The life of a lady is

Somewhat amazing

But at times annoying and

I wonder how we deal

Woke up this morning

Feeling like crap

But the feeling was natural

So I had to adapt

To class I went

But didn’t stay long

As he talked and talked

My body felt all wrong

Part of me was hurting

And the same hungry

After an alpine bagel

Sleep was calling

And now I’m awake still

Feeling like blah…

Maybe tomorrow I’ll

Have more to say to ya  

It’s Friday. Another Friday. As soon as Friday hit I knew what that meant; just a half step away from a 2 days weekend of relaxation. But I had to start off with a math quiz at 10o’clock in the morning. The only thing I love about our math quizzes is that normally the quiz is all we have to do and then we’re free to go. What sucks is that sometimes that 6 or 10 question quiz still takes THE ENTIRE 50minutes to complete. I say we might-as-well have had a regular class session…

But I’m feelin better about math. I must admit I was a bit concerned about passing this class. The only problem is that, yes, I am doing better in math BUT, what in the hack happened in Chemistry? I’m struggling in that class and isn’t science my major? I don’t understand. Actually, that’s my problem. I DON’T FREAKIN UNDERSTAND. And the chem. quiz seemed so easy and I swear I studied. At least I thought I did. Apparently not the right material or not enough of what I did study. I don’t know. One young man in my FI class today pointed out that we only have 4 more weeks of school left. Wow. Guess that means I have 4 more weeks to pull myself together as well as pull up my grades.

Is it just me or does it sometimes seem

Like as soon as there’s a progression here

There must be a degression somewhere?

Yet I keep pressin on…

By Yvonna Walton

I decided to do right this Wednesday

I woke up late yet I still went to class

Was 11minutes late but hey, I was there

She took me back to 11^th grade

With radians, thetas (Ө), and pi (п)

I was almost excited

Until she confused me

Then off to the 11o’clock which

Was held in the library

And on the 3^rd floor is where

I learned how to use it,

The library that is

I decided to stick around

Maybe begin this paper

An FI Session at 1:00

Might-as-well go

Just 1½ class left

Chemistry then its recitation

It all ends at 5:50

Another Wednesday gone at the dynamic VCU

This last poem I’m going to use for Black History Month is by Alice Walker. I had to read it a few times before I could get an idea of what it is about, or what Mrs. Walker is saying. My interpretation is a mixture of the life lesson, “don’t take life for granted” and “to appreciate what we have.” Actually, maybe both morals could be one in the same. I also get – be thankful for the things you receive, whether it’s great or small and not to expect things so great. I think this is a positive message because the more we expect the easier it is to be disappointed. This is Before You Knew You Owned It by Alice Walker.

Before you knew you owned it

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.

Written by Alice Walker

I think it’s time for another simple poem. This poem is so simple a child could read it and understand what’s going on. Because of the amount of detailed imagery, one would also feel as though they are right there in the waiting area of the airport with Rita Dove. Her poem titled Vacation is her detailed perspective of everything going on around her at the airport as she waits to board her flight. Personally I enjoy flying and I’ve come to realize that not many people do. It seems that Mrs. Dove loves the time she waits before flying as well. What do you like about traveling or going on vacations? This is Vacation by Rita Dove.

Vacation

I love the hour before takeoff,

that stretch of no time, no home

but the gray vinyl seats linked like

unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall

be summoned to the gate, soon enough

there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers

and perforated stubs—but for now

I can look at these ragtag nuclear families

with their cooing and bickering

or the heeled bachelorette trying

to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s

exhausted mother waiting to be called up early

while the athlete, one monstrous hand

asleep on his duffel bag, listens,

perched like a seal trained for the plunge.

Even the lone executive

who has wandered this far into summer

with his lasered itinerary, briefcase

knocking his knees—even he

has worked for the pleasure of bearing

no more than a scrap of himself

into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late,

they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning

—a little hope, a little whimsy

before the loudspeaker blurts

and we leap up to become

Flight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.

Written by Rita Dove

What are the blues to you? In my opinion, the blues are simply sadness. Anyone can have the blues at any time. But everyone has their own opinion and interpretation of “the blues.” This poem by Cornelius Eady, I think, is his interpretation of the blues based off his mother. After being with a man who’s not necessarily the best man a woman could possibly be with, she wonder’s is she wrong to love him. Knowing that she isn’t the only one (“the moment you realize You exist in a stacked deck”), she still loves such a man. Is this really love though? Or is this just being stuck in a trapped position? Remember, she had children too and being a single mother is a difficult task. This is I’m a Fool To Love You by Cornelius Eady. 

I’m A Fool To Love You

 Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don’t want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That’s how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it’s the only leverage
You’ve got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man’s kisses
A healing. 

