Tag: poem

We, too

I was home
In Lincoln Heights
Named for Abraham
As many other small black
Communities are
 
Only 20 years old
Not cowardly
I had picketed Rich’s
Department Store in Knoxville
I sat in with Fisk University
In Nashville
 
But not all that Brave
 
Mommy didn’t want
Me to go
Neither did my father and I wondered
Would it matter
 
50 years later I know
It did
We watched
We prayed
We, too, were
inspired
 
I didn’t go
 
I stayed home
And reminded myself:
We also serve
Who sit
And Wait

Poem by Nikki Giovanni for The American Prospect, on the 50th anniversary of the march on Washington.

The photo is one I took of her at the dedication of the Civil Rights Memorial in Capitol Square in Richmond, Virginia in 2008, and is previously unpublished. Our paths once crossed frequently (her office was in the building next to my lab at Virginia Tech).  We would see and greet one another on campus walkways almost daily, and she was always on hand whenever the university needed a poet’s voice to solemnize an event. Regrettably, the noon shadows in this shot obscure the sparkle I always remember in her eyes.

We, too

I was home
In Lincoln Heights
Named for Abraham
As many other small black
Communities are
 
Only 20 years old
Not cowardly
I had picketed Rich’s
Department Store in Knoxville
I sat in with Fisk University
In Nashville
 
But not all that Brave
 
Mommy didn’t want
Me to go
Neither did my father and I wondered
Would it matter
 
50 years later I know
It did
We watched
We prayed
We, too, were
inspired
 
I didn’t go
 
I stayed home
And reminded myself:
We also serve
Who sit
And Wait

Poem by Nikki Giovanni for The American Prospect, on the 50th anniversary of the march on Washington.

The photo is one I took of her at the dedication of the Civil Rights Memorial in Capitol Square in Richmond, Virginia in 2008, and is previously unpublished. Our paths once crossed frequently (her office was in the building next to my lab at Virginia Tech).  We would see and greet one another on campus walkways almost daily, and she was always on hand whenever the university needed a poet’s voice to solemnize an event. Regrettably, the noon shadows in this shot obscure the sparkle I always remember in her eyes.

Gathering Leaves

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.

But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.

I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who’s to say where
The harvest shall stop?

By Robert Frost, in the 1923 collection of poems titled New Hampshire.

Gathering Leaves

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.

But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.

I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who’s to say where
The harvest shall stop?

By Robert Frost, in the 1923 collection of poems titled New Hampshire.