Reviews for Poems

The average rating for Poems based on 2 reviews is 4.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2015-05-09 00:00:00 Geri Fridy What is it like to be a woman of colour with brilliant intellectual and linguistic power? Is it a blessing, is it a curse, is it both at the same time? Isn't it just being human, in the end? Maya Angelou's poems have accompanied my teaching for a very long time. Her direct, honest words fit any human rights discussions, any debates on racism and misogyny, any reflections on the distribution of wealth and power, privilege and entitlement. Her hopes and fears, her dreams and nightmares are the stuff that humans are made on. She gives everyday life an artistically powerful voice, speaking loudly and confidently from the corner of society that unfortunately still remains invisible or indifferent to those in power. But Maya Angelou is more than just a writer speaking for those without words of their own. She celebrates love, anger, sadness, community and loneliness from the perspective of individual experience, putting a specific, unique person in focus rather than an underprivileged group. She finds beauty in self-confidence rather than prettiness, in effort rather than accomplishment, in dreams rather than status. Hers is a world that CAN BE - if you believe in yourself. I will let her speak for herself, and hope her words help those of us who turned out a bit shy, or short, or insecure, or invisible, or overlooked, to grow an inch while reading: "Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me." That's her. She's phenomenal.

Review # 2 was written on 2015-06-15 00:00:00 John Ewoldt What I like about poetry is that it is never completely "read". Like the Akshaya Patra ("Inexhaustible Vessel") in the Indian Epic Mahabharata, which keeps on delivering food no matter how many times one approaches it, a poetry book will keep on supplying food for the intellect. In every new reading of a favourite poem, you will find something fresh to appreciate. I read this book by Maya Angelou after I finished the first part of her biography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, because I was impressed by her boldness and candour. Maya does not try to gloss over the fact that she's black: she embraces it, along with all the distressing historical baggage that comes with it. Africa Thus she had lain sugarcane sweet deserts her hair golden her feet mountains her breasts two Niles her tears. Thus she has lain Black through the years. Over the white seas rime white and cold brigands ungentled icicle bold took her young daughters sold her strong sons churched her with Jesus bled her with guns. Thus she has lain. Now she is rising remember her pain remember the losses her screams loud and vain remember her riches her history slain now she is striding although she had lain. This is remembrance with a vengeance. The past, with it tales of violence, rapes, lynchings and mutilations is not forgotten, neither is it used as force of blind hatred and revenge. It is absorbed and sublimated in the psyche. What is celebrated here is the endurance of a race forced to live for untold years without even the basic dignity afforded to any human being - their humanity. Song for the Old Ones My Fathers sit on benches their flesh counts every plank the slats leave dents of darkness deep in their withered flanks. They nod like broken candles all waxed and burnt profound they say "It's understanding that makes the world go round." There in those pleated faces I see the auction block the chains and slavery's coffles the whip and lash and stock. My Fathers speak in voices that shred my fact and sound they say "It's our submission that makes the world go round." They used the finest cunning their naked wits and wiles the lowly Uncle Tomming and Aunt Jemimas' smiles. They've laughed to shield their crying then shuffled through their dreams and stepped 'n' fetched a country to write the blues with screams. I understand their meaning it could and did derive from living on the edge of death They kept my race alive. The race is kept alive by the resilience of a people who refuse to break. As the woman in the poem "Our Grandmothers" says: Centered on the world's stage, she sings to her loves and beloveds, to her foes and detractors: However I am perceived and deceived, however my ignorance and conceits, lay aside your fears that I will be undone, for I shall not be moved. This is the power of silent resistance, of suffering converted to strength. This is what empowered Mahatma Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. And when it's combined with an unapologetic and fiercely sexual femininity, it becomes almost too hot to handle. Phenomenal Woman Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms, The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them, They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing, It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need for my care. 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. This phenomenal woman who represents all of Africa also has a bone to pick with her white sister: of traumas passed down through the generations from myth to the present age, which must be exorcised like dust slowly filling ruts on the road of history. Family Affairs You let down, from arched Windows, Over hand-cut stones of your Cathedrals, seas of golden hair. While I, pulled by dusty braids, Left furrows in the Sands of African beaches. Princes and commoners Climbed over waves to reach Your vaulted boudoirs, As the sun, capriciously, Struck silver fire from waiting Chains, where I was bound. My screams never reached The rare tower where you Lay, birthing masters for My sons, and for my Daughters, a swarm of Unclean badgers, to consume Their history. Tired now of pedestal existence For fear of flying And vertigo, you descend And step lightly over My centuries of horror And take my hand, Smiling, call me Sister. Sister, accept That I must wait a While. Allow an age Of dust to fill Ruts left on my Beach in Africa. Ultimately, among all the poems contained here, it was old man Willie who really captivated me. Willie Willie was a man without fame, Hardly anybody knew his name. Crippled and limping, always walking lame, He said, "I keep on movin' Movin' just the same." Solitude was the climate in his head, Emptiness was the partner in his bed, Pain echoed in the steps of his tread, He said, "I keep on followin' Where the leaders led. "I may cry and I will die, But my spirit is the soul of every spring, Watch for me and you will see That I'm present in the songs that children sing." People called him "Uncle," "Boy" and "Hey," Said, "You can't live through this another day." Then, they waited to hear what he would say. He said, "I'm living In the games that children play. "You may enter my sleep, people my dreams, Threaten my early morning's ease, But I keep comin' followin' laughin' cryin', Sure as a summer breeze. "Wait for me, watch for me. My spirit is the surge of open seas. Look for me, ask for me, I'm the rustle in the autumn leaves. "When the sun rises I am the time. When the children sing I am the Rhyme." He stands there with his toothless smile, not only in America, but all over the world, wherever the misery of one class feeds the luxury of another. His smile seems idiotic to shallow minds. Only the perceptive can understand that it actually carries a timeless wisdom.