Written by Cornelius Eady

This poem is by a man that was alive during times when blacks were highly discriminated against. Marcus Garvey, born in Jamaica in 1887,  became apart of the working class at a very young age, 14. Even at this age, he realized something wasn’t right. At age 20 he was already joining social reforms to improve the working class, especially that of black people. After moving about Central and South America he was amazed that blacks everywhere were enduring hardships and discrimination. Garvey devoted most of his life to the betterment of the lives of black people. Two of the organizations he created and was a big part of was the Universal Negro Improvement Association and it’s co- body The African Communities League in 1914. This poem that I have chosen written by Marcus Garvey is a short piece but still says a lot. My interpretation of this poem is Garvey saying that if no one, no black man that is, will rise up for justice for all blacks than he will be that one. But I also feel that he is saying black men did not come so far in life, during that time period, just to give up and accept defeat and that real men would never give up and those who do give up are cowards. This is Get Up And Go!

Get Up And Go!

Please clear the way and let me pass,
If you intend to give up here:
It seems a shame that you should yield
Your life without its fullest share.
You are a coward for your pains,
To come this way, and then blow out:
Real men are made of stuff to last,
Which they, themselves, would never doubt.
Get up! You broken bits of flesh!
Take courage and go fighting on;
For every black man there’s a day,
Which pride in race has well begun.

Written by Marcus Garvey (1887-1940)

This poem was written by an older black poet. I really like this poem because it is about being tempted, something everyone goes through in their life. Also what I’ve got out this poem is not to look for the devil himself to come after me. When it’s the devil himself and in his form coming after you it’s easier to fight back because it’s obvious that you’re dealing with something evil and unwanted. But this poem shows how temptation comes in different forms and in this case, the form of a woman. Everyone has their own temptations and everyone deals with them differently. Some people fall easily and others put up a fight. How do you deal with the things that tempt you, your weaknesses? This is The Temptress by James Weldon Johnson.

The Temptress

Old Devil, when you come with horns and tail,
With diabolic grin and crafty leer;
I say, such bogey-man devices wholly fail
To waken in my heart a single fear.

But when you wear a form I know so well,
A form so human, yet so near divine;
‘Tis then I fall beneath the magic of your spell,
‘Tis then I know the vantage is not mine.

Ah! when you take your horns from off your head,
And soft and fragrant hair is in their place;
I must admit I fear the tangled path I tread
When that dear head is laid against my face.

And at what time you change your baleful eyes
For stars that melt into the gloom of night,
All of my courage, my dear fellow, quickly flies;
I know my chance is slim to win the fight.

And when, instead of charging down to wreck
Me on a red-hot pitchfork in your hand,
You throw a pair of slender arms about my neck,
I dare not trust the ground on which I stand.

Whene’er in place of using patent wile,
Or trying to frighten me with horrid grin,
You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile;
Old Devil, I must really own, you win.

Written by James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938)

This poem is another original. As much as I hate to admit it, because I feel that it is so disrespectful, I wrote this poem one Sunday while in church. I guess it was just one of those Sundays when Pastor’s message just wasn’t for me and I drifted off with my pen and notepad. What is more interesting is that I actually started this poem a few years ago but only the first few lines. It was written in my notepad that I keep in the back of my Bible case. I forgot it was there and while I was looking for an empty page to take notes I came across Miss Pretty. I decided to revise what was already there and complete the rest. It felt like only a few moments that I was writing but when I was finished, so was Pastor. I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun and I do love to write. 

Miss Pretty

In a room full of lovely ladies
you stood out.
Not only your physical but
your attitude and visible esteem
are captivating.
And I wonder how you manage…
humility… handle the ever going and
never ceasing jibber jabber of those
who actually believe they know it all.
I wonder how you maintain a smile.
Miss you are truly beautiful yes -
quite amazing
But I am curious… Why?
Does it hurt?
Will you ever break?
How much can you take?
The right sticks and stones
could destroy your bones
and words can do some damage.
Still I wonder how
with such a bright smile
and confident walk…
Miss Pretty, how do you manage?

Written by Yvonna M. Walton

When one of my friends read this poem he initially though that I’m talking about another girl. “Cute,” I said. Actually, these are reactions that I get from other people about me. I never notice myself, or at least I didn’t for a while but they’re right, I am Miss Pretty. I deal with, I rather not say a lot but enough, and the whole time I keep a smile on my face and enjoy life no matter what. There are even people in that exact same church who talk about me behind my back. They don’t think I know this. But this doesn’t change who I am and I can still smile and love everyone around me. Yes, I am Miss Pretty.

Many people may not look at my black poet today as a “poet.” When most people think of him, those who have heard of him, probably think rapper before poet. This is because my poet today is Tupac Shakur and his poem The Rose that Grew from Concrete.

The Rose that Grew from Concrete

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it’s dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

Written by Tupac Shakur

I like this short and sweet poem because it’s about much more than a rose. In my opinion it’s about becoming something great out of the ordinary nothing. It’s about achieving the impossible when everyone else thinks you don’t have the ability to achieve. Like many artist, poets, writers, and just famous people in general, Tupac was not born famous and his life was not full of happiness. But the truth is that his life was filled with trials and struggles. A rose is thought to be something great and beautiful yet still delicate, and concrete is just a hard, stone-like substance that takes a lot of effort of crack. Through this poem Tupac is saying that no matter the circumstances great things can still come out of what seems to be impossible surroundings.