Collected Poems

MANY OF OUR WATERS: VARIATIONS ON A POEMBY A BLACK CHILD

As for me, I have a white face Of dark green. MANY OF OUR WATERS: VARIATIONS ON A POEM BY A BLACK CHILD (to my brother Jack) (delivered as the Phi Beta Kappa poem, College of William and Mary, December 5, 1969) I. from my journal, March 8, 1969: Garnie's whisper to me, while we were •watching a construction operation near Radio City. The operation had reached that early stage at which the workmen had dug extremely deep into the intended foundation of the building, obviously therefore to be a new skyscraper. As Garnie watched the working men, they were far below, and, to his eyes, as to mine, they appeared very small. About a third of them were Negroes. And this is exactly what he whispered to me. It has to, and it can — only it can — speak for itself: You know, if a blind boy ride his bicycle down there he might fall into that water I think it's water but I don't know they call it acid and if that poor boy drive his poor blind bicycle into that acid he drown he die and then they bury him up 206 2. to the Ohio Along Aetnaville, where I was born, I want to spend my eternity In hell with you. And the moment I'm off, I'm off Back home to my own river. My rotted Ohio, It was only a little while ago That I learned the meaning of your name. The Winnebago gave you your name, Ohio, And Ohio means beautiful river. In this final dawn Of my life, I think of two lines by the unhappy and half-forgotten American poet, H. Phelps Putnam. He was writing about a lonely girl's lovely place. He cried out, "That reeking slit, wide, soft, and lecherous, From which we bleed, and into •which we drown." Oh, my secret and lovely place, up shore from the railroad, My bareass beach, This is not a poem. This is not an apology to the Muse. This is the cold-blooded plea of a homesick vampire To his brother and friend. If you do not care one way or another about The preceding lines, Please do not go on listening On any account of mine. Please leave the poem. Thank you. NEW POEMS 207 Oh my back-broken beloved Ohio. I, too, was beautiful, once, Just like you. We were both still a little Young, then. Now, all I am is a poet, Just like you. This morning I feel like that old child You gathered so often Into your rinsingarms, And bathed, and healed. I feel lonesome, And sick at heart, Frightened, And I don't know Why. help. 3learning from MacDiarnrid The kind of poetry I want to write is The poetry of a grown man. The young poets of New York come to me with Their mangled figures of speech, But they have little pity For the pure clear word. I know something about the pure clear word, Though I am not yet a grown man. And who is he? The long body of his dream is the beginning of a dark Hair under an illiterate Girl's ear. And everybody goes on explaining to us 208 The difference between a nutmeg and a squirrel, The grown man plows down. He longs for the long body of his dream. He works slowly day by long day. He gets up in the morning and curses himself Into black silence. He has got his guts kicked in, And he says Nothing. (Reader, I am a liar. He says plenty.) He shuts up. He dies. He grows. 4This morning My beloved rose, before I did, And came back again. The kind of poetry I want is my love Who comes back with the rain. Oh I Would love to lie down long days long, the long Down slipping the gown from her shoulders. But I got to go to work. Work be damned, the kind Of poetry I want Is to lie down with my love. All she is Is a little ripple of rain On a small waterfall. What do you want from me? NEW POEMS 209 on the way to the planetarium That bright black boy whom I love Came out of the grocery On the other side of...