSTON HUGHES

    Gone                                       Gone

    Another weaver of black dreams has gone

we sat in June Bug's pad with the shades drawn

and the air thick with holy smoke. and we heard

the Lady sing Langston before we knew his name.

and when Black Bodies stopped swinging June

But, TG and I went out and swung on some white cats.

now I don't think the Mythmaker meant for us to do that

but we didn't know what else to do.

    Gone                                       Gone

    Another weaver of black dreams has gone

WELCOME BACK, MR. KNIGHT: LOVE OF MY LIFE

Welcome back, Mr. K: Love of My Life—

How's your drinking problem?—your thinking

Problem? you / are / pickling

Your liver—

Gotta / watch / out for the

“Ol Liver”: Love of My Life.

How's your dope

Problem?—your marijuana, methadone, and cocaine

Problem / too?—your lustful problem—

How's your weight problem—your eating problem?

How's your lying and cheating and

Staying out all / night long problem?

Welcome back, Mr. K: Love of My Life

How's your pocket / book problem?—your / being

broke problem? you still owe and borrowing mo'

25 dollar problems from other / po / poets?

Welcome back, Mr. K: Love of My Life.

How's your ex-convict problem?—your John Birch

Problem?—your preacher problem?—your fat

Priests sitting in your / chair, saying

How racist and sexist they / will / forever / be

Problem?—How's your Daniel Moynihan

Problem?—your crime in the streets, runaway

Daddy, Black men with dark shades

And bulging crotches problem?

How's your nixon-agnew—j. edgar hoover

Problem?—you still paranoid? still schizoid?—

Still scared shitless?

How's your bullet-thru-the-brain problem?—or

A needle-in-your-arm problem?

Welcome back, Mr. K:—Love of My Life.

You gotta watch / out for the “Ol Liver.”

How's your pussy

Problem?—lady-on-top—

smiling like God, titty-in-your-mouth

Problem? Welcome back, Mr. K:

Love of My Life. How's your peace

Problem?—your no / mo' war

Problem—your heart problem—your belly / problem?—

You gotta watch / out for the “Ol Liver.”

ANOTHER POEM FOR ME (after Recovering from an O.D.)

what now

what now dumb nigger damn near dead

what now

now that you won't dance

behind the pale white doors of death

what now is to be

to be what you wanna be

or what white / america wants you to be

a lame crawling from nickel bag to nickel bag

be black brother / man be black

and blooming in the night

be black like your fat brother

sweating and straining to hold you

as you struggle against the straps

be black                   be black like

your woman           her painted face floating

above you                her hands sliding

                                 under the sheets

to take yours           be black like

your mamma sitting in a quiet corner

praying to a white / jesus to save her black boy

what now dumb nigger damn near dead

where is the correctness

the proper posture

the serious love of living

now that death has fled these quiet corridors

THE BONES OF MY FATHER

1

There are no dry bones

here in this valley. The skull

of my father grins

at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie,

the bones of my father

are buried in the mud

of these creeks and brooks that twist

and flow their secrets to the sea.

but the wind sings to me

here the sun speaks to me

of the dry bones of my father.

2

There are no dry bones

in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys

young / black / men with knees bent

nod on the stoops of the tenements

and dream

of the dry bones of my father.

And young white longhairs who flee

their homes, and bend their minds

and sing their songs of brotherhood

and no more wars are searching for

my father's bones.

3

There are no dry bones here.

We hide from the sun.

No more do we take the long straight strides.

Our steps have been shaped by the cages

that kept us. We glide sideways

like crabs across the sand.

We perch on green lilies, we search

beneath white rocks…

THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE

The skull of my father

grins at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie.

Connecticut
February 21, 1971

EVOLUTIONARY POEM NO. 1

I ain't got nobody

that I can depend on

                            ’cept myself

Etheridge Knight
New York City
August 1972

EVOLUTIONARY POEM NO. 2

We ain't got nobody

that we can depend on

                            ’cept ourselves.

Etheridge Knight
Memphis, Tennessee
September 1979

3

A POEM FOR MYSELF (or Blues for a Mississippi Black Boy)

I was born in Mississippi;

I walked barefooted thru the mud.

Born black in Mississippi,

Walked barefooted thru the mud.

But, when I reached the age of twelve

I left that place for good.

Said my daddy chopped cotton

And he drank his liquor straight.

When I left that Sunday morning

He was leaning on the barnyard gate.

Left her standing in the yard

With the sun shining in her eyes.

And I headed North

As straight as the Wild Goose Flies,

I been to Detroit & Chicago

Been to New York city too.

I been to Detroit & Chicago

Been to New York city too.

Said I done strolled all those funky avenues

I'm still the same old black boy with the same old blues.

Going back to Mississippi

This time to stay for good

Going back to Mississippi

This time to stay for good—

Gonna be free in Mississippi

Or dead in the Mississippi mud.

REPORT TO THE MOTHER

Well, things / be / pretty bad now, Mother—

Got very little to eat.

The kids got no shoes for their tiny feet.

Been fighting with my woman, and one / other

Woe:—Ain't got a cent to pay the rent.

Been oiling / up / my pistol too—

Tho I / be / down with the flu,

So what / are / You going to do…?

O Mother don't sing me

To the Father to fix / it—

He will blow-it. He fails

                         and kills

His sons—and / you / know it.

THE SUN CAME

And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
              —Gwen Brooks

The sun came, Miss Brooks,—

After all the night years.

He came spitting fire from his lips.

And we flipped—We goofed the whole thing.

It looks like our ears were not equipped

For the fierce hammering.

And now the Sun has gone, has bled red,

Weeping behind the hills.

Again the night shadows form.

But beneath the placid face a storm rages.

