Skip to main content

Poem for you by Paul Laraque

in my two hands
I'm holding a book on the life of Jacques Roumain
your breathing lifts your breast
It's your beauty that moves
an there's a painful human hope
protecting tomorrow from today's hell
I dream I dream of Guernica
I embrace you I embrace you
and may the voice of Lorca live on
the breathless wind stretches itself out up the sea

exact like the sword of clarity
o raging poetry from all the jungles forged
a shadow is terrified by the torch of Cesaire
and the word of Paul Eluard
cutting the knot of evil
eonfer on the dignity of  art
the evidence of crystal

I blend you with all I hold dear
you are blood in the flesh
you are saddened and smile in the eyes of peasants
and there's oxygen in the air
when your look wears the light
of our grandest summer skies
I think about the man I used to be
gone with the waves of life
I'm reborn in the root of your desire
don't say Im raving
we will pass through the Manchurian border
be it in  Vietnam or in the Congo
Madrid or Santo Domingo
be it in Harlem or in Cap-Haitien

everywhere sadness is like a yeast
our anger swells
o thunder of thunder
we'll be carrying the axe and the flame

your lips  is my wound
red of the first dawn
where goldmerchants are dying
and the people's blood quietly burns
like water's heart at its source
but when the river begins to flow
nothing can stop the proletarian march
a new sun is lighting up the earth


Popular posts from this blog

Poem: In Texas Grass by Quincy Troupe

All along the rail
                                road tracks of texas
                               old train cars lay
                               rusted &overturned
                              like new african governments
                             long forgotten by the people
                              who built & rode them
                                till they couldn't run no more,
                              they remind me of old race horses
                             who've been put out to pasture
                            amongst the weeds
                            rain sleet &snow
                            till they die,rot away
                            like photos fading
                           in grandma's picture book,
                         of old black men in mississippi/texas
                         who sit on dilapidated porches,
                        that fall away
                       like dead man'…

The Speed of Belief by Tracy K Smith (poem)

I didn't want to wait on my knees
In a room made quiet by waiting. A room where we'd listen for the rise
Of breath, the burble in his throat. I didn't want the orchids or the trays
Of food meant to fortify that silence, Or to pray for him to stay or to go then
Finally toward that ecstatic light I didn't want to believe
What we believe in those rooms: That we are blessed, letting go,
Letting someone, anyone, Drag open the drapes and heave us Bak into our blinding, bright lives When your own sweet father died You woke before first light And ate half a plate of eggs and grits, And Drank a glass of milk. After  you'd left, I sat in your place And finished  the toast bits with jam And the cold eggs, the thick bacon Flanged in fat , savoring the taste. Then I slept, too young to know how narrow And grave the road before you seemed--- All the houses zipped tight , the night's Few clouds muddy as cold coffee. You stayed gone a week, and who were we Without your clean p…

My Arkansas by Maya Angelou

There is a deep brooding
                             in Arkansas
                            Old crimes like moss pend
                           from poplar trees.
                           The sullen earth
                           is much too
                          red for comfort.
                          Sunrise seems to hesitate
                           and in that second
                           lose its
                           incandescent aim,and
                          dusk no more shadows
                           than the noon.
                           The past is brighter yet.

                          Old hates and
                          ante-bellum lace,are rent
                          but not discarded.
                          Today is yet to come
                           in Arkansas.
                           it writhes. It writhes in awful brooding.