Filed in:Rebecca Braun
“An Elderly Peasant Woman” by Albrecht Dürer
Remember the years
of struggle and defiance,
underneath it all
you and I had a special alliance.
Those teen-age years
might have challenged our love,
but it was you who held me close
with the spirit from above.
Leaving my home
I fled as far as I was able,
across the country and beyond
to forget my family table.
It was never you, my sweet mother,
never you that made me fly.
I know you understood the reasons,
why I had to say good-bye.
I’ve always loved you dearly,
you have always been the one,
who believed I could make a difference,
believed my life had just begun.
Thirty years later
I return to make amends,
to seek what I’ve been missing
in my family and my friends.
Your voice has long been calling me
to come home and share our love,
through the years I have honored you
making peace with the Lord above.
Now a fragile angel
your face is turning white,
fears have taken you over
having long given up the fight.
Your smile still beams
and your eyes still dance,
I’m here with you now
praying there is still a chance
to give you all that you deserve
before you choose to leave this earth.
May together we experience
the path to life and true rebirth.
©2014 Rebecca Braun All Rights Reserved.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But 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 wells
Pumping 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 mines
Diggin' 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 surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
Upon the death of James Baldwin in 1987, Maya Angelou wrote and eulogized him with the following poem:
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
small things recoil into silence,
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.”
IN MEMORY OF MAYA ANGELOU — 7 Pieces of Timeless Wisdom From Maya Angelou — by Dana Liebelson (Mother Jones Magazine)
7 PIECES OF TIMELESS WISDOM FROM MAYA ANGELOU
The celebrated poet, who died Wednesday at the age of 86, once married a man because he defied rape culture. Here's what else she told Mother Jones nearly 20 years ago.
—By Dana Liebelson (Mother Jones Magazine)
Maya Angelou, acclaimed poet, author, and civil rights activist, died Wednesday at the age of 86. Mother Jones had the opportunity to interview Angelou almost 20 years ago. Our reporter, Ken Kelley, wrote that she "speaks in the lilting cadence of the dancer she was trained to be. She moves with the sure grace of the poet she was born to be." Her words of wisdom are as true now as they were in 1995. Here are seven excerpts from the interview:
1. Not everyone can pull themselves up by the bootstraps:
The powerful say, "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps." But they don't really believe that those living on denuded reservations, or on strip-mined hills, or in ghettos that are destinations for drugs from Colombia and Iraq, can somehow pull themselves up. What they're really saying is, "If you can, do, but if you can't, forget it." It's the most pernicious of all acts of segregation, because it is so subtle.
2. Life isn't about material things:
Somehow, we have come to the erroneous belief that we are all but flesh, blood, and bones, and that's all. So we direct our values to material things. We become what writer Beah Richards calls "exiled to things": If we have three cars rather than two, we'll live a little longer. If we have four more titles, we'll live longer still. And, especially, if we have more money than the next guy, we'll live longer than he. It's so sad. There is something more—the spirit, or the soul.
3. It doesn't matter what a woman is wearing:
I married a man once because of something he said. We were in England, and somebody said that women should always expect to be raped if they wore very short pants and low decolletage and acted "fast." So this man, whom I knew slightly, said, "If a woman has no panties on and sits with her legs wide open, no man has the right to assault her. When a guy tells me, 'I couldn't resist because she did sit in such a provocative way,' all I want to know is if four of her brothers were standing there with baseball bats, would they have resisted?"
4. America is making progress in the fight against racial discrimination, but there's more to do:
We've made a lot of progress—it's dangerous not to say so. Because if we say so, we tell young people, implicitly or explicitly, that there can be no change. Then they compute: "You mean the life and death and work of Malcolm X and Martin King, the Kennedys, Medgar Evers, Fannie Lou Hamer, the life and struggle of Rosa Parks—they did all that and nothing has changed? Well then, what the hell am I doing? There's no point for me to do anything." The truth is, a lot has changed—for the good. And it's gonna keep getting better, according to how we put our courage forward, and thrust our hearts forth.
5. Black children are the representatives of us all:
Those black children are the bravest, without knowing it, representatives of us all. The black kids, the poor white kids, Spanish-speaking kids, and Asian kids in the US—in the face of everything to the contrary, they still bop and bump [snaps fingers], shout and go to school somehow. And dare not only to love somebody else, and even to accept love in return, but dare to love themselves—that's what is most amazing. Their optimism gives me hope.
6. Artists and writers must fight to be heard:
What we ought to be doing is singing in the parks, talking to children, going to gatherings of parents, doing whatever it is we do—dancing, reading poetry, performing—all the time, so that people know, "These artists are my people—you can't kill them, you can't stop them." We then reestablish our footing with the people. All artists must do that, or we will be defanged.
7. Progressives must confront themselves:
We will have to confront. I don't only mean external confrontations. We have to confront ourselves. Do we like what we see in the mirror? And, according to our light, according to our understanding, according to our courage, we will have to say yea or nay—and rise