Maya Angelou

Still I Rise

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

I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

1978

………………

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings1

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind

and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom

1969

…………

Audre Lorde

The Black Unicorn

The black unicorn is greedy.

1
Angelou has credited Paul Laurence Dunbar, along with Shakespeare, with forming her as a writer. The
title of the poem [and of her homonymous autobiography] comes from the third stanza of Dunbar’s
poem "Sympathy":

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,
When he beats his bars and would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –
I know why the caged bird sings.
The black unicorn is impatient.

The black unicorn was mistaken

for a shadow or symbol

and taken

through a cold country

where mist painted mockeries

of my fury.

It is not on her lap where the horn rests

but deep in her moonpit

growing.

The black unicorn is restless

the black unicorn is unrelenting

the black unicorn is not

free.

1978

………..

The Art of Response

The first answer was incorrect

the second was
sorry the third trimmed its toenails
on the Vatican steps
the fourth went mad
the fifth
nursed a grudge until it bore twins
that drank poisoned grape juice in Jonestown
the sixth wrote a book about it
the seventh
argued a case before the Supreme Court
against taxation on Girl Scout Cookies
while four Black babies
and one other picketed in New York City
for a hospital bed to die in
the ninth and tenth swore
Revenge on the Opposition
and the eleventh dug their graves
next to Eternal Truth
the twelfth
processed funds from a Third World country
that provides doctors for Central Harlem
the thirteenth
refused
the fourteenth sold cocaine and shamrocks
near a toilet in the Big Apple circus
the fifteenth
changed the question.

1986

----------------

Nina Simone, Weldon Irvine Jr

To Be Young, Gifted And Black (1969) 2 [1]

To be young, gifted and black,

Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black,
Open your heart to what I mean

In the whole world you know

There are billion boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black,
And that’s a fact!

Young, gifted and black

We must begin to tell our young
There’s a world waiting for you
This is a quest that’s just begun

When you feel really low

Yeah, there’s a great truth you should know
When you’re young, gifted and black
Your soul’s intact

2
Toward the end of 1968, singer and songwriter Nina Simone had begun working with a young, multi-
talented musician, Weldon Irvine, and with him she had written “Young, Gifted and Black” as a way of
paying homage to her longtime friend, playwright Lorraine Hansberry (best known for Raisin in the Sun).
Released as a single in November 1969, it became Nina’s biggest RCA hit, reaching the Top 10 on the
R&B charts. More importantly, it became an important statement that reflected the increasing desire to
express pride in the achievements of African-Americans. This was the dawning of a new day and Nina
and Weldon were verbalizing a culture’s state of mind with their uplifting message of encouragement
and empowerment. Not surprisingly, the song has gone on to become the most recorded item in Nina’s
repertoire, spawning versions by Aretha Franklin, Donny Hathaway, Dionne Warwick and ’70s reggae
stars Bob & Marcia, among others.
Young, gifted and black
How I long to know the truth
There are times when I look back
And I am haunted by my youth

Oh but my joy of today

Is that we can all be proud to say
To be young, gifted and black
Is where it’s at

FOR A COOL EXAMPLE OF SIGNIFYIN’ – we will listen to “I put a spell on you”

----------------

Toni Morrison

“The Dead of September 11”

Some have God's words; others have songs of comfort

for the bereaved. If I can pluck courage here, I would

like to speak directly to the dead -- the September dead.

Those children of ancestors born in every continent

on the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas...;

born of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, geles,

wide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes,

feathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say

a word until I could set aside all I know or believe about

nations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable;

all I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen

my tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil ---

wanton or studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of

a sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple

compulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge

my language of hypberbole; of its eagerness to analyze

the levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their

higher or lower status among others of its kind.

Speaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for

a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts.

Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be seduced by blitz.

To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim

false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed just in time

for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear,

knowing all the time that I have nothing to say --

no words stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture

older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you have become.

And I have nothing to give either--

except this gesture, this thread thrown between your humanity and mine:

I want to hold you in my arms

and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand, as you

have done, the wit of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through

the darkness of its knell.

2001