what everybody knows now
Even though the laws have changed
my grandmother still takes us
to the back of the bus when we go downtown
in the rain. It’s easier, my grandmother says,
than having white folks look at me like I’m dirt.
But we aren’t dirt. We are people
paying the same fare as other people.
When I say this to my grandmother,
she nods, says, Easier to stay where you belong.
I look around and see the ones
who walk straight to the back. See
the ones who take a seat up front, daring
anyone to make them move. And know
this is who I want to be. Not scared
like that. Brave
like that.
Still, my grandmother takes my hand downtown
pulls me right past the restaurants that have to let us sit
wherever we want now. No need in making trouble,
she says. You all go back to New York City but
I have to live here.
We walk straight past Woolworth’s
without even looking in the windows
because the one time my grandmother went inside
they made her wait and wait. Acted like
I wasn’t even there. It’s hard not to see the moment—
my grandmother in her Sunday clothes, a hat
with a flower pinned to it
neatly on her head, her patent-leather purse,
perfectly clasped
between her gloved hands—waiting quietly
long past her turn.
Response: I really enjoy the work of Jacqueline Woodson and I found this poem interesting as it focuses on a memory during the time of the end of segregation. The poem really elaborates on the emotions and feelings of the situation through the writing of Jacqueline. The differences between the perspectives of the grandmother and granddaughter are indirectly highlighted, and I find that very interesting. I also like the last stanza, and how focused Jacqueline is on the moment in which her grandmother patiently waits for her turn. The poem expresses ideas such as unfairness, a sense of belonging, fear, and questions/understanding.
Creative Poem:
It’s hard not to see the moment,
where are hands entwine.
To see into the future
and picture you and I side by side.
I can only wish
that time would quicken its pace.
But waiting for you,
is the necessary time I’m willing to take.
I can only hope that I’m enough,
and that the best comes from this all.
Your smile is contagious,
your heart is welcoming,
just promise to catch me if I fall.
I hope I’m not asking for too much.
No flowers, no money, no need to go out of your way.
All I’m asking is that for a while, you stay.
It’s hard not to see the moment,
where are hands entwine.
To see into the future
and picture you and I side by side.
The Mothering Blackness
BY MAYA ANGELOU
She came home running
back to the mothering blackness
deep in the smothering blackness
white tears icicle gold plains of her face
She came home running
She came down creeping
here to the black arms waiting
now to the warm heart waiting
rime of alien dreams befrosts her rich brown face
She came down creeping
She came home blameless
black yet as Hagar’s daughter
tall as was Sheba’s daughter
threats of northern winds die on the desert’s face
She came home blameless
Response: I believe that the poem is about a girl who has left home only to return with the feeling of guilt and blame. The blackness referring to the night. There is a shift in the poem as it states that she came to the black arms and warm heart waiting. I believe that this is referencing her mother. The poem represents forgiveness, as the daughter is welcomed home with open arms and with a new feeling of blameless. I noticed that the writing pattern includes the repetition of she in the beginning of the first and last line of each stanza. Also, the repetition of the last word in the second and third line. Each word at the end of the fourth line is the same, “face”. Lastly, the first and last line in a stanza are the same.
Creative Poem:
She came home running
with no knowledge of where she was going
only knowledge of where she had been
with a sense of unfamiliarity
She came home running
She came home fearful
scared of not knowing what was to come
fearing the reactions that would come her way
with a sense of unfamiliarity
She came home fearful
She came home embraced
to open arms she received acceptance
she found what she was looking for
with a sense of unfamiliarity
She came home embraced
Ritmo/Rhythm
Mad has decided to catch a vulture,
the biggest bird she can find.
She is so determined, and so inventive,
that by stringing together a rickety trap
of ropes and sticks, she creates
a puzzling structure that just might
be clever enough to trick a buzzard,
once the trap’s baited with leftover pork
from supper.
Mad and I used to do everything together,
but now I need a project all my own,
so I roam the green fields,
finding bones.
The skull of a wild boar.
The jawbone of a mule.
Older cousins show me
how to shake the mule’s quijada,
to make the blunt teeth
rattle.
Guitars.
Drums.
Gourds.
Sticks.
A cow bell.
