¦¦¦ masks and metamorphoses of ¦¦¦¦¦ Native Son
¦¦¦
¦¦¦ icy evil ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ravished ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ into madness
trapped ¦¦¦ in violence of a punished self
struggling to break free.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
he fled his name, became the quarry of
his own obsessed pursuit.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ swinging those chicks
in the hot rose and reefer glow.
His injured childhood bullied him.
He skirmished ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ cannibal flowers of the American Dream--
but could not hurt the enemy
powered against him there.
(Blackout of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X) by Robert Hayden)
Old Steve was a marvelous kitty
But what happened to Steve was a pity
He was born in a barn
On a twelve-acre farm
His career was chasing the vermin
Long before he met Farmer Herman
But the farmer had plans
To abandon his lands
And take Steve on the road
For a debt never owed
The dismay, the humiliation, the shame
No one but the farmer to blame
A talking cat!
Who would imagine that?
Poor Steve was in shambles
Through their countryside rambles
Forced into the spotlight
Performing was his plight
That is, until one precious night
The night he met lovely Hayden
The beautiful Calico maiden
It was love at first sight
Paw-in-paw they took flight
The farmer left holding the bag
And Old Steve, that scallywag
Well, he being feline
With his honey made a beeline
Not back to the farm
Where they might come to some harm
No, they fled to the city
Where Old Steve could just be a kitty.
Children once thrilled to brilliant musicians
Hayden and Mozart, Shubert and Shuman
My generation grew up on playboys and madmen
Hugh Hefner and Alfred E. Newman
The musicians gave brilliant exhibitions
My generation shed its inhibitions
Rose Meadow, an outcast woman,
portrayed by Fertie Fields.
The film chronicles her Pagan beliefs.
A supporting cast boasts
Roland (Rollie) Hills and Hayden Hayfield.
Cameos by Misty Marsh and Lily Lake.
Marquee brags of Nature’s spiritual mysteries
comprising the life of Rose Meadow.
Those who confuse Shubert with Mendelsohn,
Most likely can’t tell Mozart from Hayden.
They wander through the world without their culture on,
And cat-call Aphrodite while fishing for Poseidon.
Conspiracy theories have them nervous as ferrets.
Academic credentials are considered demerits.
They huddle in militias where their rumors bare fangs.
In a world where truth and justice are fighting for air,
A diploma’s only value is the wall on which it hangs.
Teacher In a Box
Teacher:
Miss. Janean
Good Morning Miss. Janean
Stand and do the flag salute
Why are you all in Pj’s?
You can’t fool me I have a wide screen TV
Open your computers to Internet
Hayden! stay still or,
I will throw my mouse at you
Physical education
Open and close the lid to the computer 100 times
Click your mouse 15 times
Hayden! I told you to stop
We are in the middle of class
type 1,000 times I will behave in class
No copy and paste!!
I have my camera on you
Class dismissed
Except Hayden
You stay after zoom and
Clean your room
Warm
My heart swells with joy
She erases everything bad from my mind
With just one word
Just one hug
Just one smile
I love her like I would love my own daughter
She has so much fun
Driving Aunt Yaya crazy
But I wouldnt change a thing
My Booboo
“It is a never ending nightmare that I cannot wake up from. I keep trying to run away, but it
seems the pain is always one step ahead.”
As I open my eyes I can see the blurry vision of my desk and the cup I left on it
last night. I can hear the rain hit against the window and see the curtain move in the wind.
My vision starts to become clear and I can see the clock ticking, which brings me back to
reality. Realizing it was all a dream because Hayden is not here; I wipe away the tears and
get out of bed to close the window.
There are moments of absolute peace
when I forget where I was when I was
in love with a man, not just any man.
Usually in dreams there is no romance,
but rather another inclination of purpose.
I’m reading poetry that is not confessional,
in the midst of writing my long confession.
Robert Hayden has dropped into my lap,
a book of his poems left behind in my house
by some friend, some poet friend. She
believed I could be a poet, too. Such friends
are rare, and rarer the dream of life.
Forgotten, but not gone, all those gone on,
a shelf of poetry, books, her journals, odds
and ends stored in plastic boxes, just in case.
What if there was never such a one again,
such a friend, such a time, such a hope?
There isn’t any reason to believe any more
that I am more than mortal dust, just enough
to keep going to work another day, to read
all the books of poetry a friend left behind
when her health failed and she moved away.
Where are you now my good friend? I reach
for another book of the poetry left on my shelf.
Believing his tapestry would never
be fixed he tried to keep the small part
under him together. As he held the last
bit of tapestry together, he saw a light
which was blinding at first but then turned
to a soft glow in which he saw a man.
A man with a scruffy beard and a nice suit
standing in front of the window came over
and held down the unraveled ends of
his tapestry and so he was able to weave.
Even though his tapestry was in shambles
he kept on weaving with this man who
amazingly kept all the unraveled ends
of his tapestry down. He slowly but surely
was fixing the tapestry and soon he didn’t
need this mans help but asked the man to
watch over him while he kept weaving.
Later the man whispered something
to him and then said he’d always
be there. Then he walked away.
After the man left he always thought
of him and decided to follow what
the man had whispered in his ear. Because
of what the man had whispered to him
that was all he needed to live the rest of his life
in peace, in faith, in order.
Who has heard the voice?
Who knows the verse,
on a quiet Sunday that waits
silently? No one has seen.
Who has learned
of the champion from Detroit,
the laureate of America,
the subtle poet of history
pacing the halls of the black mind?
What has been the pride
of a near blind man,
who took the bus, and doesn’t drive
to work everyday,
but who saw life’s light?
Who has heard the voice?
No one has seen.
Who does not ignore
the poetry of the 1st laureate
of a culture versatile?
Robert Hayden.
Students might never see.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.