The Panther and the Lash (3 page)

Oh, what sorrow!

Oh, what pity!

Oh, what pain

That tears and blood

Should mix like rain

And terror come again

To Mississippi.

Again?

Where has terror
been?

On vacation?
Up North?

In some other section

Of the Nation
,

Lying low, unpublicized
,

Masked—with only

Jaundiced eyes showing

Through the mask?

What sorrow, pity, pain,

That tears and blood

Still mix like rain

In Mississippi.

They took me out

To some lonesome place.

They said, “Do you believe

In the great white race?”

I said, “Mister,

To tell you the truth,

I’d believe in anything

If you’d just turn me loose.”

The white man said, “Boy,

Can it be

You’re a-standin’ there

A-sassin’ me?”

They hit me in the head

And knocked me down.

And then they kicked me

On the ground.

A klansman said, “Nigger,

Look me in the face—

And tell me you believe in

The great white race.”

That Justice is a blind goddess

Is a thing to which we black are wise:

Her bandage hides two festering sores

That once perhaps were eyes.

      Four little girls

Who went to Sunday School that day

And never came back home at all

But left instead

Their blood upon the wall

With spattered flesh

And bloodied Sunday dresses

Torn to shreds by dynamite

That China made aeons ago—

Did not know

That what China made

Before China was ever Red at all

Would redden with their blood

This Birmingham-on-Sunday wall.

      Four tiny girls

Who left their blood upon that wall,

In little graves today await

The dynamite that might ignite

The fuse of centuries of Dragon Kings

Whose tomorrow sings a hymn

The missionaries never taught Chinese

In Christian Sunday School

To implement the Golden Rule.

      
Four little girls

Might be awakened someday soon

By songs upon the breeze

As yet unfelt among magnolia trees.

It’s not enough to mourn

And not enough to pray.

Sackcloth and ashes, anyhow,

Save for another day.

The Lord God Himself

Would hardly desire

That men be burned to death—

And bless the fire
.

By what sends

the white kids

I ain’t sent:

I know I can’t

be President.

What don’t bug

them white kids

sure bugs me:

We know everybody

ain’t free.

Lies written down

for white folks

ain’t for us a-tall:

Liberty And Justice—

Huh!—
For All?

Too many years

Beatin’ at the door—

I done beat my

Both fists sore.

Too many years

Tryin’ to get up there—

Done broke my ankles down,

Got nowhere.

Too many years

Climbin’ that hill,

’Bout out of breath.

I got my fill.

I’m gonna plant my feet

On solid ground.

If you want to see me,

Come down.

As if it were some noble thing,

She spoke of sons at war,

As if freedom’s cause

Were pled anew at some heroic bar,

As if the weapons used today

Killed with great élan,

As if technicolor banners flew

To honor modern man—

Believing everything she read

In the daily news,

(No in-between to choose)

She thought that only

One side won,

Not that both

Might lose.

Listen here, Joe,

Don’t you know

That tomorrow

You got to go

Out yonder where

The steel winds blow?

Listen here, kid,

It’s been said

Tomorrow you’ll be dead

Out there where

The rain is lead.

Don’t ask me why.

Just go ahead and die.

Hidden from the sky

Out yonder you’ll lie:

A medal to your family—

In exchange for

      A guy.

Mama, don’t cry
.

Dear Death:

I got your message

That my son is dead.

The ink you used

To write it

Is the blood he bled.

You say he died with honor

On the battlefield,

And that I am honored, too,

By this bloody yield.

Your letter

Signed in blood,

With his blood

Is sealed.

We passed their graves:

The dead men there,

Winners or losers,

Did not care.

In the dark

They could not see

Who had gained

The victory.

Futile of me to offer you my hand,

Last little brown prince

Of Malaysia land.

Your wall is too high

And your moat is too wide—

For the white world’s gunboats

Are all on your side.

So you lie in your cradle

And shake your rattle

To the jingo cry

Of blood and battle

While Revolt in the rice fields

Puts on a red gown.

Before you are king,

He’ll come to town.

…and here is

old Picasso and the dove

and dreams as fragile

as pottery with dove

in white on clay

dark brown as

earth is brown

from our old

battle ground…

The face of war is my face.

The face of war is your face.

      
What color

      
Is the face

      
Of war?

Brown, black, white—

Your face and my face.

