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Hard Times Require Furious Dancing

New World Library

    YES, I KNOW


    Yes, I know I am not
    a farmer
    and that you
    are
    not
    a gypsy
    or a king:
    Have you ever
    heard
    of
    poetic license?
    It is when
    for instance
    the poet
    writes
    buffaloes
    instead
    of buffalo
    because
    their
    numbers
    are now
    so
    thin
    &
    she
    does
    not
    want
    the remaining
    tiny
    herds
    to feel
    lonely.

    I claim
    farming ancestry:
    Generations
    going back
    sometimes
    farther
    than
    I wish
    to look:
    All those Africans
    & their
    yam & cassava fields
    the Indians &
    their corn
    &
    beans
    the English
    & their
    collard plants
    the Scots
    their
    what?
    crabgrass?
    maybe oats!
    the Irish
    their potatoes
    the Elves
    their
    herbs.

    All killing themselves
    now
    by the thousands
    farmers
    killing themselves
    by
    their own
    calloused
    hands;
    not just
    in India,
    where suicide
    among
    farmers
    is
    a leading cause
    of
    death
    but in
    America
    too
    they are doing
    it.

    How can this be?
    And how can
    we
    bear
    the
    loss?

    So I claim
    them
    in
    myself:
    I
    am
    that.

    I too
    run after
    the Earth
    as it disappears
    beneath
    my feet;

    I too
    mourn
    machines moving
    over her face
    without
    empathy
    or
    love
    of
    her.

    Even so,
    you are
    quite right:
    I am not
    a "farmer"
    as most
    would think
    of
    it:
    Tilling my tiny
    plots
    of corn
    &
    beans;
    collards
    &
    squash;
    strawberries:
    Leaning more
    &
    more
    on the strength
    & youth
    of
    others
    as time
    moves on.

    No, I was born to grow,
    alongside my garden of plants,
    poems
    like
    this one:

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]


    YOU CONFIDE IN ME


    You confide
    in me
    that
    you
    are lonely,

    that romance
    juicy
    &
    red
    never stays
    long
    at
    your
    house.
    But when
    I visit
    you
    what
    do I
    find?

    You do not
    own
    a sofa!
    Without
    a sofa
    preferably
    burgundy
    or maroon
    you cannot
    expect
    to
    have romance
    come
    &
    stay
    in your
    house.

    A sofa is
    essential
    to all
    that
    lures
    romance
    to
    your boudoir;

    I cannot
    believe
    you are
    so old
    &
    do not
    know
    this.

    Well, lucky
    for you
    I am older!

    Trying to have
    romance
    sit down,
    visit
    &
    decide to
    stay
    with
    you
    when you have
    no sofa
    on
    which
    to sit
    is like
    using one
    hand
    in the
    vast
    ocean
    to
    catch
    a
    large fish.


    YOU'D BE SURPRISED


    You'd be surprised
    to find
    how cleansing
    it feels
    to depose
    a
    dictator:
    There she is
    anticipating your
    every wish
    seeking to orchestrate
    your every
    desire.
    Get rid of her!
    Life is too broad
    a country
    to tolerate
    such foolishness
    in your
    own
    small
    yard.


    VASILISA


    My sisters
    abandoned me.
    I might have
    died
    from their
    calculated
    indifference
    & neglect.
    Still
    I ran after
    them
    like a beggar
    holding
    out
    my trust.


    SOMETIMES


    Sometimes
    who knows how?
    the body & the soul
    come back
    together
    again
    the hand
    holding the pen
    writes
    not advertising
    but
    heart.


    EASY


    When I understood
    you were
    a tiger
    learning to love
    & not
    devour
    a monkey
    I could rest
    easy
    under
    your paws.


    COMPATIBLE


    We are not
    compatible
    said the
    tiger
    to
    the bear.
    The tiger
    was spitting
    out blackberry
    seeds
    barely disguising
    his
    disgust.
    The bear
    was feeling
    foolish
    a leaping
    antelope
    between
    his teeth.


    THE ANSWER IS YES


    You must
    run around like a
    crazy person
    or
    walk
    sedately
    honoring
    the
    dead.


    MY TEACHER


    Marley Mu came into my life when life was dragging
    and while teaching her how to pee in the right place,
    eat without too much slobber
    kiss me without stopping up my nose
    she made me see that life is always
    wonderful
    it is only us
    who
    get off track
    &
    cannot see
    the magic.

    We were together
    thirteen long years,
    good years,
    & she was my
    teacher.

    All her life
    I knew where she was
    every night
    except two.

    There were many who loved her.
    And even one night when she
    was lost
    her sweet spirit sent her rescuers
    to find me.

    I will miss her, the Marley Mu
    who came to live
    with me
    & yet
    one other thing
    she taught
    is that
    there is only one
    Mu
    & so
    I learned
    that she is the sweet
    black Lab
    — on the beach
    in the street —
    still
    coming
    lovingly
    to greet
    me
    everywhere.

    Alice Walker Mu — June 13, 2008


    THIS ROOM

    This room
    is very powerful:
    Buddha, golden,
    holding down one side;
    the primordial
    Great Mother, black,
    offering her
    bead
    of mitochondria
    holding down
    the other.
    My meditation
    chairs
    are made of wicker
    a miracle
    crafted by
    human hands.
    Human being
    may I not
    forget you
    in all
    this talk
    of God.


    STILL


    I have found
    powerful
    love
    among
    my sisters
    I have
    shredded
    every
    veil
    and still
    believe
    in them.


    LOST

    My daughter
    is lost
    to me
    but I am not
    lost:
    She says
    freedom
    to her
    means
    having a loving
    mother;
    which
    as Mu* is my witness,
    I have been
    &
    am.

    However:

    Liberation
    is in
    the heart
    of
    the tethered
    as Harriet**
    teaches us.
    I bow
    to
    this history
    &
    our difference.

    Freedom
    to me
    means
    love itself
    may not
    be
    chained
    &
    that
    I
    at the very least

may
own
myself.


    IN US


    In us
    the old dark
    Indians
    reappear

    who were
    not
    wrong

    though
    chopped
    in half
    for living
    on their
    sacred
    lands.

    In us
    the old
    dark
    Indians
    reappear
    silent
    disclosing
    our
    massacres
    by our
    lack
    of
    trust

    silent
    unmoved
    by
    word or
    deed

    straight
    of
    back
    &
    silent
    above all
    in our
    wooden
    chairs.


    CALLING ALL GRAND MOTHERS

    We have to live
    differently

    or we
    will die
    in the same

    old ways.

    Therefore
    I call on all Grand Mothers
    everywhere
    on the planet
    to rise
    and take your place
    in the leadership
    of the world

    Come out
    of the kitchen
    out of the
    fields
    out of the
    beauty parlors
    out of the
    television

    Step forward
    & assume
    the role
    for which
    you were
    created:

    To lead humanity
    to health, happiness
    & sanity.

    I call on
    all the
    Grand Mothers
    of Earth
    & every person
    who possesses
    the Grand Mother
    spirit
    of respect for
    life
    &
    protection of
    the young
    to rise
    & lead.

    The life of
    our species
    depends
    on it.

    & I call on all men
    of Earth
    to gracefully
    and
    gratefully

    stand aside
    & let them
    (let us)
    do so.


    ONE EARTH


    One Earth
    One People
    One Love

    One Earth
    One People
    One Love

    One Earth
    One People
    One Love


    THE TASTE OF GRUDGE

    The soul knows pain but is never diminished, injured, or
    destroyed. Thank you, Clarissa, for teaching this.

    I.

    How many
    times
    life
    has
    seemed
    too steep
    a
    hill
    to
    climb
    how
    many times
    the hill
    has disappeared
    like
    mist.

