Poetry of the Civil Rights Era

Poetry of the Civil Rights Era

Amstud

Franklin & Green

ODE TO JIMMY LEE

I did not know you, Jimmy Lee,

But I came to watch you lowered to the Earth in highest homage

As though a king, or chief, or priest of Sacred Truth.

I was a one of four thousand sad, and scared, and seething Souls

Who trekked the miles from Marion in pouring rain

that holy Alabama Sunday so long ago,

Washing away our tears;

replacing even our fears and ANGER

With a DETERMINATION NO TIDE of reaction or TERROR could stem.

Perhaps it was not my own blood upon the jacket I wore thereafter

But Yours, Sheyanne's, Martin's,

That of Annie Lee, & Brother Reeb, and young Saint Jonathan of Daniel.

We mixed blood by day, and laughter by night

and tears before the dawn.

The Shack rocked and rang with the footsteps of our dancing

{Song medley interlude with "Shotgun," "When a Man Loves a Woman," "Change Gonna Come."}

the Shack rocked and rang with the footsteps of our dancing. The silent streets echoed with the pounding of our Hearts.

Love came easily — as did conflict — And rode away with the next carload to Atlanta

Perhaps never to return that terrible and wondrous winter before the Dawn

I know not how many years I grew that month before the Spring

But, fleeting decades since scarce have left so true a mark upon my Soul.

From afar they do NOT remember Your Name —

Those who came to carry on the Torch you passed into their hands;

As they do remember Daisy, and Medgar, and Andy, and Mickey, and Jim.

But We who stood by Your side

And heard your final verdict pronounced:

"DIED of massive internal infection."

We, we who stood the Cause we know.

And when we met the horses on The BRIDGE,

The gas, the clubs, the whips, the angry shouts and flaming eyes of HATRED

YES! We Knew!

From THAT Moment we were CERTAIN that Our Cause "should not have died in vain,"

That we WOULD MARCH ON, to Montgomery,

Affront the eyes of All the World

And seal one mighty victory FOREVER

Along the never-ending trial-trail for FREEDOM

The Struggle the Task the Prayer the Song of Human DIGNITY.

AND You, dear Jimmy Lee Jackson, age 26, of Marion, Alabama,

Footnote of history,

As You rose to protect your grandfather from the vicious clubs of hatred that February night,

and thereby gave YOUR LIFE,

YOU helped to lead us on.

And WE We who stood by Your side

We R E M E M E B E R Strider.

[I wish to give the background for my poem dedicated to the Civil Rights martyrs, centered in the person of Jimmy Lee Jackson of Marion, Alabama, who was shot by Alabama State Troopers on February 18, 1965. He died a week later in Selma.

I first delivered the poem in a little church in Trickim, Lowndes County, in 1995.

I gave about a one minute introduction so that people would understand the relevance and a bit of the scene and the significance of Jimmy's murder, for it was his death which motivated us to organize the March on Montgomery. I was a participant in all those meetings, and served medical duty all night in Burwell Infirmary in Selma the night of the shooting, treating the wounded from the assault on Mt. Zion Methodist Church in Marion.

We met all day on the 19th and decided to hold a march that night in Selma. When we came down the steps of Brown Chapel, we were met by Sheriff Clark's "Water Posse" on horseback and in pickup trucks just behind Chief Wilson Bakers Selma Police.

Had we not retreated into the church that night there would have been a massacre, possibly setting off a race war in America. The situation was THAT tense.]

I TOO, HEAR AMERICA SINGING

[As published in the first issue of The Student Voice—SNCC's newsletter, summer, 1960.]

I too, hear America singing

But from where I stand

I can only hear Little Richard

And Fats Domino.

But sometimes

I hear Ray Charles

Drowning in his own tears

or Bird

Relaxing at Camarillo

Or Horace Silver doodling,

Then I don't mind standing

a little longer.

I, Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.

