6 poems

Nikki G.
1.Knoxville Tennessee

I always like summerBestyou can eat fresh cornFrom daddy's gardenAnd okraAnd greensAnd cabbageAnd lots ofBarbequeAnd buttermilkAnd homemade ice-creamAt the church picnicAnd listen toGospel musicOutsideAt the churchHomecomingAnd go to the mountains withYour grandmotherAnd go barefootedAnd be warmAll the timeNot only when you go to bedAnd sleep

Mya Angelou
2.Still I Rise

You may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?'Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.Did you want to see me broken?Bowed head and lowered eyes?Shoulders falling down like teardrops.Weakened by my soulful cries.Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard'Cause I laugh like I've got gold minesDiggin' in my own back yard.You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I'll rise.Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surpriseThat I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?Out of the huts of history's shameI riseUp from a past that's rooted in painI riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.Leaving behind nights of terror and fearI riseInto a daybreak that's wondrously clearI riseBringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,I am the dream and the hope of the slave.I riseI riseI rise.

3.The Detached

We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets, Stranglers to our outstretched necks, Stranglers, who neither care norcare to know thatDEATH IS INTERNAL.We pray, Savoring sweet the teethed lies, Bellying the grounds before alien gods, Gods, who neither know norwish to know thatHELL IS INTERNAL.We love, Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands, Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses, Kisses that neither touch norcare to touch ifLOVE IS INTERNAL.

4. Gwendolyn brooks
The Mother

Abortions will not let you forget.You remember the children you got that you did not get,The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,The singers and workers that never handled the air.You will never neglect or beatThem, or silence or buy with a sweet.You will never wind up the sucking-thumbOr scuttle off ghosts that come.You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killedchildren.I have contracted. I have easedMy dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seizedYour luckAnd your lives from your unfinished reach,If I stole your births and your names,Your straight baby tears and your games,Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,and your deaths,If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.Though why should I whine,Whine that the crime was other than mine?--Since anyhow you are dead.Or rather, or instead,You were never made.But that too, I am afraid,Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?You were born, you had body, you died.It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.Believe me, I loved you all.Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved youAll.

Langston huges
5.Democracy

Democracy will not comeToday, this yearNor everThrough compromise and fear.I have as much right As the other fellow hasTo standOn my two feet And own the land.I tire so of hearing people say, Let things take their course.Tomorrow is another day.I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.FreedomIs a strong seedPlantedIn a great need.I live here, too.I want freedomJust as you.

6. Shakespeare
Sonnet 141: In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,For they in thee a thousand errors note;But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted,Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invitedTo any sensual feast with thee alone;But my five wits, nor my five senses canDissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be.Only my plague thus far I count my gain,That she that makes me sin awards me pain.