The Panther and the Lash (2 page)

I play it cool

And dig all jive—

That’s the reason

I stay alive.

My motto,

As I live and learn

              Is

Dig and be dug

In return.

The little boy

who sticks a needle in his arm

and seeks an out in other worldly dreams,

who seeks an out in eyes that droop

and ears that close to Harlem screams,

cannot know, of course,

(and has no way to understand)

a sunrise that he cannot see

beginning in some other land—

but destined sure to flood—and soon—

the very room in which he leaves

his needle and his spoon,

the very room in which today the air

is heavy with the drug

of his despair.

      (Yet little can

      tomorrow’s sunshine give

      to one who will not live.)

Quick, sunrise, come—

Before the mushroom bomb

Pollutes his stinking air

With better death

Than is his living here,

With viler drugs

Than bring today’s release

In poison from the fallout

Of our peace.

      
“It’s easier to get dope

      
than it is to get a job.”

Yes, easier to get dope

than to get a job—

daytime or nightime job,

teen-age, pre-draft,

pre-lifetime job.

Quick, sunrise, come!

Sunrise out of Africa,

Quick, come!

Sunrise, please come!

Come! Come!

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

      
Or does it explode?

How many bullets does it take

To kill a fifteen-year-old kid?

How many bullets does it take

To kill me?

How many centuries does it take

To bind my mind—chain my feet—

Rope my neck—lynch me—

Unfree?

From the slave chain to the lynch rope

To the bullets of Yorkville,

Jamestown, 1619 to 1963:

Emancipation Centennial—

100 years NOT free.

Civil War Centennial: 1965.

How many Centennials does it take

To kill me,

Still alive?

When the long hot summers come

Death ain’t

No jive.

I looked and I saw

That man they call the Law.

He was coming

Down the street at me!

I had visions in my head

Of being laid out cold and dead,

Or else murdered

By the third degree.

I said, O, Lord,
if you can
,

Save me from that man!

Don’t let him make a pulp out of me!

But the Lord he was not quick.

The Law raised up his stick

And beat the living hell

Out of me!

Now I do not understand

Why God don’t protect a man

From police brutality.

Being poor and black,

I’ve no weapon to strike back

So who but the Lord

Can protect me?

      We’ll see.

Hit me! Jab me!

Make me say I did it.

Blood on my sport shirt

And my tan suede shoes.

Faces
like jack-o’-lanterns

In gray slouch hats
.

Slug me! Beat me!

Scream jumps out

Like blowtorch.

Three kicks between the legs

That kill the kids

I’d make tomorrow.

Bars and floor skyrocket

And burst like Roman candles
.

When you throw

Cold water on me,

I’ll sign the

Paper…

Pushed into the corner

Of the hobnailed boot,

Pushed into the corner of the

“l-don’t-want-to-die” cry,

Pushed into the corner of

“I don’t want to study war no more,”

Changed into “Eye for eye,”

The Panther in his desperate boldness

Wears no disguise,

Motivated by the truest

Of the oldest

Lies.

SEND FOR THE PIED PIPER AND LET HIM PIPE THE RATS

                         AWAY.

SEND FOR ROBIN HOOD TO CLINCH THE ANTI-POVERTY

                         CAMPAIGN.

SEND FOR THE FAIRY QUEEN WITH A WAVE OF THE

                         WAND

TO MAKE US ALL INTO PRINCES AND PRINCESSES.

SEND FOR KING ARTHUR TO BRING THE HOLY GRAIL.

SEND FOR OLD MAN MOSES TO LAY DOWN THE LAW.

SEND FOR JESUS TO PREACH THE SERMON ON THE

                         MOUNT.

SEND FOR DREYFUS TO CRY,
“J’ACCUSE!”

SEND FOR DEAD BLIND LEMON TO SING THE
B FLAT

                         
BLUES
.

SEND FOR ROBESPIERRE TO SCREAM,
“ÇA IRA! ÇA IRA!

                         
ÇA IRA!”

SEND (GOD FORBID—HE’S NOT DEAD LONG ENOUGH!)

FOR LUMUMBA TO CRY “FREEDOM NOW!”

SEND FOR LAFAYETTE AND TELL HIM, “HELP! HELP ME!”

SEND FOR DENMARK VESEY CRYING, “FREE!”

FOR CINQUE SAYING, “RUN A NEW FLAG UP THE MAST.”

FOR OLD JOHN BROWN WHO KNEW SLAVERY COULDN’T

                         LAST.

SEND FOR LENIN! (DON’T YOU DARE!—HE CAN’T COME

                         HERE!)

SEND FOR TROTSKY! (WHAT? DON’T CONFUSE THE ISSUE,

                         PLEASE!)

SEND FOR UNCLE TOM ON HIS MIGHTY KNEES.

SEND FOR LINCOLN, SEND FOR GRANT.

SEND FOR FREDERICK DOUGLASS, GARRISON, BEECHER,

                         LOWELL.

SEND FOR HARRIETT TUBMAN, OLD SOJOURNER TRUTH.

SEND FOR MARCUS GARVEY (WHAT?) SUFI (WHO?)

