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Best Famous Alice Walker Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Alice Walker poems. This is a select list of the best famous Alice Walker poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Alice Walker poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Alice Walker poems.

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by Alice Walker |

When Golda Meir was in Africa

When Golda Meir
Was in Africa
She shook out her hair
And combed it
Everywhere she went.
According to her autobiography Africans loved this.
In Russia, Minneapolis, London, Washington, D.
C.
, Germany, Palestine, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem She never combed at all.
There was no point.
In those Places people said, "She looks like Any other aging grandmother.
She looks Like a troll.
Let's sell her cookery And guns.
" "Kreplach your cookery," said Golda.
Only in Africa could she finally Settle down and comb her hair.
The children crept up and stroked it, And she felt beautiful.
Such wonderful people, Africans Childish, arrogant, self-indulgent, pompous, Cowardly and treacherous-a great disappointment To Israel, of course, and really rather Ridiculous in international affairs But, withal, opined Golda, a people of charm And good taste.


by Alice Walker |

The Old Men Used to Sing

The old men used to sing
And lifted a brother
Carefully
Out the door
I used to think they
Were born
Knowing how to
Gently swing
A casket
They shuffled softly
Eyes dry
More awkward
With the flowers
Than with the widow
After they'd put the
Body in
And stood around waiting
In their
Brown suits.


by Alice Walker |

THEY WHO FEEL DEATH

(FOR MARTYRS)


They who feel death close as a breath
Speak loudly in unlighted rooms
Lounge upright in articulate gesture
Before the herd of jealous Gods


Fate finds them receiving
At home.
Grim the warrior forest who present Casual silence with casual battle cries Or stand unflinchingly lodged In common sand Crucified.


by Alice Walker |

EACH ONE, PULL ONE

(Thinking of Lorraine Hansberry)


We must say it all, and as clearly
Trying to bury us.
As we can.
For, even before we are dead, Were we black? Were we women? Were we gay? Were we the wrong shade of black? Were we yellow? Did we, God forbid, love the wrong person, country? Or politics? Were we Agnes Smedley or John Brown? But, most of all, did we write exactly what we saw, As clearly as we could? Were we unsophisticated Enough to cry and scream? Well, then, they will fill our eyes, Our ears, our noses and our mouths With the mud Of oblivion.
They will chew up Our fingers in the night.
They will pick Their teeth with our pens.
They will sabotage Both our children And our art.
Because when we show what we see, They will discern the inevitable: We do not worship them.
We do not worship them.
We do not worship what they have made.
We do not trust them.
We do not believe what they say.
We do not love their efficiency.
Or their power plants.
We do not love their factories.
Or their smog.
We do not love their television programs.
Or their radioactive leaks.
We find their papers boring.
We do not worship their cars.
We do not worship their blondes.
We do not worship their penises.
We do not think much Of their Renaissance We are indifferent to England.
We have grave doubts about their brains.
In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance Or sing Share the intelligence and thus the fate Of all our people In this land.
We are not different from them, Neither above nor below, Outside nor inside.
We are the same.
And we do not worship them.
We do not worship them.
We do not worship their movies.
We do not worship their songs.
We do not think their newscasts Cast the news.
We do not admire their president.
We know why the White House is white.
We do not find their children irresistible; We do not agree they should inherit the earth.
But lately you have begun to help them Bury us.
You who said: King was just a womanizer; Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry, A traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer, merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer: reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor; Agnes Smedley, a spy.
I look into your eyes; You are throwing in the dirt.
You, standing in the grave With me.
Stop it! Each one must pull one.
Look, I, temporarily on the rim Of the grave, Have grasped my mother's hand My father's leg.
There is the hand of Robeson Langston's thigh Zora's arm and hair Your grandfather's lifted chin And lynched woman's elbow What you've tried to forget Of your grandmother's frown.
Each one, pull one back into the sun We who have stood over So many graves Know that no matter what they do All of us must live Or none.


by Alice Walker |

I Said to Poetry

I said to Poetry: "I'm finished
with you.
" Having to almost die before some wierd light comes creeping through is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation, no muse need apply.
Im out for good times-- at the very least, some painless convention.
" Poetry laid back and played dead until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything, only restless.
Poetry said: "You remember the desert, and how glad you were that you have an eye to see it with? You remember that, if ever so slightly?" I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.
m.
I'm not getting up in the dark to talk to you.
" Poetry said: "But think about the time you saw the moon over that small canyon that you liked so much better than the grand one--and how suprised you were that the moonlight was green and you still had one good eye to see it with Think of that!" "I'll join the church!" I said, huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!" "Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think you'll see?" Poetry had me.
"There's no paper in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought makes a funny noise.
" "Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.


by Alice Walker |

Expect Nothing

Expect nothing.
Live frugally On surprise.
become a stranger To need of pity Or, if compassion be freely Given out Take only enough Stop short of urge to plead Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger Than your own small heart Or greater than a star; Tame wild disappointment With caress unmoved and cold Make of it a parka For your soul.
Discover the reason why So tiny human midget Exists at all So scared unwise But expect nothing.
Live frugally On surprise.


by Alice Walker |

We Alone

We alone can devalue gold
by not caring
if it falls or rises
in the marketplace.
Wherever there is gold there is a chain, you know, and if your chain is gold so much the worse for you.
Feathers, shells and sea-shaped stones are all as rare.
This could be our revolution: to love what is plentiful as much as what's scarce.


by Alice Walker |

WHO ?

Who has not been
invaded
by the Wasichu?

Not I, said the people.
Not I, said the trees.
Not I, said the waters.
Not I, said the rocks.
Not I, said the air.
Moon! We hoped you were safe.


by Alice Walker |

Gray

I have a friend
who is turning gray,
not just her hair,
and I do not know
why this is so.
Is it a lack of vitamin E pantothenic acid, or B-12? Or is it from being frantic and alone? 'How long does it take you to love someone?' I ask her.
'A hot second,' she replies.
'And how long do you love them?' 'Oh, anywhere up to several months.
' 'And how long does it take you to get over loving them?' 'Three weeks,' she said, 'tops.
' Did I mention I am also turning gray? It is because I *adore* this woman who thinks of love in this way.


by Alice Walker |

Before you knew you owned it

 Expect nothing.
Live frugally On surprise.
become a stranger To need of pity Or, if compassion be freely Given out Take only enough Stop short of urge to plead Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger Than your own small heart Or greater than a star; Tame wild disappointment With caress unmoved and cold Make of it a parka For your soul.
Discover the reason why So tiny human midget Exists at all So scared unwise But expect nothing.
Live frugally On surprise.