    I am carried
    in arms
    that planned
    adventure
    for
    my life

    I sit nowhere
    I am
    told
    to
    stand.

    II.

    You
    will
    concern
    me
    in
    my dreams
    &
    in my
    hour
    of
    death:

    I love you
    in & out
    of
    all
    assignments.

    Obviously
    we
    had
    work
    to
    do.

    III.

    Do not fight
    the despair
    of
    harming
    me.
    To my
    kindness
    you
    have
    been
    rude
    &
    more.
    Something
    in life
    evens
    every
    score
    &
    I am left
    to
    say
    even
    if I disappear
    be
    safe.

    IV.

    Let the
    joyful
    heart
    that
    knows
    the
    dance
    return!
    Sorrow has
    banished
    it,
    grief
    has
    stilled
    my feet.
    But there
    remains
    internal
    movement
    toward
    life's
    margin
    where
    all
    begins
    again
    in
    solemn
    beat.

    V.

    Who can
    completely
    stop
    a gift?

    My love
    will flow
    around
    your
    rocks
    break
    your
    dam
    & live
    in
    all
    the
    trampled
    plants
    of
    your
    fouled
    wilderness.

    It is a bright
    spring
    glowing
    rippling
    overflowing
    in
    the
    shade.

    I do not
    regret
    that
    I am
    imperfect.

    In each crack
    there is
    an orchid
    growing

    & chocolate
    serves
    me
    when

    I
    slip
    from
    grace.

    I do not
    relish
    perfection
    or sainthood.

    Flying
    through
    this
    existence
    as
    myself
    I honor
    all
    the
    fierce
    edges
    I have
    made
    for
    myself
    &
    the conundrums
    I have
    made
    for
    you.

    VI.

    There is
    no God
    but
    love
    which
    is
    what
    I
    have
    become.

    Just a
    part
    a
    tiny
    part
    of
    it
    beyond
    anger
    beyond
    blame
    but
    not

    beyond
    the
    peace
    still
    possible
    to
    all
    in this
    world.

    VII.

    I do not
    mourn
    that is not
    the feeling
    I have
    but rather
    I feel
    the
    cool
    darkness
    inside
    me
    steady
    as a
    slowly
    flowing
    stream.

    It glimmers
    & glows
    but
    little
    yet
    lights my way.

    VIII.

    You have hit
    a wall
    that
    was
    my
    open heart.

    Protection
    (not closure)
    has
    sprung up
    like
    those
    weeds
    in
    Mexico
    we eat
    in
    salads.

    It
    just grows
    there
    sent
    by
    angels
    the same ones
    ageless
    who are
    always
    looking out
    for me.

    I may die
    tonight
    perhaps you
    are killing
    me.
    I do not
    blame you
    for anything.
    You were
    part of
    the work
    I was given
    on
    this
    trip.
    You did
    your
    part.
    I did
    mine.

    IX.

    The journey
    of death
    the journey
    to death
    I do not
    fear.
    When you smell
    a rose
    or see one
    or
    see a
    doe
    or jackrabbit,
    a leaf,
    a star
    there
    I
    will be.
    Sooner
    or later
    & you
    will see: No anger
    followed me.
    No injury.
    No blame.

    X.

    Save yourself!
    It can be done.
    Even if the mind
    is
    shambled
    sit still
    place
    your
    back
    against
    a tree
    like Buddha
    & steady
    it.
    Silence it.
    It wants
    to go on
    possessing
    controlling
    raging
    dictating
    lying.

    But life's
    too short!

    You'll wake up
    in the
    night
    one day
    &
    it will all
    — this life —
    be over!

    What a waste
    is any kind
    of
    grudge.

    The taste
    of
    grudge
    destroys
    completely
    the
    taste
    of
    cherries.

    Wake up!
    before it is
    too late:
    Rejoice
    to have
    the
    noble
    dwelling
    of
    your body
    with all
    its
    teeth!

    XI.