The rays of Red have pierced the deep, have struck

The core. We cannot sleep.

The shadows sing: Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm.

The darkness ain't like before.

The Sun came, Miss Brooks.

And we goofed the whole thing.

I think.

(Though ain't no vision visited my cell.)

IT WAS A FUNKY DEAL

It was a funky deal.

The only thing real was red,

Red blood around his red, red beard.

It was a funky deal.

In the beginning was the word,

And in the end the deed.

Judas did it to Jesus

For the same Herd. Same reason.

You made them mad, Malcolm. Same reason.

It was a funky deal.

You rocked too many boats, man.

Pulled too many coats, man.

Saw through the jive.

You reached the wild guys

Like me. You and Bird. (And that

Lil LeRoi cat.)

It was a funky deal.

DARK PROPHECY: I SING OF SHINE

And, yeah, brothers

while white / america sings about the unsink-

able molly brown

(who was hustling the titanic

when it went down)

I sing to thee of Shine

the stoker who was hip enough to flee the fucking ship

and let the white folks drown

with screams on their lips

(jumped his black ass into the dark sea, Shine did,

broke free from the straining steel).

Yeah, I sing to thee of Shine

and how the millionaire banker stood on the deck

and pulled from his pockets a million dollar check

saying Shine Shine save poor me

and I'll give you all the money a black boy needs—

how Shine looked at the money and then at the sea

and said jump in mothafucka and swim like me—

And Shine swam on—Shine swam on—

and how the banker's daughter ran naked on the deck

with her pink tits trembling and her pants roun her neck

screaming Shine Shine save poor me

and I'll give you all the pussy a black boy needs—

how Shine said now pussy is good and that's no jive

but you got to swim not fuck to stay alive—

And Shine swam on Shine swam on—

How Shine swam past a preacher afloating on a board

crying save me nigger Shine in the name of the Lord—

and how the preacher grabbed Shine's arm and broke his stroke—

how Shine pulled his shank and cut the preacher's throat—

And Shine swam on—Shine swam on—

And when the news hit shore that the titanic had sunk

Shine was up in Harlem damn near drunk

FOR MALCOLM, A YEAR AFTER

Compose for Red a proper verse;

Adhere to foot and strict iamb;

Control the burst of angry words

Or they might boil and break the dam.

Or they might boil and overflow

And drench me, drown me, drive me mad.

So swear no oath, so shed no tear,

And sing no song blue Baptist sad.

Evoke no image, stir no flame,

And spin no yarn across the air.

Make empty anglo tea lace words—

Make them dead white and dry bone bare.

Compose a verse for Malcolm man,

And make it rime and make it prim.

The verse will die—as all men do—

But not the memory of him!

Death might come singing sweet like C,

Or knocking like the old folk say,

The moon and stars may pass away,

But not the anger of that day.

A POEM OF ATTRITION

I do not know if the color of the day

Was blue, pink, green, or August red.

I only know it was summer, a Thursday,

And the trestle above our heads

Sliced the sun into black and gold bars

That fell across our shiny backs

And shimmered like flat snakes on the water,

Worried by the swans, shrieks, jackknives,

And timid gainers—made bolder

As the day grew older.

Then Pooky Dee, naked chieftain, poised,

Feet gripping the black ribs of wood,

Knees bent, butt out, long arms

Looping the air, challenged

The great “two ’n’ a half” gainer…

I have forgotten the sound of his capped

Skull as it struck the block…

The plop of a book dropped? The tear of a sheer blouse?

I do not know if the color of the day

Was blue, pink, green, or August red.

I only know the blood slithered, and

Our silence rolled like oil

Across the wide green water.

FOR BLACK POETS WHO THINK OF SUICIDE

Black Poets should live—not leap

From steel bridges (like the white boys do).

Black Poets should live—not lay

Their necks on railroad tracks (like the white boys do).

Black Poets should seek—but not search too much

In sweet dark caves, nor hunt for snipe

Down psychic trails (like the white boys do).

For Black Poets belong to Black People. Are

The Flutes of Black Lovers. Are

The Organs of Black Sorrows. Are

The Trumpets of Black Warriors.

Let All Black Poets die as Trumpets,

And be buried in the dust of marching feet.

FOR MARY ELLEN McANALLY

Who is a white / woman / and

a perfect poem

and a song

pulse of love

world of wonders

and the warm black earth

falling thru my fingers

THE KEEPING OF A PROMISE

—for Charlene Blackburn

There / is / no moon tonight

No soft round globe to light

A golden path for me.

You have snatched our sun(s)

And flown outta sight. Like

A ship will sink

At the edge of the sea.

I / am / left alone to think,

And see Karl's football

Still rocking on the porch,

And Zack's diapers all

Funky with piss.

I feel and smell this—

Along with the talcum from your blouse

That you left in your sudden lurch

From this house.

ILU, THE TALKING DRUM

The deadness was threatening us—15 Nigerians and 1 Mississippi nigger.