Death is the broom

I take in my hands

To sweep the world

      Clean.

I sweep and I sweep

Then mop and I mop.

I dip my broom in blood,

My mop in blood—

And blame you for this,

Because you are
there
,

      Enemy.

It’s hard to blame me,

Because I am here—

So I kill you.

And you kill me.

      My name,

Like your name,

      Is war.

Now dreams

Are not available

To the dreamers,

Nor songs

To the singers.

In some lands

Dark night

And cold steel

Prevail—

But the dream

Will come back,

And the song

Break

Its jail.

Don’t know why I,

Black,

Must still stand

With my back

To the last frontier

Of fear

In my own land.

Don’t know why I

Must turn into

A Mau Mau

And lift my hand

Against my fellow man

To live on my own land.

But it is so—

And being so

I know

For you
and me

There’s

Woe
.

Lumumba was black

And he didn’t trust

The whores all powdered

With uranium dust.

Lumumba was black

And he didn’t believe

The lies thieves shook

Through their “freedom” sieve.

Lumumba was black.

His blood was red—

And for being a man

They killed him dead.

They buried Lumumba

In an unmarked grave.

But he needs no marker—

For air is his grave.

Sun is his grave,

Moon is, stars are,

Space is his grave.

My heart’s his grave,

And it’s marked there.

Tomorrow will mark

It everywhere
.

Wear it

Like a banner

For the proud—

Not like a shroud.

Wear it

Like a song

Soaring high—

Not moan or cry.

Durban, Birmingham,

Cape Town, Atlanta,

Johannesburg, Watts,

The earth around

Struggling, fighting,

Dying—for what?

A
world to gain
.

Groping, hoping,

Waiting—for what?

A world to gain
.

Dreams kicked asunder,

Why not go under?

There’s a world to gain.

But suppose I don’t want it,

Why take it?

To remake it
.

The past has been a mint

Of blood and sorrow.

That must not be

True of tomorrow.

I know I am

The Negro Problem

Being wined and dined,

Answering the usual questions

That come to white mind

Which seeks demurely

To probe in polite way

The why and wherewithal

Of darkness U.S.A.—

Wondering how things got this way

In current democratic night,

Murmuring gently

Over
fraises du bois
,

“I’m so ashamed of being white.”

The lobster is delicious,

The wine divine,

And center of attention

At the damask table, mine.

To be a Problem on

Park Avenue at eight

Is not so bad.

Solutions to the Problem,

Of course, wait.

And so

we lick our chops at Birmingham

and say, “See!

Southern dogs have vindicated me—

I knew that this would come.”

But who are we to be

so proud that savages

have proven a point

taken late in time

to show how liberal I am?

Above the struggle

I can quite afford to be:

well-fed, degreed,

not beat—elite,

up North.

I send checks,

support your cause,

and lick my chops

at Jim Crow laws

and Birmingham—

where you,

not I

am.

Sweet words that take

Their own sweet time to flower

And then so quickly wilt

Within the inner ear,

Belie the budding promise

Of their pristine hour

To wither in the

Sultry air of fear.

Sweet words so brave

When danger is not near,

I’ve heard

So many times before,

I’d just as leave

Not hear them

Anymore.

The committee’s fat,

Smug, almost secure

Co-religionists

Shiver with delight

In warm manure

As those investigated—

Too brave to name a name—

Have pseudonyms revealed

In Gentile game

      Of who,

      Born Jew,

      Is who?

Is not your name Lipshitz?

      Yes.

Did you not
change it

For subversive purposes?

      No.

For nefarious gain?

      Not so.

Are you sure?

The committee shivers

With delight in

Its manure.

To ride piggy-back

to the market of death

there to purchase a slave,

a slave who died young,

having given up breath—

unwittingly,

of course—

a slave who died young,

perhaps from a fix

with a rusty needle

infected,

to purchase a slave

to the market of death

I ride protected.

The solid citizens

Of the country club set,

Caught between

Selma and Peking,

Feel the rug of dividends,

Bathmats of pride,

Even soggy country club

Pink paper towels

Dropped on the MEN’S ROOM floor

Slipping out from under them

Like waves of sea

Between Selma, Peking,

Westchester

And me.

Here I come!

Been saving all my life

To get a nice home

For me and my wife.

      
White folks flee
—

      
As soon
as you see

      
My problems

      
And me!