Revolutionary Petunias (2 page)

grandmother loved each other; and later

above the ducks made of soap and the orange-

legged chicks Miss Reynolds drew over

my own small hand

on paper with wide blue lines.

VI

Not for the dead, but for memories. None of

them sad. But seen from the angle of her

death.

Once made a fairy rooster from

Mashed potatoes

Whose eyes I forget

But green onions were his tail

And his two legs were carrot sticks

A tomato slice his crown.

Who came home on vacation

When the sun was hot

and cooked

and cleaned

And minded least of all

The children’s questions

A million or more

Pouring in on her

Who had been to school

And knew (and told us too) that certain

Words were no longer good

And taught me not to say us for we

No matter what “Sonny said” up the

road.

FOR MY SISTER MOLLY WHO IN THE FIFTIES

Knew Hamlet well and read into the night

And coached me in my songs of Africa

A continent I never knew

But learned to love

Because “they” she said could carry

A tune

And spoke in accents never heard

In Eatonton.

Who read from
Prose and Poetry

And loved to read “Sam McGee from Tennessee”

On nights the fire was burning low

And Christmas wrapped in angel hair

And I for one prayed for snow.

WHO IN THE FIFTIES

Knew all the written things that made

Us laugh and stories by

The hour     Waking up the story buds

Like fruit. Who walked among the flowers

And brought them inside the house

And smelled as good as they

And looked as bright.

Who made dresses, braided

Hair. Moved chairs about

Hung things from walls

Ordered baths

Frowned on wasp bites

And seemed to know the endings

Of all the tales

I had forgot.

WHO OFF INTO THE UNIVERSITY

Went exploring     To London and

To Rotterdam

Prague and to Liberia

Bringing back the news to us

Who knew none of it

But followed

crops and weather

funerals and

Methodist Homecoming;

easter speeches,

groaning
church.

WHO FOUND ANOTHER WORLD

Another life     With gentlefolk

Far less trusting

And moved and moved and changed

Her name

And sounded precise

When she spoke     And frowned away

Our sloppishness.

WHO SAW US SILENT

Cursed with fear     A love burning

Inexpressible

And sent me money not for me

But for “College.”

Who saw me grow through letters

The words misspelled     But not

The longing     Stretching

Growth

The tied and twisting

Tongue

Feet no longer bare

Skin no longer burnt against

The cotton.

WHO BECAME SOMEONE OVERHEAD

A light     A thousand watts

Bright and also blinding

And saw my brothers cloddish

And me destined to be

Wayward

My mother remote     My father

A wearisome farmer

With heartbreaking

Nails.

I OR MY SISTER MOLLY WHO IN THE FIFTIES

Found much

Unbearable

Who walked where few had

Understood     And sensed our

Groping after light

And saw some extinguished

And no doubt mourned.

FOR MY SISTER MOLLY WHO IN THE FIFTIES

Left us.

In the town where I was born

There is a mound

Some eight feet high

That from the ground

Seems piled up stones

In Georgia

Insignificant.

But from above

The lookout tower

Floor

An eagle widespread

In solid gravel

Stone

Takes shape

Below;

The Cherokees raised it

Long ago

Before westward journeys

In the snow

Before the

National Policy slew

Long before Columbus knew.

I used to stop and

Linger there

Within the cleanswept tower stair

Rock Eagle pinesounds

Rush of stillness

Lifting up my hair.

Pinned to the earth

The eagle endures

The Cherokees are gone

The people come on tours.

And on surrounding National

Forest lakes the air rings

With cries

The silenced make.

Wearing cameras

They never hear

But relive their victory

Every year

And take it home

With them.

Young Future Farmers

As paleface warriors

Grub

Live off the land

Pretend Indian, therefore

Man,

Can envision a lake

But never a flood

On earth

So cleanly scrubbed

Of blood:

They come before the rock

Jolly conquerers.

They do not know the rock

They love

Lives
and is bound

To bide its time

To wrap its stony wings

Around

The innocent eager 4-H Club.

They dunked me in the creek;

a tiny brooklet.

Muddy, gooey with rotting leaves,

a greenish mold floating;

definable.

For love it was. For love of God

at seven. All in white.

With God’s mud ruining my snowy

socks and his bullfrog spoors

gluing up my face.

It is too easy not to like

Jesus,

It worries greatness

To an early grave

Without any inkling

Of what is wise.

So when I am old,

And so foolish with pain

No one who knows

me

Can tell from which

Senility or fancy

I deign to speak,

I may sing

In my cracked and ugly voice

Of Jesus my good

Friend;

Just as the old women

In my home town

Do now.

for Aaron Henry

Here we have watched ten thousand

seasons

come and go.

