
She keeps going back to the poem, re-reading it, savoring it, seeing new things in each line, tears sometimes leaking out of the corners of her eyes (She wrote "lives" instead of eyes the first time she typed the line. She almost left it like that. Rebel Girl used to fancy herself a poet - a very bad poet she realized.)
So, once again, Robert Hayden, a great poet.
Frederick Douglass
When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment