We present this work in honor of the poet’s 75th birthday.
Alice Walker American b. 1944
I have a friend
who is turning gray,
not just her hair,
and I do not know
why this is so.
Is it a lack of vitamin E
pantothenic acid, or B-12?
Or is it from being frantic
and alone?
‘How long does it take you to love someone?’
I ask her.
‘A hot second,’ she replies.
‘And how long do you love them?’
‘Oh, anywhere up to several months.’
‘And how long does it take you
to get over loving them?’
‘Three weeks,’ she said, ‘tops.’
Did I mention I am also
turning gray?
It is because I *adore* this woman
who thinks of love
in this way.
The great soul
Flew from the Creator
Bearing manna of hope
For his country
Starving severely from an absence
of compassion.
Martin Luther King
The Great Spirit,
Came from the Creator
Proffering a sparkling fountain of fair play
To his country
Parched and deformed by hate.
The whole man came forth
With a brain of gentle wisdom
To persuade quiet
Upon the loud misery of the mob.
A whole man stood out
With a mellifluous voice
To bind the joints of cruelty.
A whole man came
In the midst of a murderous nightmare
Surrounded by demons of war
He dared to dream peace and serenity
With a heart of faith
He hoped
To resurrect his nation.
I open my mouth to the Lord,
And I won’t turn back.
Martin Luther King
Faced the racial
Mountain of segregation and
And bade it move.
The giant mound of human ignorance
Centuries old
And rigid in its determination
Did move, however slightly,
however infinitesimally,
It did move.
I will go, I shall go
I’ll see what the end will be.
Martin Luther King
Brought winds of healing
To his country
Reeling unsteady
With the illness
Of racial prejudice,
Screams of vulgarity
Could not silence him.
Fire bombs and dogs
Could not take his voice away
Ona my knees,
I told God how you treated me
Ona my knees.
He knew himself
A child of God
On a mission from God, and
Standing in the hand of God.
He spoke to the hideous hearts
And to the bitter monstrosities
And asked them to transform
Their ways and thereby
Liberate his country.
Representing the grace of heaven
He spoke to the evils of Hell
Representing gentleness
He sang to brutes.
He brought the great songs of faith
Persuading men and women
To think beyond
Their baser nature.
Lord, don’t move your mountain,
Just give me strength to climb it.
He hummed the old gospels
Encouraging the folk to act
Beyond their puny selves.
You don’t have to move
That stumbling block,
Lord, just lead me around it.
Leader to those who would be led
And hero to millions.
Martin Luther King
Was father to
Yolanda,
Martin, III,
Dexter, and,
Bernice.
He was lover
Friend, and
Husband
To
Coretta Scott King.
He spoke respectfully
Of the Torah.
He spoke respectfully
Of the Koran.
In India, walked in the footprints
Of Mohandas Mahatma Gandhi.
Christianity made him patient
With all religions
And his tremendous heart
Made him believe
That all people
Were his people
All creeds and cultures
Were comfortable in
His giant embrace
And all just causes
Were his to support and extol
Through sermons and allocutions
With praise songs and orations
He preached fair play and serenity
From hand cuffs and prison garb
From leg irons and prison bars
He taught triumph over loss
And love over despair
Hallelujah over the dirges and
Joy over moaning.
Fear not, we’ve come too far to turn back
We are not afraid, and
We shall overcome
We shall overcome
Deep in my heart
I do believe
We shall overcome
Someday.
In your next letter I wish you’d say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you’re pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road gose round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,
and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you’re in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,
and most of the jokes you just can’t catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so teribly late,
and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
—Wheat, not oats, dear. I’m afraid
if it’s wheat it’s none of your sowing,
nevertheless I’d like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
Poets Corner 