Five Politically-Inspired Poems by Audre Lorde
By Emma Ward | On | Comments (1)
Audre Lorde was inspired by her identities as a lesbian feminist poet as well as the various cultures that make up the fabric of American life. Her work was influential to the anti-war, civil rights and women’s movement during the later half of the 20th century, and continues to resonate.
Many of these political poems are present in her book, The Black Unicorn, which “explores Lorde’s relationship with womanhood as she provides insight on the interwoven nature of oppression, sexism, African culture, sexual and spiritual awakening, and race…” (from Intersectionality)
Power
The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.
I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.
A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn’t notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.
Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.
I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody’s mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
The Black Unicorn
The black unicorn is greedy.
The black unicorn is impatient. 'The black unicorn was mistaken for a shadow or symbol and taken through a cold country where mist painted mockeries of my fury. It is not on her lap where the horn rests but deep in her moonpit growing. The black unicorn is restless the black unicorn is unrelenting the black unicorn is not free.
Who Said It Was Simple
There are so many roots to the tree of anger that sometimes the branches shatter before they bear. Sitting in Nedicks the women rally before they march discussing the problematic girls they hire to make them free. An almost white counterman passes a waiting brother to serve them first and the ladies neither notice nor reject the slighter pleasures of their slavery. But I who am bound by my mirror as well as my bed see causes in color as well as sex and sit here wondering which me will survive all these liberations.
Hanging Fire
I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me
the boy I cannot live without still sucks his tumb in secret how come my knees are always so ashy what if I die before the morning comes and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed. I have to learn how to dance in time for the next party my room is too small for me suppose I de before graduation they will sing sad melodies but finally tell the truth about me There is nothing I want to do and too much that has to be done and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed. Nobody even stops to think about my side of it I should have been on Math Team my marks were better than his why do I have to be the one wearing braces I have nothing to wear tomorrow will I live long enough to grow up and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed.
Coal
I
is the total black, being spoken
from the earth’s inside.
There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame how sound comes into a words, coloured by who pays what for speaking. Some words are open like a diamond on glass windows singing out within the crash of sun Then there are words like stapled wagers in a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart— and come whatever will all chances the stub remains an ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge. Some words live in my throat breeding like adders. Other know sun seeking like gypsies over my tongue to explode through my lips like young sparrows bursting from shell. Some words bedevil me Love is word, another kind of open. As the diamond comes into a knot of flame I am Black because I come from the earth's inside Now take my word for jewel in the open light.
Learn more about Audre Lorde
Thank you