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The Profile on the Pillow After our fierce loving in the brief time we found to be together, you lay in the half light exhausted, rich, with your face turned sideways on the pillow and I traced the exquisite line of your profile, dark against the white, delicate and lovely as a childs. Perhaps you will cease to love me. or we may be consumed in the holocaust, but I keep, against the ice and the fire, the memory of your profile on the pillow. Reprinted courtesy of Lotus Press. Online Source " Booker T.
and W. E. B. " " It seems to me, " said Booker T. , " It shows a mighty lot of cheek To study chemistry and Greek When Mister Charlie needs a hand To hoe the cotton on his land, And when Miss Ann looks for a cook, Why stick your nose inside a book? " " I dont agree, " said W. E. B. , " If I should have the drive to seek Knowledge of chemistry or Greek, Ill do it. Charles and Miss can look Another place for hand or cook.
Some men rejoice in skill of hand, And some in cultivating land, But there are others who maintain The right to cultivate the brain. " " It seems to me, " said Booker T. , " That all you folks have missed the boat Who shout about the right to vote, And spend vain days and sleepless nights In uproar over civil rights. Just keep your mouths shut, do not grouse, But work, and save, and buy a house. " " I dont agree, " said W. E. B. , " For what can property avail If dignity and justice fail. Unless you help to make the laws, Theyll steal your house with trumped-up clause.
A ropes as tight, a fire as hot, No matter how much cash youve got. Speak soft, and try your little plan, But as for me, Ill be a man. " " It seems to me, " said Booker T. " I dont agree, " Said W. E. B. Courtesy of Broadside Press.
Online Source Poet Is Not a Jukebox A poet is not a jukebox, so dont tell me what to write. I read a dear friend a poem about love, and she said, Youre in to that bag now, for whatever its worth, But why dont you write about the riot in Miami? I didnt write about Miami because I didnt know about Miami. Ive been so busy working for the Census, and listening to music all night, and making new poems That Ive broken my habit of watching TV and reading newspapers. So it wasnt absence of Black Pride that caused me not to write about Miami, But simple ignorance. Telling a Black poet what he ought to write Is like some Commissar of Culture in Russia telling a poet Hed better write about the new steel furnaces in the Novobigorsk region, Or the heroic feats of Soviet labor in digging the trans-Caucasus Canal, Or the unprecedented achievement of workers in the sugar beet industry who exceeded their quota by 400 percent (it was later discovered to be a typists error).
Maybe the Russian poet is watching his mother die of cancer, Or is bleeding from an unhappy love affair, Or is bursting with happiness and wants to sing of wine, roses, and nightingales. Ill bet that in a hundred years the poems the Russian people will read, sing and love Will be the poems about his mothers death, his unfaithful mistress, or his wine, roses and nightingales, Not the poems about steel furnaces, the trans-Caucasus Canal, or the sugar beet industry. A poet writes about what he feels, what agitates his heart and sets his pen in motion. Not what some apparatchik dictates, to promote his own career or theories. Yeah, maybe Ill write about Miami, as I wrote about Birmingham, But itll be because I want to write about Miami, not because somebody says I ought to. Yeah, I write about love.
Whats wrong with love? If we had more loving, wed have more Black babies to become Black brothers and sisters and build the Black family. When people love, they bathe with sweet-smelling soap, splash their bodies with perfume or cologne, Shave, and comb their hair, and put on gleaming silken garments, Speak softly and kindly and study their beloved to anticipate and satisfy her every desire. After loving theyre relaxed and happy and friends with all the world. Whats wrong with love, beauty, joy and peace? If Josephine had given Napoleon more loving, he wouldnt have sown the meadows of Europe with skulls.
If Hitler had been happy in love, he wouldnt have baked people in ovens. So dont tell me its trivial and a cop-out to write about love and not about Miami. A poet is not a jukebox. A poet is not a jukebox. I repeat, A poet is not a jukebox for someone to shove a quarter in his ear and get the tune they want to hear, Or to pat on the head and call a good little Revolutionary, Or to give a Kuumba Liberation Award.
A poet is not a jukebox. A poet is not a jukebox. A poet is not a jukebox. So dont tell me what to write. 1981. Online Source
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