It is the poets and the writers who are the biggest dangers to society. They’ve already got it all figured out, which is why so many of them are underpaid and marginalized. Think about it – and enjoy a few of my favorites:
Here on the pulse of this new day,
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
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?
Oh, I have been surprised at some of the people my sexiness has upset. Their loss.
Trippers and askers surround me,People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;These come to me days and nights and go from me again,But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.