A washboard.
Pretty soon, we have
a whole orchestra.
On Cuban farms, even death
can turn into
music.
Response: I found this poem intriguing as it begins with the use of an anecdote in a way. The poem is told in first person and told in the present time. It provides a sense of being in the moment. When initially reading the poem, the idea of independence is present. As I read further through the poem I really like the message. The last stanza wraps up the entire poem nicely as it states, “On Cuban farms, even death can turn into music”.
Creative Poem:
An art form that communicates through sound.
An expression of emotion that combines rhythm,
harmony, dynamics, and texture.
Different styles to implement numerous elements.
The expression of life itself as it is used
to provide unique responses in each individual.
A use or combination of natural, vocal, or instrumental
sounds. It is not only a form of life, even death
can turn into music.
I Forget Who I Said It To, But I Remember How, Afterwards, They Looked at Me As Though I Had Driven A Steak Knife Through Their Mother’s Hand
I love my brother. He had the exact same childhood as I did.
But he doesn’t get credit for it. He isn’t the writer. I am
the star of the violence. I expose. My Peter, when he marries,
I will be so sad. No girl in the world deserves him but me.
Response: Before even reading the actual poem, the title itself speaks out and I found it quite unique and intriguing. The title is longer than I find most poem titles to be. When reading the title, it makes me interpret that the poem is going to be about a specific quote that the poet once told someone that may have been disturbing or shocking to them as well as the audience when reading the poem. After reading the poem, I had many questions. I was confused on if the writer was referring to the fact that her brother does not get the recognition that he should. The “violence” that she is referring to, is it abuse, and that she is sharing the pain for them both? Is she scared for Peter to grow up, nervous for his future?
Creative Poem: Take Advantage of Now
I love my brother. I never once thought that we would be separated.
Our individual memories, overlap with each other’s.
I still feel him near, despite that he is far. I remember and I won’t forget.
As we grow older, I grieve as if he has passed.
I realize that we can’t take back what we’ve already lost. I love my brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Response: I found this poem interesting with its meaning of unspoken love and how the poet uses a specific day and event that reoccurs to elaborate on the love that the father showed each day through the single action of making sure the home was warm when the son woke up. The days of manual labor corresponding with the role of his father. I found it engaging that the poem begins with an attitude of indifference, that lacks concern. The last stanza seems to switch to a tone of realization and guilt to admiration as he goes to question himself. The poet included specific word choices that provided the reader with a particular emotion while reading. The words used effectively gave life to the poem.
No One Ever Thanked Him
He didn’t do it
for the recognition
for the praise
for the attention.
Some ignored him.
They continued as if
his existence was irrelevant.
Others stopped and acknowledged him.
Through it all,
he only does what he does
to keep the community safe
to make sure everyone sees another day.
If no one else will
give him his credit
I will.
Thank you.
Thank you for saving my life.
If I didn’t read
“STOP” across your bold red chest
I wouldn’t be here today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Promise
BY JANE HIRSHFIELD
Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.
Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.
Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.
Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.
Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.
Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always.
Response: In the poem, it seems that the main character is asking/stating something to multiple living things but does not receive the answer that they are looking for until the end. I discovered that the poet uses a poetic device, anaphora. An anaphora is repetition of the same word/phrase in the beginning of a line used throughout the poem. The poet has no trying scheme in their poem and it is free verse. The poem begins by providing the reader with a sense of sadness towards the main character who is being rejected over ad over again. Everything changes at the end, there is a shift in tone. The poem begins to cheer up on the last verse when the character finally discovers a positive response, the response that I believe they were looking for all along.
I chose to mimick this poem:
Who am I?
By SaNaya White
Who am I? I asked
the strangers.
With a puzzled look, they walked by
without addressing me.
Who am I? I asked my dog,
who never responded.
Who am I, friend?
They giggled uncomfortably,
Stating, my friend.
Who am I? I asked my teachers.
They looked up at me,
pausing from grading papers
Smiled, and said, my student.
Who am I, to mama,
who raised me,
who knows me best,
who brought me into this world.
She turned to face me,
And replied, my daughter.
Who am I? I asked my reflection.
It smiled and replied with one word,
Me.
SaNaya's Poetry Blog 