Langston Hughes

As I Grew Older
It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun--
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky--
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
Langston Hughes

ON MEETING MRS. SEPTIMA POINSETTE CLARK

DECEMBER 9, 1964

I sit down quietly in the chair,

The older woman smiles and light

Reflects off frame glasses and gold rose earrings, the voice

Is like, is like the whisper of tires on a far off nighttime highway

or maybe that of Negro woman of sixty-six

Which it is.

She inhales to speak, I raise

My fine young journalistic pen, prepared to summarize

Her store into ink traces,

To finish my entry blank in the Biographical Sweepstakes

"Tell us, in 150 words or less,

The substance of her life;" I am, of course, confident—

The smile fades back into equilibrium, and she says calmly:

"My father was a slave."

I see, yes—the pen moves to the paper:

M-Y-F-A-T-H-E-R-W-A-S-A-S-L-A—

Ahh, ha ha ha,

No, something isn't quite right,

She didn't even blink.

Voice steady

My father—

Hands quiescent in her lap

My Father—

Breathing is regular, even unnoticed

My Father—

Oh no.

You see, my father was a normal, middle-class guy like everybody else,

You understand that, don't you Mrs.—

My Father was

Yes, Yes, I know, but surely you can understand the difference

was only superficial, just an accident of history that yours

happened to be

—a slave (why in hell won't she blink)

Well it was his own damn fault, wasn't it—after all he must have

known the Truth, because

My Father was

The Good Book, you know, says that Ye (that's old-time for

you-all, get it)

Ye shall know the Truth, and the Truth shall make you—

—a slave.

Say that's kind of a clever twist there Mrs.—

Ahh, ha ha ha . . .

LIFT EVERY VOICE AND SING

Lift every voice and sing

Till earth and heaven ring,

Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;

Let our rejoicing rise

High as the listening skies,

Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,

Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun

Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,

Bitter the chastening rod,

Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;

Yet with a steady beat,

Have not our weary feet

Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,

We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,

Out from the gloomy past,

Till now we stand at last

Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,

God of our silent tears,

Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;

Thou who has by Thy might

Led us into the light,

Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,

Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;

Shadowed beneath Thy hand,

May we forever stand.

True to our God,

True to our native land.

AIN'T I A WOMAN?

That man over there say

a woman needs to be helped into carriages

and lifted over ditches

and to have the best place everywhere.

Nobody ever helped me into carriages

or over mud puddles

or gives me a best place...

And ain't I a woman?

Look at me

Look at my arm!

I have plowed and planted

and gathered into barns

and no man could head me...

And ain't I a woman?

I could work as much

and eat as much as a man —

when I could get to it —

and bear the lash as well

and ain't I a woman?

I have born 13 children

and seen most all sold into slavery

and when I cried out a mother's grief

none but Jesus heard me...

And ain't I a woman?

that little man in black there say

a woman can't have as much rights as a man

cause Christ wasn't a woman

Where did your Christ come from?

From God and a woman!

Man had nothing to do with him!

If the first woman God ever made

was strong enough to turn the world

upside down, all alone

together women ought to be able to turn it

rightside up again.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise.

Maya Angelou

My Country Tis Of Thee

My country tis of thee,
Late land of slavery,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my father’s pride
Slept where my mother died,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring!
My native country thee
Land of the slave set free,
Thy fame I love.
I love thy rocks and rills
And o’er thy hate which chills,
My heart with purpose thrills,
To rise above.
Let laments swell the breeze
And wring from all the trees
Sweet freedom’s song.
Let laggard tongues awake,
Let all who hear partake,
Let Southern silence quake,
The sound prolong.
Our fathers’ God to thee
Author of Liberty,
To thee we sing
Soon may our land be bright,
With Freedom’s happy light
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God our King.

W.E.B. Dubois

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind

and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wing in the orange suns 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.

Maya Angelou

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear a strange fruit,

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black body swinging in the Southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.