The Byrd poems part 1.
BY LYNNE PROCOPE
“After all,
I’m a black,
American poet,
And my greatest weakness
is an inability
to sustain rage.”
From "Gratitude" by Cornelius Eady
Seems I’m prone to walking these streets at night,
unarmed. Somedays all I carry is the song,
this whippoorwill’s blues of crushed delight.
The nightjar bird calls and carries my soul along.
Street signs all point away from me. I’m blood,
soaked stained asphalt. I’m fifteen thousand feet
rope drag ruined and can’t escape their hoods.
On the colored side of the cemetery; I’m meat.
My ma can’t name my drawn and slaughtered parts.
I say, forgive. My sister, Betty, she let go her hate.
My son—
all I pray is he cares for his boy, pray he keeps his heart
light as night bird’s song and soft as my feet. I’m done.
I’m in the cool dark air, a man unmade, the bloody
refrain the black boys sing whose songs swell the body.
I’m a black,
American poet,
And my greatest weakness
is an inability
to sustain rage.”
From "Gratitude" by Cornelius Eady
Seems I’m prone to walking these streets at night,
unarmed. Somedays all I carry is the song,
this whippoorwill’s blues of crushed delight.
The nightjar bird calls and carries my soul along.
Street signs all point away from me. I’m blood,
soaked stained asphalt. I’m fifteen thousand feet
rope drag ruined and can’t escape their hoods.
On the colored side of the cemetery; I’m meat.
My ma can’t name my drawn and slaughtered parts.
I say, forgive. My sister, Betty, she let go her hate.
My son—
all I pray is he cares for his boy, pray he keeps his heart
light as night bird’s song and soft as my feet. I’m done.
I’m in the cool dark air, a man unmade, the bloody
refrain the black boys sing whose songs swell the body.
Lynne Procope is a Cave Canem fellow and former National Poetry Slam champion. Her work is widely published in journals and literary magazines. She is co-author of the collaborative collection, Burning Down the House, an editor at Union Station Magazine, and executive director of the louderARTS Project.