    Let the wind
    talk
    to you
    on the moor,
    like
    Jane Eyre
    & your
    sister's
    heroes
    in
    books
    that
    threw
    a lifeline
    across
    abyss after
    abyss
    of craziness.

    XII.

    We did what
    we could
    with what
    was
    forced
    on us.

    No regrets.
    No blame.
    The taste
    of figs
    cherries
    peaches
    mangoes
    orange peel
    scent

    with blind
    luck
    & many
    tribulations
    we made it
    to
    this
    world!

    XIII.

    Rise! Rising
    as Maya
    reminds us
    is our
    way
    with
    devastation.
    There is
    no
    god
    but
    love
    &
    so
    rising is
    inherent
    in
    our
    heartbeat
    as we
    move
    carried or
    knocked
    about
    by life.

    This we know:
    We were
    not meant
    to suffer
    so much
    & to learn
    nothing.


    LOVE IS THAT GIANT BAG


    Love
    is that giant
    bag
    of everything
    into
    which
    we
    might
    disappear
    without
    a trace
    &
    be found
    again:
    Even
    the parent
    you
    thought
    was
    lost.

    Father,
    gone to spirit
    before
    you reached
    my
    age,
    I am
    your
    dream
    of
    me
    &
    more
    &
    I will
    carry
    us,
    plucked
    from
    love's
    abyss.


    WATCHING YOU HOLD YOUR HATRED


    Watching you
    hold
    your
    hatred
    for such a long time
    I wonder:
    Isn't it
    slippery?
    Might you
    not
    someday
    drop it
    on
    yourself?

    I wonder:
    Where does it sleep
    if ever?

    And where
    do
    you deposit
    it
    while you
    feed
    your
    children
    or

    sit
    in the
    lap
    of
    the one
    who
    cherishes
    you?

    There is no
    graceful
    way
    to
    carry
    hatred.

    While
    hidden
    it is
    everywhere.


    I WILL KEEP BROKEN THINGS


    I will keep
    broken
    things:
    The big clay
    pot
    with raised
    iguanas
    chasing
    their
    tails;
    two
    of their
    wise
    heads
    sheared
    off;

    I will keep
    broken
    things:
    The old
    slave
    market
    basket
    brought
    to my
    door
    by Mississippi
    a jagged
    hole
    gouged
    in its sturdy
    dark
    oak
    side.

    I will keep
    broken
    things:
    The memory
    of
    those
    long
    delicious
    night
    swims
    with
    you;

    I will keep
    broken
    things:
    In my house
    there
    remains
    an
    honored
    shelf
    on which
    I will
    keep
    broken
    things.

    Their beauty
    is
    they
    need
    not
    ever
    be
    "fixed."

    I will keep
    your
    wild
    free
    laughter
    though
    it is now
    missing
    its
    reassuring
    and

    graceful
    hinge.

    I will keep
    broken
    things:

    Thank you
    so much!

    I will keep
    broken
    things.
    I will keep
    you:

    pilgrim
    of
    sorrow.

    I will keep
    myself.


    LA VACA

    For Marco


    Look
    into
    her eyes
    and know:
    She does not think
    of
    herself
    as
    steak.


    MONKEYS ARE CURIOUS

    We want
    to know.

    Monkeys are curious.
    We ask
    ourselves:
    Will the tiger
    bite
    will the snake
    choke
    will the dragon
    charm
    will the elephant
    trample us?

    Will the pig entertain?

    We want
    to know
    these
    things.


    I KNOW MY DUTY TO LIFE

    I know
    my duty
    to life,

    I was not
    born
    tomorrow;

    how could
    I know
    how
    hard
    it
    will be?

    Our children
    cooked
    by
    an
    indifferent
    sun

    once a Goddess;
    now
    through
    negligence
    & scanty praise
    simply
    fire.

    I know
    my duty
    to life,
    to stop
    wars
    especially
    those
    I cause
    within
    myself.