It hung heavily, like stones around our necks, pulling us down

to the ground, black arms and legs outflung

on the wide green lawn of the big white house

The deadness was threatening us, the day

was dying with the sun, the stillness—

unlike the sweet silence after love / making or

the pulsating quietness of a summer night—

the stillness was skinny and brittle and wrinkled

by the precise people sitting on the wide white porch

of the big white house…

The darkness was threatening us, menacing…

we twisted, turned, shifted positions, picked our noses,

stared at our bare toes, hissed air thru our teeth…

Then Tunji, green robes flowing as he rose,

strapped on Ilu, the talking drum,

and began:

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

the heart, the heart beats, the heart, the heart beats slow

the heart beats slowly, the heart beats

the blood flows slowly, the blood flows

the blood, the blood flows, the blood, the blood flows slow

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

and the day opened to the sound

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

and our feet moved to the sound of life

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

and we rode the rhythms as one

from Nigeria to Mississippi

and back

kah doom / kah doom-doom / kah doom / kah doom-doom-doom

POEM FOR THE LIBERATION OF SOUTHERN AFRICA

have danced in ecstasy

(That's all—all I got

But for Love)

That leaps and sings across the sea

To the cell of Nelson Mandela

Sitting with his / own / self on Robbins Island

That precious prison of South Africa,

While Nelson Rockefeller is hailing fellows

for burying bones in the prison moonlight of Attica—

(That's all—all

but for Love)

And Time and drums

Beating Black feet beating

The dust. Dancing. Memories

Like fire. Dancing. Feet

Dangling from a lynching tree

In liberated Mississippi—

(That's all—all

But for Love)

And white mission / aries becoming “revolution / aries”

And hiding their crosses

Between their legs—

They huddle in circles then hurry away

To demon / strate

(And sing your wet eyes O Mother Africa.)

“Leaflet the banks.”

“Down with the krugerrand.”

“March on the embassies.”

“No U.S. Troops in Africa.”

“Give ‘em some white / pussy—

That's all them Africans want, anyways…”

That's all—all

(But for Love)

And an ocean of us

Rising, reaching

Cause.—Cause? Yeah, Cause—'cause

I'm so busy

Pulling Charlie's foot outta / my / own / ass

And no job

And no land at / all

That's all.—All

I got—(But for Love.)

TELEVISION SPEAKS

Television speaks:

“Blacks die on Soweto Streets!”

On Cape Cod, indolents

Buy “burgers” and sticky sweets!

ON WATCHING POLITICIANS PERFORM AT MARTIN LUTHER KING'S FUNERAL

Hypocrites shed tears

like shiny snake skins

words rolling

thru the southern air

the scent of flowers

mingles with Jack Daniels

and Cutty Sark

the last snake skin slithers

to the floor where

black baptist feet

have danced in ecstasy

they turn

away

to begin

again

manicured fingers shuffling

the same stacked deck

with the ante

raised

4

A FABLE

—for Etheridge Bombata and Mary Tandiwe

Once upon a today and yesterday and nevermore there were 7 men and women all locked / up in prison cells. Now these 7 men and women were innocent of any crimes; they were in prison because their skins were black. Day after day, the prisoners paced their cells, pining for their freedom. And the non-black jailers would laugh at the prisoners and beat them with sticks and throw their food on the floor. Finally, prisoner #1 said, “I will educate myself and emulate the non-colored people. That is the way to freedom—c'mon, you guys, and follow me.” “Hell, no,” said prisoner #2. “The only way to get free is to pray to my god and he will deliver you like he delivered Daniel from the lion's den, so unite and follow me.” “Bullshit,” said prisoner #3. “The only way / out is thru this tunnel i've been quietly digging, so c'mon, and follow me.” “Uh-uh,” said prisoner #4, “that's too risky. The only right / way is to follow all the rules and don't make the non-colored people angry, so c'mon brothers and sisters and unite behind me.” “Fuck you!” said prisoner #5. “The only way / out is to shoot our way out, if all of you get / together behind me.” “No,” said prisoner #6, “all of you are incorrect; you have not analyzed the political situation by my scientific method and historical meemeejeebee. All we have to do is wait long enough and the bars will bend from their own inner rot. That is the only way.” “All of you are crazy,” cried prisoner #7. “I'll get out by myself, by ratting on the rest of you to the non-colored people. That is the way, that is the only way!” “No-no,” they / all cried, “come and follow me. I have the / way, the only way to freedom.” And so they argued, and to this day they are still arguing; and to this day they are still in their prison cells, their stomachs / trembling with fear.

MEMO #9

doze o blk / capitalists

ain't shit,

the blk / poet sung,

as he hustled his books

for 10.95.

MEMO #32

JOE WILLIAMS is

a very definite

Person,

Black / face

and all.

MEMO #2

The Blood stepped

Off the curb and waved

for a taxi; he was cleaner

Than a broke / dick dog.

MEMO #5

—for A. M. P.

I do crazy things when

I'm away from you: like

putting a match in my mouth

and striking the cigarette.

PORTRAIT OF MARY

my wife sleeps

her left arm outflung

toward the wall

her hair on the pillow sleeps too.

sometimes she snores

and I kick her on the leg

she moans and backs

her butt to me.

i go to sleep

my hand cupping her breast.

MY UNCLE IS MY HONOR AND A GUEST IN MY HOUSE

—for Jim Cozart and Ezekiel Mphalele

1

In the center of the bloodvein

                 is a kinkiss

                 is a boiling

                 and a calling

of your name

in the nighttime.

From the corners

of the curtained rooms

and down the bone-filled alleys

where the bible

                 and the blade lay

like lovers

the shadows flee like common

thieves in the night

before the gold / bright teeth

of my Uncle

                 Who is my Honor

and a Guest in my House.

2

The fakes, the unforgivers,

the fear-feeders, and the CIA

deny the kinkiss

and sing the silly song

                 of “individualism”—

like gene autry riding / off / into the sunset

alone—

and point to the stones

falling from my tongue—

as I call out your name

                 in the nighttime

from the cave

crossed with spears

on whose walls are written:

“All peoples shit over two shoes

and put on their pants one leg at a time.”

3

In the center of the circle

stands my Uncle, legs apart

                 singing poems

                 to the short men

who squat in the shadows

and shake their fists

at the darkening sky.

I AND YOUR EYES

—for Mary McAnally

And I                     and your eyes

Draw round about a ring of gold

And sing their circle of sparks

And I                     and your eyes

Hold untold tales and conspire

With moon and sun to shake my soul.

And I                     and your eyes

If I could hold your hillside smile

Your seashore laughter   your lips

Then I

Could stand alone          the pain

Of flesh        alone           the time and space

And steel     alone           but I am shaken

It has taken                      your eyes

To move this stone.

ON THE BIRTH OF A BLACK / BABY / BOY

—for Isaac BuShie Blackburn-Knight

In Memphis—in Tennessee.

(O Come—and go / wid / meeee…)

In Memphis, in Tennessee—

In the year of (y) our Lord, 1978—

                      (and the christian / suicides in Guyana).

In the bubbles and the blood of Boss Crump's guilt—

In the blueness of the hospitality of his / hos / pi / tal—

In the sterile gowns, green and growing—

In Memphis, in Tennessee…

Where all women / are / whining Queens,

Where black walnuts drop like leaves,

Where all women / are / shining Queens—

Where / cops / act / much worse than thieves—

In Memphis, in Tennessee…

When / the blood of your birth / is / screaming forth

                                       like a fountain

                                                               from

                                       the white thighs of your mother—

When / her / hand / is tight on mine—

When I sink in / side her belly, and cling to / you—

When / short miles to the south the Ku Klux / Klan

                                       march like locusts over / this / land—

When mayors / like Moscone / are / shot-down, like

                                       Martin, Malcolm, and Medgar Evers—

When Jimmy Carter / tries / to stand where Martin stood

In Memphis, in Tennessee—And.

As the lady / medic / with her long black hair

                     taunts your mother: O push push push push—

As / my / belly / becomes a drum and my blood beseech thee—

As / my / heart / becomes a song and my eyes lakes of lightning.

As / your / mother grunts for 3 / days and groans for 3 / nights,

As / she issues you / forth on a Sunday night,

                                     (on a chilling, raining, sun / day / night)—

                                     and now.

As you lay warming in my arms, son—

                                     all I / can / say is:

You / be a loonngg time coming, boy—

But you're wel / come here.

November-December 1978

BIRTHDAY POEM

The sun rose today, and

The sun went down

Over the trees beyond the river;

No crashing thunder

Nor jagged lightning

Flashed my forty-four years across

The heavens. I am here.

I am alone. With the Indianapolis / News

Sitting, under this indiana sky

I lean against a gravestone and feel

The warm wine on my tongue.

My eyes move along the corridors

Of the stars, searching

For a sign, for a certainty

As definite as the cold concrete

Pressing against my back.

Still the stars mock

Me and the moon is my judge.

But only the moon.

'Cause I ain't screwed no thumbs

Nor dropped no bombs—

Tho my name is naughty to the ears of some

And I ain't revealed the secrets of my brothers

Tho my balls've / been pinched

And my back's / been / scarred—

And I ain't never stopped loving no / one

O I never stopped loving no / one

Indianapolis, Indiana
April 19, 1975

COP-OUT SESSION

I done shot dope, been to jail, swilled

wine, ripped off sisters, passed bad checks,

changed my name, howled at the moon,

wrote poems, turned

backover flips, flipped over backwards

(in other words)

I been confused, fucked up, scared, phony

and jive

to a whole / lot of people…

Haven't you?

          In one way or another?

Enybody else wanna cop-out?

A POEM TO GALWAY KINNELL

Saturday, April 26, 1973

Jefferson, Missouri 65101

(500 yards, as the crow flies,

from where I am writing you

this letter, lies the Missouri

State Prison—it lies, the prison,

like an overfed bear alongside

the raging missouri river—

the pale prison, out of which

sonny liston, with clenched fist,

fought his way, out of which,

james earl ray ripped his way

into the hearts of us all…)

dear galway,

          it is flooding here, in missouri,

the lowlands are all under water and at night

the lights dance on the dark water,

our president, of late of Watergate,

is spozed to fly above the flooded areas

and estimate how much damage has been done

to THE PEOPLES…

dear galway,

          it is lonely here, and sometimes,

THE PEOPLES can be a bitch

dear galway,

          i hear poems in my head

as the wind blows in your hair

and the young brown girl

with the toothpaste smile

who flows freely because she has heard OUR SOUNDS…

dear galway,

          OUR SONGS OF LOVE are still

murmurs among these melodies of madness…

dear galway, and what the fuck are the irish doing /

and when the IRA sends JUST ONE, just one soldier

to fight with say the American Indians, then i'll believe them…

dear galway,

          the river is rising here, and i am

scared and lonely…

Mary and the children send their love

to you and yours

                      always

                      Etheridge Knight

MISSOURI HAIKU

Boone County

A blue pick / up truck

Roars past; Sun shines on shotgun

Leering in window

Outside St. Louis

Route 66 curves

West—an arrow piercing the

Bleeding eye of God

Clay County

Thunder in the hills

And caves; goldenrods mourn war

Echoes of “Frank'n'Jess.”

Mizzu

ROTC March:

Drums roll and die. White blossoms

Float in Summer air.

INDIANA HAIKU

Riverside Park

A brown oak tree leans

In the arms of his brother:

Squir'lls leap, limb to limb.

Indiana Avenue, 1949

Neons flash red and green.

April rains on still street, Man

Nods, Red lights blink, blink.

Mirror of keen blades

Slender as guitar strings; Wes

Montgomery jazz.

Indianapolis Winter, 1973

Icicles crack and drop

In the crusty snow; skaters

Glide on frozen pond.

WE FREE SINGERS BE

“If we didn't have music, dancers would / be soldiers too, holding guns in their arms, instead of each / other.”

—Father Boniface Hardin

                      We free singers be

sometimes swimming in the music,

like porpoises playing in the sea.