And unmarked graves atangled

in the brush

turn our own legs to trees

vertical forever between earth

and sun.

Here we are not quick to disavow

the pull of field and wood

and stream;

we are not quick to turn

upon our dreams.

for June and Julius

Beauty, no doubt, does not make

revolutions. But a day will come when

revolutions will have need of beauty.

—Albert Camus,
The Rebel

Sammy Lou of Rue

sent to his reward

the exact creature who

murdered her husband,

using a cultivator’s hoe

with verve and skill;

and laughed fit to kill

in disbelief

at the angry, militant

pictures of herself

the Sonneteers quickly drew:

not any of them people that

she knew.

A backwoods woman

her house was papered with

funeral home calendars and

faces appropriate for a Mississippi

Sunday School. She raised a George,

a Martha, a Jackie and a Kennedy. Also

a John Wesley Junior.

“Always respect the word of God,”

she said on her way to she didn’t

know where, except it would be by

electric chair, and she continued

“Don’t yall forgit to
water

my purple petunias.”

Expect nothing. Live frugally

On surprise.

Become a stranger

To need of pity

Or, if compassion be freely

Given out

Take only enough

Stop short of urge to plead

Then purge away the need.

Wish for nothing larger

Than your own small heart

Or greater than a star;

Tame wild disappointment

With caress unmoved and cold

Make of it a parka

For your soul.

Discover the reason why

So tiny human midget

Exists at all

So scared unwise

But expect nothing. Live frugally

On surprise.

for Julius Lester

Be nobody’s darling;

Be an outcast.

Take the contradictions

Of your life

And wrap around

You like a shawl,

To parry stones

To keep you warm.

Watch the people succumb

To madness

With ample cheer;

Let them look askance at you

And you askance reply.

Be an outcast;

Be pleased to walk alone

(Uncool)

Or line the crowded

River beds

With other impetuous

Fools.

Make a merry gathering

On the bank

Where thousands perished

For brave hurt words

They said.

Be nobody’s darling;

Be an outcast.

Qualified to live

Among your dead.

I must love the questions

themselves

as Rilke said

like locked rooms

full of treasure

to which my blind

and groping key

does not yet fit.

and await the answers

as unsealed

letters

mailed with dubious intent

and written in a very foreign

tongue.

and in the hourly making

of myself

no thought of Time

to force, to squeeze

the space

I grow into.

Nothing is right

that does not work.

We have believed it all:

improvement, progress,

bigger, better, immediate,

fast.

The whole Junk.

It was our essence that

never worked.

We hasten to eradicate

our selves.

Consider the years

of rage and wrench and

mug.

What was it kept

the eyes alive?

Declined to outmode

the

hug?

I am not an idealist, nor a cynic,

but merely unafraid of contradictions.

I have seen men face each other when

both were right, yet each was determined

to kill the other, which was wrong.

What each man saw was an image of the

other, made by someone else. That is

what we are prisoners of.

—A personal testament by Donald Hogan,

Harper’s Magazine
, January, 1972

Stick the finger inside

the chink;

nail long and sharp.

Wriggle it,

jugg,

until it draws blood.

Lick it in your mouth,

savor the taste;

and know your diet

has changed.

Be the first at the crucifixion.

Stand me (and them and her and him)

where once we each together

stood.

Find it plausible now

to jeer,

escaped within your armor.

There never was a crucifixion

of a completely armored man.

Imagine this: a suit of mail,

of metal plate;

no place to press the dagger in.

Nothing but the eyes

to stick

with narrow truth.

Burning sharp,

burning bright;

burning righteous,

but burning blind.

When the people knew you

That other time

You were not as now

A crowding General,

Firing into your own

Ranks;

Forcing the tender skin

Of men

Against the guns

The very sun

To mangled perfection

For your cause.

Not General then

But frightened boy.

The cheering fell

Within the quiet

That fed your

Walks

Across the mines.

A mere foot soldier,

Marching the other way;

A lonely Particular.

Having reached perfection

as you have

there no longer exists

the need for love.

Love is ablution

the dirtied is due

the sinner can

use.

“Look!” she cried.

“I am not perfect

but still your sister.

Love me!”

But the mob beat her and kicked her

and shaved her head;

until she saw exactly

how wrong she was.

I so admired you then;

before the bloody ending

of the story

cured your life

of all belief.

I would have wished

you alive

still. Or even

killed.

Before this thing we

got,

with flailing arms

and venomous face

took our love away.

Lost my voice?

Of course.

You said “Poems of

love and flowers are

a luxury the Revolution

cannot afford.”

Here are the warm and juicy

vocal cords,