    Who knew?
    Fights
    with ourselves
    each
    other
    &
    her
    led
    to the
    encirclement
    of
    the globe
    in
    ice
    & all our
    beloved
    cousins
    furry
    &
    nonfurry
    stuck
    in
    it
    forever?

    I know
    my duty
    to life:
    I am grateful to have
    even a glimpse
    of it!

    Life
    gives me
    this hammock
    a close-up
    view
    of hand-plastered
    walls
    & blue
    forget-me-nots
    that bloom
    within
    eyes'
    reach.

    Yes
    it is life
    that has given
    me
    this swinging
    white
    hammock
    made of
    string
    by
    humble
    hands
    that
    still
    pray;
    this hammock
    sold
    for a dollar
    on a beach
    littered
    shamefully
    but
    still
    beautiful
    &
    pure.

    I see
    that I,
    though
    not
    born
    tomorrow,
    am permitted —
    swinging
    suspended
    in time —
    to see it
    from
    here.


    WORD HAS REACHED ME

    Word has reached me
    that you are dying
    you, who hid
    in the closet
    the morning
    I was born
    to witness
    my birth
    — investigative Scorpio —
    and did not believe in cabbage
    or stork.

    I am far away
    not only in distance
    from your bed
    but
    in emotion.

    Calling hospice
    I hear
    your quite loud
    moans
    of resistance:
    You do not want to go
    & even dying
    you will not pretend
    otherwise.

    Oprah you will miss
    you have said, your
    most
    beloved,
    & all your friends
    from television
    who
    kept
    you
    company:
    befriending you
    through pain
    &
    drama
    over
    so many
    searing
    &
    tumultuous
    years.

    I, once so close
    have drifted.

    Yesterday
    my friends and I chanted
    for an hour
    an ancient mantra
    for sending
    loved ones on their way
    with kindness
    &
    no fear.

    We lit candles
    & incense
    &
    in my chanting
    vision
    I saw you
    seating yourself
    (dressed in black: centered
    and calm)
    in a small boat
    ochre colored
    both
    boat
    &
    sail.

    Let go, let go
    into the soothing river
    channel
    I said to you
    & you
    looked
    as though
    you were considering
    it.

    Hearing your voice
    over thousands
    of miles
    no words
    only
    sounds of protest
    of struggle
    of fighting —
    it is so
    you.
    So much
    your
    essence
    I hear in
    the argument
    you make.

    Praying, later,
    I sent word
    to you that both our parents
    are waiting
    — all, whatever it was
    that rankled —
    is now
    & forevermore
    forgiven:
    Grandpa & Grandma
    are
    waiting too.

    How they loved & what is more, understood, you.
    I wonder if or why
    you fear them?

    As for me,
    I am
    spending the morning
    thinking of you
    feeling with you
    and wishing
    you
    ease
    &
    peace.

    Sweeping up the petals
    of flowers
    that surround
    my door
    I see your face
    all our faces
    swept away
    by life's good
    broom
    whenever
    &
    wherever
    we fall.

    Let go.
    Off into the river
    channel. Let go.
    All is well.
    The love we shared as children
    is not lost, though we have been.

    Let go.
    Let go.
    Let go.


    I PRAY FOR YOU


    I pray
    for you
    to love
    the precious
    body
    this
    lifetime
    has
    given
    you
    as I love it.

    In youth
    every speeding
    motorcycle
    beckoned
    to turn
    itself
    over
    on
    you:

    Knives
    held
    by
    goons
    found
    their way
    into
    your
    blameless
    flesh:
    Somehow
    you broke
    both
    your shoulders
    &
    many
    helpful
    bones
    in legs
    &
    feet.

    I can hardly
    bear
    to touch
    the scarred
    ridges
    under the
    sweet
    hair
    on
    your
    so
    frequently
    battered
    head;
    you
    have
    crashed
    into
    life
    repeatedly,
    thinking
    perhaps
    you
    are
    a
    bull.