We free singers be

come agitators at times, be

come eagles circling the sun,

hurling stones at hunters, be

come scavengers cracking eggs

in the palm of our hands.

(Remember, oh, do you remember

the days of the raging fires

when I clenched my teeth

in my sleep and refused to speak

in the daylight hours?)

We free singers be, baby

tall walkers, high steppers,

hip shakers, we free singers be

still waters sometimes too.

(Remember, oh, do you remember

the days when children held our hands

and danced

around us in circles, and we laughed in the sun?)

(Remember, oh, do you remember

how we slept in the shade of the trees

and woke, trembling in the darkness?)

We free singers be

voyagers

and sing of cities with straight streets

and mountains piercing the moon—

and rivers that never run dry.

(Remember, oh, do you remember

the snow

falling

on broadway

and the soldiers marching

thru the icy streets

with blood on their coat sleeves?)

(Remember, oh, do you remember

how we left the warm movie house

turned up our collars

and rode the subway home?)

We free singers be, baby.

We free singers be.

TALKING IN THE WOODS WITH KARL AMORELLI

The old Toyota, green as a frog, coughs and clanks,

Shoots its last wad, throws its last rod,

Sighs and dies, bumps and hops to a stop on the Interstate—

Twenty miles from Worcester, the neat New England

City of three deck flats. Here my lover lives

And sets her plate, and lies late with me in the mornings.

The ride from Boston had / been / a merry-go-round of touching

And talking and wide-eyed smiles and body smells.

Now, like hail striking a tin roof, gravel pelts the fenders.

We get out and look around. There is a lake to our right

Surrounded by green: cedars, oaks, willows, ferns and lilies.

After consultations and imaginations, we decide

That she / could / catch a ride much better than I—

Being blond, blue-eyed, and a woman on the side.

“Well, catch a trucker then,” I smarted, and turned

To Karl, this brown-eyed boy

With curly hair, this love / child of the woman

I love. “C'mon, Karl,” I say,

“Let's check / out / the lake on this bright and good day.”

We scramble over the fence and walk into the woods.

The beer bears on my bladder. We wander through the trees.

“I gotta pee,” I say,—“what about you?”

“Me too.”

Legs apart, urine splattering the dry leaves—

Me looking at the lake—

He looking at me.

“I can pee further than you, Eth.”

“Yeah, I see.”

“And higher, too.”

“Yeah, Karl, the older you are—

The lower your arc.”

“You mean, like flat feet?”

“No—like this.” I make the motion with my hand,

And say, “Like a rainbow, boy.”

“Well? why?—well? why?”

We dance, prance (the last few drops go down our pants),

Shake and zip.

“Well, dude,” I say, “it's like this—speaking

from a psychological, physiological, chronological, and—

Sexiological standpoint of view…”

“Eth / ridge!”

I laugh. He laughs.

We crash outta the woods, tumble / over / the fence

And face our Lover.

Sunlight glints / off / her glasses.

“What were you / two / doing so long?”

“Well,” I said,

“Karl was pissing—

Me?—I / was / peeing.”

BOSTON 5:00 A.M.—10/74

AWAKE! For mornings

Are the same as nights

The troops

Goosestep

Down the streets

A POEM ON THE MIDDLE EAST “PEACE PROCESS”

Israel à la Begin, begins : “We

                                                 / love / peace-and-ah

Yakady-yakady-yak-yak-yak.

That's why we / drove /

                                      the Palestinians off / their / land—

With the help of america and england's evil hand.

And-ah-yakady-yakady-yak-yak-yak.”

In the Gaza strip an Arab boy sleeps,

                                      his knees / are / drawn / up to his chest.

His hands cup his crotch. He dreams of grenades,

And machine guns and prayers to Allah.

An Israeli boy sleeps in Tel Aviv. He dreams

Of the tales told to him by his / grand / father:

Nazi boots goosestepping on cobblestone, of lampshades

Made / from Jewish skin, of Jewish women—and men—

Naked and torn. He dreams too of blooming gardens

In the “promised land” and of killing Arabs

At his Rabbi's command.

And the “Peacemakers?” Ah, the peacemakers

Give guns to / one

And bombs to the / other

All contrary to the / cries / of the Mother.

HAIKU 1

A slender finger of light

pokes a golden finger

in the bare black stage.

MEMO #43

You get the blues in twos

When you / be living

Like I / be living

In Memphis Tennessee

                                    1979

AND TELL ME POET, CAN LOVE EXIST IN SLAVERY?

Come then Poet, and sing

To me a TRUE SONG

Of white doves circling the horizon—

Of Guitars strumming the evening calm.

Can we forget, poet,

The right and wrong

Done, the gushing blood,

The broken bone

Shattering the moon-night,

The exiled son,

The fugitive daughter?

O Poet, your tongue

is split, and as still

as the Stone

In the Belly of the Great Mother.

She has always known:

Love and Freedom are One!

(All the rest is, at best—

A melted ice cream cone.)

GREEN GRASS AND YELLOW BALLOONS

—for Alexandria Keller, a poet at four

the garden we walked in

was dead / dying

and the fine / rain fell

you held / my hand

fine / rain falling

cold wind blowing

rain thru your hair

dead world dying

re / born

by your words

warm and soft and brown

like your eyes

etheridge, you said, i've

composed a poem for you

green grass

and yellow balloons

floating in the sky

you sang of. and sadness too.

softly you sang

your words warming me

and the sea rose in me

and your song sent me spinning

and i thought of e e cummings

mud puddles and colored marbles

and what the fuck was i doing

in this new / england / state—

then your eyes seemed sadder to me

and your words seemed warmer to me

and the sea rose higher in me

and suddenly

i was 4 and you were 40

and we were one

as the fine / rain fell

harder

and harder

and harder

till we came to the white / fence

that separated

US

from the River

so soon so soon

do yellow balloons

burst

demons stalk / this land

that smash

people and poets

whether 4 or 40

so soon so soon

will your words

be eagles

that rise screaming

from the warmth of their nest

to soar

above this freeze

and froze and frigid land

and we

who walk in new ways

will hear you

we will hear you—

and sing too

of green grass. and yellow balloons

Waterford, Connecticut
October 21, 1971

BELLY SONG

—for the Daytop Family

“You have made something

Out of the sea that blew

And rolled you on its salt bitter lips.

It nearly swallowed you.

But I hear

You are tough and harder to swallow than most…”

                                                               —S. Mansfield

1

And I and I / must admit

that the sea in you

       has sung / to the sea / in me

and I and I / must admit

that the sea in me

       has fallen / in love

       with the sea in you

because you have made something

out of the sea

       that nearly swallowed you

And this poem

This poem

This poem / I give / to you.

This poem is a song / I sing / I sing / to you

from the bottom

       of the sea

               in my belly

This poem / is a song / about FEELINGS

about the Bone of feeling

about the Stone of feeling

       And the Feather of feeling

2

This poem

This poem

This poem / is /

a death / chant

and a grave / stone

and a prayer for the dead:

       for young Jackie Robinson.

a moving Blk / warrior who walked

among us

       with a wide / stride—and heavy heels

moving moving moving

thru the blood and mud and shit of Vietnam

moving moving moving

thru the blood and mud and dope of America

       for Jackie / who was /

a song

and a stone

and a Feather of feeling

       now dead

and / gone / in this month of love

This poem

This poem / is / a silver feather

and the sun-gold / glinting / green hills breathing

river flowing…

3

This poem

This poem

This poem / is / for ME—for me

and the days / that lay / in the back / of my mind

when the sea / rose up /

       to swallow me

and the streets I walked

       were lonely streets

       were stone / cold streets

This poem

This poem / is /

for me / and the nights

       when I

wrapped my feelings

       in a sheet of ice

and stared

       at the stars

          thru iron bars

             and cried

in the middle of my eyes…

This poem

This poem

This poem / is / for me

       and my woman

       and the yesterdays

when she opened

       to me like a flower

       But I fell on her

       like a stone

I fell on her like a stone…

4

And now—in my 40th year

       I have come here

to this House of Feelings

to this Singing Sea

and I and I / must admit

that the sea in me

       has fallen / in love

with the sea in you

because the sea

that now sings / in you

       is the same sea

that nearly swallowed you—

       and me too.

Seymour, Connecticut
June 1971

APOLOGY FOR APOSTASY?

Soft songs, like birds, die in poison air

So my song cannot now be candy.

Anger rots the oak and elm; roses are rare,

Seldom seen through blind despair.

And my murmur cannot be heard

Above the din and damn. The night is full

Of buggers and bastards; no moon or stars

Light the sky. And my candy is deferred

Till peacetime, when my voice shall be light,

Like down, lilting in the air; then shall I

Sing of beaches, white in the magic sun,

And of moons and maidens at midnight.

CON/TIN/U/WAY/SHUN BLUES

Well, the las' time I saw my mother

She said, son, take care of yourself—

‘Cause when it gets / down to the nitty gritty

Boy, you ain't got nobody else.

                                                 ain't nobody else

                                                 ain't nobody else

You talk about my friends, baby

                                                 you say

Ain't none of them niggas no good

What about my white friends, baby,

Do they do the things they should

                                                 even if they could—

                                                 even if they could

       “blues are more than cries of oppression”

                   —Mary Helen Washington

They say the blues is just a slave song

But I say that's just a lie

Cause even when we be free, baby—

Lord knows we still have got to die

                                                 lovers will still lie

                                                 babies will still cry

Some folks don't like my way of living

Some folks, oh, they don't like my life

Well, some folks don't like my mama—

And some, oh, they don't like my wife

Yeah, the man done lost his niggas

And he done blowed his children too

Now he's ‘bout to lose his woman—

And he don't know what to do

                                                 he still got guns, honey

                                                 and a whole lotta money

Well, I know a girl named Wanda

Yeah, and she flat backs all night long

Yeah, she be staring at the ceiling

While the truckers hump and moan

                                                 so drunk from gin

                                                 that she's gotta put it in

Sometimes, I think, lady,

That our troubles will never end

But when I wake up in the morning—

I start out all over again

'Cause I gotta keep on pushing

I gotta keep on keeping on

I know one day we'll be free, baby,

And most troubles will be gone.

5

ON SEEING THE BLACK MALE AS #1 SEX OBJECT IN AMERICA

There / are / Black men in the south

Of America who / are soooooooo pretty

That their beauty

Sucks in fat gulps the breath from your mouth.

In Nashville, Memphis, Jackson, Lil Rock,

In spots that / are / just dots

On the hi / way to the south and sun—

Tall, “male” men—

Wearing flashing red caps, and hats

With wide brims in bold green, grin.

Black men in the south

Of America / are / soooooooo pretty—

In bright jeans, in tight jeans, bulging;

Shining their cars,

Hanging in the bars,

Leaning on the corners

Where the snow / janes pass

Stroking the Black male asses

From behind dark glasses,—

Where the crow / janes pass—and wonder too

And stroke too and gulp too and know too—

That it / is / true:

Black men in the south

Of America / are / soooooooo pretty

That men, and women, hide

Under sheets and masks and ride

And plot under the Alabama moon

How to “cut the nut.”