                         FATHER DIVINE (WHERE?)

DUBOIS (WHEN?) MALCOLM (OH!) SEND FOR STOKELY.

                         (NO?) THEN

SEND FOR ADAM POWELL ON A NON-SUBPOENA DAY.

SEND FOR THE PIED PIPER TO PIPE OUR RATS AWAY.

               (And if nobody comes, send for me.)

I am the American heartbreak—

The rock on which Freedom

Stumped its toe—

The great mistake

That Jamestown made

Long ago.

Ghosts of all too solid flesh,

Dark ghosts come back to haunt you now,

These dark ghosts to taunt you—

Yet ghosts so solid, ghosts so real

They may not only haunt you—

But rape, rob, steal,

Sit-in, stand-in, stall-in, vote-in

(Even vote for real in Alabam’)

And in voting not give a damn

For the fact that white was right

Until last night.

Last night?

What happened then?

Flesh-and-blood ghosts

Became flesh-and-blood men?

Got tired of asking, When?

Although minority,

Suddenly became majority

(Metaphysically speaking)

In seeking authority?

How can one man be ten?

Or ten be a hundred and ten?

Or a thousand and ten?

Or a million and ten

Are but a thousand and ten

Or a hundred and ten

Or ten—or one—

Or none—

Being ghosts

Of then?

Perhaps

You will remember

John Brown.

John Brown

Who took his gun,

Took twenty-one companions

White and black,

Went to shoot your way to freedom

Where two rivers meet

And the hills of the

South

Look slow at one another—

And died

For your sake.

Now that you are

Many years free,

And the echo of the Civil War

Has passed away,

And Brown himself

Has long been tried at law,

Hanged by the neck,

And buried in the ground—

Since Harpers Ferry

Is alive with ghosts today,

Immortal raiders

Come again to town—

Perhaps

You will recall

John Brown.

Emancipation: 1865

Sighted through the

Telescope of dreams

Looms larger,

So much larger,

So it seems,

Than truth can be.

But turn the telescope around,

Look through the larger end—

And wonder why

What was so large

Becomes so small

Again.

Douglass was someone who,

Had he walked with wary foot

And frightened tread,

From very indecision

Might be dead,

Might have lost his soul,

But instead decided to be bold

And capture every street

On which he set his feet,

To route each path

Toward freedom’s goal,

To make each highway

Choose
his
compass’ choice,

To all the world cried,

Hear my voice!…

Oh, to be a beast, a bird
,

Anything but a slave!
he said.

Who would be
free

Themselves must strike

The first blow
, he said.

      He died in 1895.

      
He is not dead
.

I been scared and battered.

My hopes the wind done scattered.

      Snow has friz me,

      Sun has baked me,

Looks like between ’em they done

      Tried to make me

Stop laughin’, stop lovin’, stop livin’—

      But I don’t care!

      I’m still here!

There are words like
Freedom

Sweet and wonderful to say.

On my heartstrings freedom sings

All day everyday.

There are words like
Liberty

That almost make me cry.

If you had known what I know

You would know why.

Christ is a nigger,

Beaten and black:

Oh, bare your back!

Mary is His mother:

Mammy of the South,

Silence your mouth.

God is His father:

White Master above

Grant Him your love.

Most holy bastard

Of the bleeding mouth,

      Nigger Christ

      On the cross

      Of the South.

It would be too bad if Jesus

Were to come back black.

There are so many churches

Where he could not pray

In the U.S.A.,

Where entrance to Negroes,

No matter how sanctified,

Is denied,

Where race, not religion,

Is glorified.

But say it—

You may be

Crucified.

Let all who will

Eat quietly the bread of shame.

I cannot,

Without complaining loud and long,

Tasting its bitterness in my throat,

And feeling to my very soul

It’s wrong.

For honest work

You proffer me poor pay,

For honest dreams

Your spit is in my face,

And so my fist is clenched

Today—

To strike your face.

When the white folks get through

      Here come you:

      Got to clean awhile.

When daytime folks

Have made their dough,

      Away they go:

      You clean awhile.

When white collars get done,

      You have your “fun”

      Cleaning awhile.

“But just wait, chile …”

Hey, Buddy!

Look at me!

I’m makin’ a road

For the cars to fly by on,

Makin’ a road

Through the palmetto thicket

For light and civilization

To travel on.

I’m makin’ a road

For the rich to sweep over

In their big cars

And leave me standin’ here.

Sure,

A road helps everybody.

Rich folks ride—

And I get to see ’em ride.

I ain’t never seen nobody

Ride so fine before.

Hey, Buddy, look!

I’m makin’ a road!

Lower the flags

For the dead become alive,

Play hillbilly dirges

That hooded serpents may dance,

Write obituaries

For white-robed warriors

Emerging to the fanfare

Of death rattles.

Muffled drums in Swanee River tempo.

Hand-high salutes—
heil
!

Present arms

With ax handles

Made in Atlanta,

      
Sieg

      
Heil!

Oh, run, all who have not

Changed your names.

As for you others—

The skin on your black face,

Peel off the skin,

      Peel peel

      Peel off

      The skin.