    O
    Holy One
    so
    filled
    with
    compassion
    for even
    the tiniest
    fly
    why must
    it be
    that
    dismissing
    endless roses
    saluting
    us
    in this world
    if there
    is
    anywhere
    a
    thorn
    you
    will
    walk
    into
    it?


    I WILL NOT DENY


    I will not deny
    my lips
    their smile
    I will not deny
    my heart
    its sorrow
    I will not deny
    my eyes
    their tears
    I will not deny
    my hair
    the wildness
    of my age

    It is
    profound
    selfishness

    I will deny
    me nothing
    of myself.


    YOU WILL NEVER KNOW


    You will never
    know
    how
    much
    I loved
    you
    as
    I watched
    them
    stone
    you
    in the film.

    Cowards,
    they covered
    up
    your body
    & your
    face
    so they
    would not
    have
    to notice
    you.

    There is a stone
    the perfect
    size
    to crush
    your skull
    another
    just right
    to bash
    the delicate
    bridge
    of
    your nose:
    Still another,
    needle edged
    with
    which
    to gash
    open
    or
    bruise shut
    your
    eyes.

    Your pink
    shroud
    that
    you
    must
    wear
    every day
    of
    your
    life
    has
    a tiny
    window:
    Did you
    bother
    to look
    out of it
    to
    see?

    Your neighbors
    and
    their boys
    would have
    been there:

    Children
    have to learn.

    Perhaps your own
    sons
    were encouraged
    to throw
    the first
    stone.

    I don't speak
    of Jesus
    as much
    as some do —
    though
    I
    miss
    him
    just
    as
    much:

    Still, how right
    he was —
    honoring
    the feminine
    in woman
    the Earth
    &
    himself —
    to try
    to put
    a stop
    to this.


    HERE

    To my sixteen-year-old Beamer

    Here
    I
    inhabit
    the world
    of
    Wabi-sabi:

    Anything
    new
    in
    this
    place
    aged
    long
    ago.

    There is
    nothing
    without
    nicks
    &
    dents
    scratches
    &
    rips;
    both
    night
    gown
    &
    table
    cloth
    have
    holes.

    This is not
    because
    once
    upon
    a
    time
    I was
    poor:

    Poor,
    we
    would
    have
    hated
    this.

    It is
    that
    now
    I imitate
    what
    Leonard*
    calls
    the
    real
    masterpiece:

    Some
    part
    of which
    is
    always
    tearing
    dissolving
    rotting
    being
    blown
    away
    by
    wind
    or eaten
    up
    by
    bugs.
    The
    Wabi-sabi
    of
    Earth
    makes
    us
    want
    to let
    our stairs
    &
    our
    chairs
    creak;

    to let
    our
    teenagers —
    tattered
    &
    pierced —
    be
    our
    cars.


    MEETING YOU

    Kept from
    your birth
    still I realize
    we
    will someday
    meet.

    Hello, you might
    begin the conversation.
    Are you
    my grandmother?
    And I,
    being your
    cheeky monkey twin,
    may reply:
    Maybe.

    Or I might begin:
    Yo, cute boy,
    are you
    my grandchild?
    & you,
    cautious Capricorn,
    might reply:
    It's possible.
    You will see
    living as you do
    in the Aquarian
    Age
    when it is
    at last
    possible
    for mere
    thought
    to quickly
    transform
    the world —
    nothing
    will
    ultimately separate
    us:
    not
    space
    not
    time
    not unanticipated
    turbulence
    &
    discord.

    Life
    keeps us apart
    now
    for a reason
    only it
    knows:
    Understanding
    this
    we have only
    to endure
    a separation
    that
    instantly
    disappears
    whenever you
    or I
    smell
    a
    flower.

    Perhaps
    like all gods
    in whom
    we must
    have trust
    Life,
    Grandmother's
    god
    of choice,
    is simply
    testing
    us.

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Excerpted from Hard Times Require Furious Dancing by Alice Walker, Shiloh McCloud. Copyright © 2010 Alice Walker. Excerpted by permission of New World Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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