LAST WORDS BY “SLICK” (or a self/sung eulogy)

Now, when I / die, dont you bury me

On no lone prairie;

And dont put me in no plain pine box

(cause I left plenty cold cash!);

And throw my cold butt in the deep blue sea.

Whatever you do, dont plant me / in no six feet of dirt;

Just mash me, mash me, except for my dick,

Which I want wrapped in a white / woman's skirt.

I dont want no preacher / man a-preaching

Over me—cause I know where I am going.

I dont want no tears, no flowers,

No standing around and waiting / up / all hours.

Just get a golden trumpet, and have Dizzy blow it.

Cause I / wuz / Slick—and you damn well know it.

No piano playing, no blues please;

No moaning and groaning;

Just lay me on the table, mash me

Into my two-hundred-dollar suit,

Red socks, black patent leather shoes,

Polka-dot tie (make damn shore it's silk—

And dont forget it!)

Take me out to my pink cadillac

Prop me up / under the steering wheel,

Tow me out to real high hill,

Dig a hole—twenty feet long and twenty feet wide,

Place a giant joint of reefer / weed by my side;

Then leave me alone—

And let me drive to hell in style!

HAIKU

Two hours I've walked…

…this Tulsa rain…

In her house, my wife sleeps, snoring.

Yellow Moon rise…hounds

Howl…my daughter weds soon.

O my heart is hollow?

Nurse hovers…belly

Aches…old wine, old bones…

O my sons! don't forget me

O Manhattan town!

Subways swallow / up Sonia—

My “highs” drove her / down!

O swaying trees,

Shining, dripping leaves…

Life's got me on my knees.

The Sun comes, the pain flees….

Today I'll boogie down Broadway.

O come!—dance with me!

I'm shower'd…shaved…

Waiting on wooden bench…

Carol Ann visits today!

Open! O my heart's

Flower: Elizabetheridge!

I, springtime shower!

Some days slip by

              like clouds in the sky,

Or the glimpse of a girl

From the edge of the eye.

Gulls scream: “Breakfast!”

Waves lap against fishing boats.

In Puget I am cold.

Poor Martin L. King!

Death rains steel / down Beale Street

Poor Memphis Tennessee!

Woe South Africa!

Bullets, bones, fires of Apartheid!

My bowels won't move.

Sigh, cry, broken-hearted

Woman, alone…he smiled…

—Stole your welfare check!

Deta! O Deta!

Where are you? your guitar?

Your songs? your legs?—your love?

The beach, your bra falling…

Your cat dying…tears…

We climb the sand dunes.

Ah, Marisella!

This attic, this music,

Our motions, our tongues—aiiee!

Worcester woman,

Fair face of flat “A's,”

My belly / sing / son / soft, Memphis days!

GENESIS 11

The WORD, Was, Is, Will, BE:

The Beginning and the End, BE;

And the Word / is / Round

And Warm and Rolling;

A the Word / be / a Verb,

And the Verb / be / a Woman…

EAT HELEN B HAPPY (a found poem)

Eat, Helen,

Be happy!

Eat, Helen,

Be happy!

“Eat it here?—

Or take it home?”

Be happy!

Helen be.

VARIOUS PROTESTATIONS FROM VARIOUS PEOPLE

Esther say I drink too much.

Mama say pray dont think too much.

My shrink he say I feel too much,

And the cops say I steal too much;

Social Workers say I miss my Daddy too much,

That I dream of driving a Caddy too much.

White folks say I'm lazy and late too much,

Not objective—depend on fate too much.

Philosophers say I wanna BE too much.

Reagan say I talk about me too much,

Singing songs ‘bout being free too much.

I say—sing about me being free too much?

Say sing about me being free too much?

AT A VA HOSPITAL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: AN ACT IN A PLAY

Stars from five wars, scars,

Words filled with ice and fear,

Nightflares and fogginess,

and a studied regularity.

       Gon' lay down my sword ’n’ shield—

       Down by the river side, down by the river side—

       Down by the river side…

Former Sergeant Crothers, among the worst,

Fought the first. He hears well, tho

He mumbles in his oatmeal. He

Was gassed outside Nice. We

Tease him about “le pom-pom,” and chant:

“There's a place in France where the women wear no pants.”

Former Sergeant Crothers has gray whiskers

And a gracious grin,

But his eyes do not belie

His chemical high.

       Gon' lay down my sword ’n’ shield—

       Down by the river side, down by the river side—

       Down by the river side…

A. C. Williams drove a half-track

“Half da goddamn way ‘cross Africa

In da second war,” his black

Face proclaims, and exclaims—

Along with other rosy exaggerations.

Each week he sneaks through the iron-wrought fence

To the Blinking Bar down the street.

Midnight reeks the red-eyes, the tired

Temper, the pains in the head.

A phone call summons an aide to bring A. C. to bed.

       Ain't gon' study the war no more…Well,

       I ain't gonna study the war no more—

       Ain't gonna study the war no more—

       O I ain't gonna study the war no more.

“Doc” Kramer, ex-medic in Korea

Is armless. And legless,

is an amazement of machines

And bubbling bottles. His nurse,

White starched and erect, beams

A calloused cheerfulness:

“How are we today?” Kramer's wife leans

Forward, sparkling fingers caressing his stump

Of arm. She is pink, fifty-six, and plump.

“Doc” Kramer desires sleep.

       Gon' put on my long, white robe—

       Down by the river side, down by the river side—

       Down by the river side…

Ex PFC Leonard Davenport goes to court

Tomorrow. He is accused of “possession and sale”

Of narcotics; his conditional bail

Was that he stay at the VA, for the cure.

For an end to sin,

For a surcease of sorrow.

He spends his pension for ten grams of “pure.”

