TMF POEMS FOR JUNETEENTHJuneteenth feels more sacred than ever this year. We honor it with music from our LiberArte project, and poems from our anthology, Liberation: New Works on Freedom by Internationally Renowned Poets. Scroll down to read:
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FREE, FREE, FREE
Mary Kimani Pain can't touch me no more, It can't wound me Can't cripple me, Can't tear me apart as it once did. Pain can't touch me no more. It can't take away my hopes Can't take away my dreams, Can't steal away my future. Pain can't touch me like it once did, Can't touch me deep and cruel Can't be torn or broken Leave me numb and Uncomprehending, Leave me wounded and hurting, Pain can't touch me no more, For I am free, I am free, I am free. I have left behind the bonds with which pain tied me Left behind the memories that held me captive Pain can't hold me no more Can't tell me when to laugh and when to cry Pain can't hold me captive no more, I am free, I am free, I am free. Our city still has its forest of graves Still has spaces left gaping by lost ones Still echo with haunting stillness The loss and sadness still hang heavy in the air, But it can't hold us captive no more, For we have rebuilt our torn places We have nursed our hurt and wounded We have honored the many that are gone. We have learned to live again Re-learned how to laugh, Learned even to love and trust again. Death and pain can't hurt us no more They done their worst but we have remained. We are free, we are free, we are free. For we have prevailed We have overcome, We have lived on. Pain can't touch us no more, not like it once did, We are free, we are free, we are free. Mary Kimani is a Kenyan poet and journalist. TRAYVON-REDUX
Rita Dove It is difficult / to get the news from poems / yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there. / Hear me out / for I too am concerned / and every man / who wants to die at peace in his bed / besides. — William Carlos Williams, "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower" Move along, you don't belong here. This is what you're thinking. Thinking drives you nuts these days, all that talk about rights and law abidance when you can't even walk in your own neighborhood in peace and quiet, get your black ass gone. You're thinking again. Then what? Matlock's on TV and here you are, vigilant, weary, exposed to the elements on a wet winter's evening in Florida when all's not right but no one sees it. Where are they — the law, the enforcers blind as a bunch of lazy bats can be, holsters dangling from coat hooks above their desks as they jaw the news between donuts? Hey! It tastes good, shoving your voice down a throat thinking only of sweetness. Go on, choke on that. Did you say something? Are you thinking again? Stop! — and get your ass gone, your blackness, that casual little red riding hood I'm just on my way home attitude as if this street was his to walk on. Did you hear me talking to you? Boy. How dare he smile, jiggling his goodies in that tiny shiny bag, his black paw crinkling it, how dare he tinkle their laughter at you. Here's a fine basket of riddles: If a mouth shoots off and no one's around to hear it, who can say which came first — push or shove, bang or whimper? Which is news fit to write home about? Rita Dove has served as U.S. Poet Laureate. Among her many honors is the National Medal of the Arts bestowed by President Barack Obama. |
