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Three African American Poets of
Historical Note
Maya Angelou
Maya Angelou was born Marguerite
Johnson in
Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
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 of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Amiri Baraka
"God has been replaced, as he has all over the West, with
respectability and air conditioning."
-Amiri Baraka
Amiri Baraka
(born LeRoi Jones) is a poet, writer, political
activist and teacher. He was born in 1934, in
Ka ‘Ba
A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and black people
call across or scream or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will
Our world is full of sound
Our world is more lovely than
anyone's
tho we suffer, and kill each other
and sometimes fail to walk the air
We are beautiful people
with african
imaginations
full of masks and dances and swelling
chants
with african
eyes, and noses, and arms,
though we sprawl in grey chains in a place
full of winters, when what we want is
sun.
We have been captured,
brothers. And we labor
to make our getaway, into
the ancient image, into a new
correspondence with ourselves
and our black family. We read magic
now we need the spells, to rise up
return, destroy, and create. What will be
the sacred words?
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar, born in
An Ante-Bellum Sermon
We is gathahed hyeah,
my brothas,
In dis howlin’wildaness,
Fu’ to speak some words of comfo’t
To each othah
in distress.
An’ we chooses fu’ouah sujic’
Dis – we’ll ‘splain
it by an’ by;
“An de Lawd
said, ‘Moses, Moses,’
An’ de man said, ‘Hyeah am I.’”
Now ole Pher’oh down in
Was de wuss man evah bo’n,
An’ he had de Hebrew chillun
Down dah wukin’
in his co’n;
‘Twell de Lawd
got tiahed o’ his follin’,
An’ sez he: “I’ll him know–
Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher’oh
Fu’ to let dem
chillun go.”
‘An’ ef he refuse
to do it,
I will make him rue de houah,
Fu’ I’ll empty down on
All de vials of my powah.”
Yes, he did – an’ Pher’oh’s ahmy
Was n’t wuth
a ha’f a dime;
Fu’ de Lawd will
he’p his chillun,
You kin trust him evah time.
An’ yo’ enemies may ‘sail you
In de back an’ in de front;
But de Lawd is all aroun’ you,
Fu’ to ba’
de battle’s brunt.
Dey kin fo’ge
yo’ chains an’ shackles
F’om de mountains to de
sea;
But de Lawd will sen’ some Moses
Fu’ to set his chillun
free.
An’ de lan’
shall hyeah his thundah,
Lak a blas’ f’om Gab’el’s ho’n,
Fu’ de Lawd of hosts is mighty
When he girds his ahmor on.
But fu’ feah some one mistakes me,
I will pause right hyeah to say,
Dat I’m still a-preachin’
ancient,
I ain’t talkin’
‘bout to-day.
But I tell you, fellah christuns,
Things’ll happen mighty strange;
Now, de Lawd done dis fu’ Isrul,
An’ his ways don’t nevah change,
An’ de love he showed to Isrul
Was n’t all on Isrul
spent;
Now don’t run an’ tell yo’ mastahs
Dat I’s preachin’ discontent.
“Cause I is n’t; I’se a-judgin’
Bible people by deir ac’s;
I’se a-givin’
you de Scriptuah,
I’se a-handin’ you de fac’s.
Cose ole Pher’oh
b’lieved in slav’ry,
But de Lawd he let him see,
Dat de people he put bref in,-
Evah mothah’s
son was free.
An’ dahs othahs
thinks lak Pher’oh,
But dey calls de Scriptuah liar,
Fu’ de Bible says “a servant
Is a-worthy of his hire.”
An’you cain’t git roun’ nor thoo
dat,
An’ you cain’t git
ovah it,
Fu’ whatevah place you git in,
Dis hyeah
Bible too’ll fit.
So you see de Lawd’s intention,
Evah sence de worl’ began,
Was dat His almighty freedom
Should belong to evah man,
But I think it would be bettah,
Ef I’d pause agin
to say,
Dat I’m talkin’
‘bout ouah freedom
In a Bibleistic
way.
But de Moses is a-comin’,
An’ he’s comin’ suah and fas’.
We kin hyeah his feet a-trompin’,
We kin hyeah
his trumpit blas’.
But I want to wa’n you people,
Don’t you git too figity;
An’ don’t you git to braggin’
‘Bout dese things, you wait an’
see.
But when Moses wif his powah
Comes an’ sets us chillun free,
We will praise de gracious Mastah
Dat has gin us liberty;
An’ we’ll shout ouah halleluyahs,
On dat mighty reck’nin
day,
When we’se reco’nised
ez citiz’–
Huh uh! Chillun, let us pray!
The
Chickasaw
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