He nods the days away,

And curses his Ranger Colonel in fluent Vietnamese.

His tour in “Nam” is his golden prize.

       Gon' put on my long, white robe—

       Down by the river side, down by the river side—

       Down by the river side…

Grant Trotter's war was the south side

Of San Diego. Storming the pastel sheets

Of Mama Maria's, he got hit with a fifty

Dollar dose of syphilis. His feats

Are legends of masturbation, the constant coming

As he wanders the back streets of his mind.

The doctors whisper and huddle in fours

When Trotter's howls roam the corridors.

We listen. We are patient patients.

       Ain't gon' study the war no more…Well,

       I ain't gonna study the war no more—

       Ain't gonna study the war no more—

       O I ain't gonna study the war no more.

Indianapolis
September 1982

ON THE PROJECTS PLAYGROUND

Say, Mister!

Uh-huh?

You a poet / man?

Uh-huh, uh-huh.

Me too.

Uh-huh, uh-huh!

CIRCLING THE DAUGHTER

—for Tandi

You came / to be / in the Month of Malcolm,

And the rain fell with a fierce gentleness,

Like a martyr's tears,

On the streets of Manhattan when your light was lit;

And the City sang you Welcome. Now I sit,

Trembling in your presence. Fourteen years

Have brought the moon-blood, the roundness,

The girl-giggles, the grand-leaps.

We are touch-tender in our fears.

You break my eyes with your beauty:

Ooouu-oo-baby-I-love-you.

Do not listen to the lies of old men

Who fear your power,

Who preach that you were “born in sin.”

A flower is moral by its own flowering.

Reach always within

For the Music and the Dance and the Circling.

O Tandiwe, by Beloved of this land,

Your spring will come early and

When the earth begins its humming,

Begin your dance with men

With a Grin and a Grace of whirling.

Your place is neither ahead nor behind,

Neither right nor left. The world is round.

Make the sound of your breathing

A silver bell at midnight

And the chilling wet of the morning dew…

You break my eyes with your beauty:

Ooouu-oo-baby-I-love-you.

FOR A BROOKLINE LADY I LOVE

So / zoom / your Special Spot

On / to Golden Greece—

Drink wine, dance—find release

From the Tight. (But do not

Forget me, please.)

And when the warm blanket of night

Covers the Sun, sleeping in Helen's sea,

Then rise with the Moon, I say

Rise with the Moon and fly to me

On silver wings, on silver wings; I pray

Your heart / be-all / in one piece.

ONCE ON A NIGHT IN THE DELTA: A REPORT FROM HELL

—for Sterling Brown

Gravel rattles against the fenders of the van

The River flashes in the distance.

The wind is thick with the scent of honeysuckle.

The road from Greenville curves like the sickle

Of the new moon, now hanging over east Texas.

Moun' Bayou sleeps on a straight street.

The poor live on both / sides / of the tracks

In this town peopled by Blacks.

Tho the bloods / now / pack pistols

And rap on two-way radios,

And the homes of a few are spacious and new,

With sunken patios;

Tho the dice are / shot / thru a leather horn and

The whiskey burns my belly in the early morning,

We still shuffle in lines, like coffles of slaves:

Stamps for food—the welfare rolls and the voting polls.

We frown. Our eyes are dark caves

Of mourning.—So I'd like to report to you, Sir Brown—

Fromaway / down / here—

Mississippi is still hell, Sir Brown—

For me and ol Slim Greer.

June 1981

A BLACK POET LEAPS TO HIS DEATH

—for mbembe milton smith

was it a blast to the balls dear brother

with the wind ringing in the ear

that great rush against the air

that great push

                     into the universe

you are not now alone mbembe

of the innocent eyes sadder

than a mondays rain it is i

who hear your crush of bone

               your splatter of brain

               your tear of flesh

on the cold chicago stone

                  and my october cry

when the yellow moon is ringed with blood

of children dead in the lebanese mud

        is as sharp as a kc switchblade

your pain is a slash across my throat

i feel a chill can the poet belie

the poem

        old revolutionaries never die

it is said

        they just be born again

(check chuck colson and his panther from folsom)

but you are dead

mbembe poetman in the home of the brave

the brown leaves whister across you grave

but it must have been a rush a great gasp

              of breath

              the awesome leap to your death

o poet of the blood and bone

              of the short song

              and serious belief

i sing you release

October 1981

REHABILITATION & TREATMENT IN THE PRISONS OF AMERICA

The Convict strolled into the prison administration building to get assistance and counseling for his personal problems. Inside the main door were several other doors proclaiming: Doctor, Lawyer, Teacher, Counselor, Therapist, etc. He chose the proper door, and was confronted with two more doors: Custody and Treatment. He chose Treatment, went in, and was confronted with two more doors: First Offender and Previous Offender. Again he chose the proper door and was confronted with two more doors: Adult and Juvenile. He was an adult, so he walked through that door and ran smack into two more doors: Democrat and Republican. He was democrat, so he rushed through that door and ran smack into two more doors: Black and White. He was Black, so he rushed—ran—through that door—and fell nine stories to the street.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in rural Mississippi in 1931, Etheridge Knight received little formal education. He served as an army-trained medical technician during the Korean War and was badly wounded. Later convicted of armed robbery, he spent six years in prison. “I died in Korea from a shrapnel wound,” he wrote, “and narcotics resurrected me. I died in 1960 from a prison sentence and poetry brought me back to life.”

Since his first book, Poems from Prison, appeared in 1968, Knight's poetry has been widely acclaimed. He was awarded fellow-ships by the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, and in 1985 received the Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America in recognition of distinguished achievement in poetry. Etheridge Knight died on March 10, 1991, at his home in Indianapolis, Indiana.