Angelou - Shaker, Why Dont You Sing?

Copyright 1983 by Maya Angelou All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Angelou, Maya. Shaker, why dont you sing? I. Title PS3551.N464S52 1983 811.54 82-42807 eISBN: 978-0-307-83324-2 v3.1 Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The blues may be the life youve led Or midnight hours in An empty bed. The blues may be the life youve led Or midnight hours in An empty bed.

But persecuting Blues Ive known Could stalk Like tigers, break like bone, Pend like rope in A gallows tree, Make me curse My pedigree, Bitterness thick on A rankling tongue, A psalm to love thats Left unsung, Rivers heading north But ending South, Funeral music In a going-home mouth. All riddles are blues, And all blues are sad, And Im only mentioning Some blues Ive had.

No sprouted wheat and soya shoots And Brussels in a cake, Carrot straw and spinach raw, (Today, I need a steak). Not thick brown rice and rice pilau Or mushrooms creamed on toast, Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed, (Im dreaming of a roast). Health-food folks around the world Are thinned by anxious zeal, They look for help in seafood kelp (I count on breaded veal). No Smoking signs, raw mustard greens, Zucchini by the ton, Uncooked kale and bodies frail Are sure to make me run to Loins of pork and chicken thighs And standing rib, so prime, Pork chops brown and fresh ground round (I crave them all the time).

Irish stews and boiled corned beef and hot dogs by the scores, or any place that saves a space For smoking carnivores.

We swallow the odors of Southern cities, Fat back boiled to submission, Tender evening poignancies of Magnolia and the great green Smell of fresh sweat. In Southern fields, The sound of distant Feet running, or dancing, And the liquid notes of Sorrow songs, Waltzes, screams and French quadrilles float over The loam of Georgia. Sing me to sleep, Savannah. Clocks run down in Taras halls and dusty Flags droop their unbearable Sadness. Remember our days, Susannah.

Oh, the blood-red clay, Wet still with ancient Wrongs, and Abenaa Singing her Creole airs to Macon. We long, dazed, for winter evenings And a whitened moon, And the snap of controllable fires. Cry for our souls, Augusta. We need a wind to strike Sharply, as the thought of love Betrayed can stop the heart. An absence of tactile Romance, no lips offering Succulence, nor eyes Rolling, disconnected from A Sambo face. Dare us new dreams, Columbus.

A cool new moon, a Winters night, calm blood, Sluggish, moving only Out of habit, we need Peace. Oh Atlanta, oh deep, and Once lost city, Chant for us a new song. A song Of Southern peace.

The sun rises at midday. Nubile breasts sag to waistlines while young loins grow dull, so late. Dreams are petted, like cherished lap dogs misunderstood and loved too well.

Much knowledge wrinkles the cerebellum, but little informs. Leaps are made into narrow mincings. Great desires strain into petty wishes. You did arrive, smiling, but too late.

I was a pretty baby. (All black babies Are Cute). (All black babies Are Cute).

Mother called me Bootsie and Daddy said (Nobody listened to him). On the Union Pacific, a Dining-car waiter, bowing and scraping, Momma told him to Stand up straight, he shamed her In the big house (Bought from tips) in front of her Nice club ladies. His short legs were always Half bent. He could have posed as The Black jockey Mother found And put on the lawn. He sat silent when We ate from the good railroad china And stolen silver spoons. Furniture crowded our Lonely house.

But I was young and played In the evenings under a blanket of Licorice sky. When Daddy came home (I might be forgiven) that last night, I had been running in the Big back yard and Stood sweating above the tired old man, Panting like a young horse, Impatient with his lingering. He said All I ever asked, all I ever asked, all I ever Daddy, you should have died Long before I was a Pretty baby, and white Folks used to stop Just to look at me.

for Dugald A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now, reft of that confusion, am lifted up and speeding toward the light. I met a Lady Poet who took for inspiration colored birds, and whispered words, a lovers hesitation.

A falling leaf could stir her. A wilting, dying rose would make her write, both day and night, the most rewarding prose. Shed find a hidden meaning in every pair of pants, then hurry home to be alone and write about romance.

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

From her perch of beauty posing lofty, Sustained upon the plaudits of the crowd, She praises all who kneel and whispers softly, A genuflections better with head bowed. Among the mass of people who adore her A solitary figure holds her eyes. Angels gather. Angels gather.

The rush of mad air cyclones through. Wing tips brush the hair, a million strands stand; waving black anemones. Hosannahs crush the shells ear tender, and tremble down clattering to the floor. Harps sound, undulate their sensuous meanings. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! You beyond the door. safe in the dark prison, I know that light slides over the fingered work of a toothless woman in Pakistan. safe in the dark prison, I know that light slides over the fingered work of a toothless woman in Pakistan.

Happy prints of an invisible time are illumined. My mouth agape rejects the solid air and lungs hold. The invader takes direction and seeps through the plaster walls. It is at my chamber entering the keyhole, pushing through the padding of the door. I cannot scream. A bone of fear clogs my throat.

It is upon me. It is sunrise, with Hope its arrogant rider. My mind, formerly quiescent in its snug encasement, is strained to look upon their rapturous visages, to let them enter even into me. I am forced outside myself to mount the light and ride joined with Hope. Through all the bright hours I cling to expectation, until darkness comes to reclaim me as its own. Hope fades, day isgone into its irredeemable place and I am thrown back into the familiar bonds of disconsolation.