-
The Last Leap of the Muse
- Wayne State University Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
the last leap of the muse This page intentionally left blank [54.224.90.25] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 01:24 GMT) 203 A Poet Is Not a Jukebox A poet is not a jukebox, so don’t tell me what to write. I read a dear friend a poem about love, and she said, “You’re in to that bag now, for whatever it’s worth, But why don’t you write about the riot in Miami?” I didn’t write about Miami because I didn’t know about Miami. I’ve been so busy working for the Census, and listening to music all night, and making new poems That I’ve broken my habit of watching TV and reading newspapers. So it wasn’t absence of Black Pride that caused me not to write about Miami, But simple ignorance. Telling a Black poet what he ought to write Is like some Commissar of Culture in Russia telling a poet He’d better write about the new steel furnaces in the Novobigorsk region, Or the heroic feats of Soviet labor in digging the trans-Caucasus Canal, Or the unprecedented achievement of workers in the sugar beet industry who exceeded their quota by 400 per cent (it was later discovered to be a typist’s error). Maybe the Russian poet is watching his mother die of cancer, Or is bleeding from an unhappy love affair, Or is bursting with happiness and wants to sing of wine, roses, nightingales. I’ll bet that in a hundred years the poems the Russian people will read, sing, and love Will be the poems about his mother’s death, his unfaithful mistress, or his wine, roses and nightingales, Not the poems about steel furnaces, the trans-Caucasus Canal, or the sugar beet industry. A poet writes about what he feels, what agitates his heart and sets his pen in motion. Not what some apparatchik dictates, to promote his own career or theories. 204 - the selected writings of dudley randall Yeah, maybe I’ll write about Miami, as I wrote about Birmingham. But it’ll be because I want to write about Miami, not because somebody says I ought to. Yeah, I write about love. What’s wrong with love? If we had more loving, we’d have more Black babies to become Black brothers and sisters and build the Black family. When people love, they bathe with sweet-smelling soap, splash their bodies with perfume or cologne, Shave, and comb their hair, and put on gleaming silken garments, Speak softly and kindly and study their beloved to anticipate and satisfy her every desire. After loving they’re relaxed and happy and friends with all the world. What’s wrong with love, beauty, joy, or peace? If Josephine had given Napoleon more loving, he wouldn’t have sown the meadows of Europe with skulls. If Hitler had been happy in love, he wouldn’t have baked people in ovens. So don’t tell me it’s trivial and a cop-out to write about love and not about Miami. A poet is not a jukebox. A poet is not a jukebox. I repeat, A poet is not a jukebox for someone to shove a quarter in his ear and get the tune they want to hear. Or to pat on the head and call “a good little Revolutionary.” Or to give a Kuumba Liberation Award. A poet is not a jukebox. A poet is not a jukebox. A poet is not a jukebox. So don’t tell me what to write. [ 1980 ] [54.224.90.25] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 01:24 GMT) 205 My Muse I never thought I’d have a Muse. Then I met you. Now poems gush in an unending stream, Inspired by you. Sometimes in tenderness, Sometimes in wrath, The poems pour forth. To me you are Catullus’s Lesbia, Shakespeare’s Dark Lady, Dante’s Beatrice, Poe’s Annabel Lee, My Zasha. My Zasha, Who makes the poems pour forth. Zasha, of the tall slim dancer’s body, The dark face, The dark voice, The narrow, sidelong-glancing eyes. My Zasha, She Devil, Who spews forth filth when she is questioned, And carries a butcher knife in her purse. [ 1980 ] 206 Translation from Chopin (Prelude Number 7 in A Major, Opus 28) If I should say to you That I have loved you long With love that’s sweet and true And like a tender song, If...