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The Third Sermon on The Warpland

Phoenix

“In Egyptian mythology, a bird

which lived for five hundred

years and then consumed itself

in fire, rising renewed from the ashes.”

—webster


The earth is a beautiful place.

Watermirrors and things to be reflected.

Goldenrod across the little lagoon.


The Black Philosopher says

“Our chains are in the keep of the Keeper

in a labeled cabinet

on the second shelf by the cookies,

sonatas, the arabesques. . . .

There’s a rattle, sometimes.

You do not hear it who mind only

cookies and crunch them.

You do not hear the remarkable music—‘A

Death Song For You Before You Die.’

If you could hear it

you would make music too.

The blackblues.”





   West Madison Street.

In “Jessie’s Kitchen”

nobody’s eating Jessie’s Perfect Food.

Crazy flowers

cry up across the sky, spreading

and hissing This is

it.





The young men run.


They will not steal Bing Crosby but will steal

Melvin Van Peebles who made Lillie

a thing of Zampoughi a thing of red wiggles and trebles

(and I know there are twenty wire stalks sticking out of her

      head

as her underfed haunches jerk jazz.)





A clean riot is not one in which little rioters

long-stomped, long-straddled, BEANLESS

but knowing no Why

go steal in hell

a radio, sit to hear James Brown

and Mingus, Young-Holt, Coleman, John on V.O.N.

and sun themselves in Sin.


However, what

is going on

is going on.





Fire.

That is their way of lighting candles in the darkness.

A White Philosopher said

‘It is better to light one candle than curse the darkness.’

                     These candles curse—

inverting the deeps of the darkness.


GUARD HERE, GUNS LOADED.

The young men run.

The children in ritual chatter

scatter upon

their Own and old geography.


The Law comes sirening across the town.





A woman is dead.

Motherwoman.

She lies among the boxes

(that held the haughty hats, the Polish sausages)

in newish, thorough, firm virginity

as rich as fudge is if you’ve had five pieces.

Not again shall she

partake of steak

on Christmas mornings, nor of nighttime

chicken and wine at Val Gray Ward’s

nor say

of Mr. Beetley, Exit Jones, Junk Smith

nor neat New-baby Williams (man-to-many)

“He treat me right.”


That was a gut gal.


“We’ll do an us!” yells Yancey, a twittering twelve.

“Instead of your deathintheafternoon,

kill ’em, bull!

kill ’em, bull!”


The Black Philosopher blares

“I tell you, exhaustive black integrity

would assure a blackless Amrica. . . .”





Nine die, Sun-Times will tell

and will tell too

in small black-bordered oblongs “Rumor? check it

at 744-4111.”





A Poem to Peanut.

“Coooooool!” purrs Peanut. Peanut is

Richard—a Ranger and a gentleman.

A Signature. A Herald. And a Span.

This Peanut will not let his men explode.

And Rico will not.

Neither will Sengali.

Nor Bop nor Jeff, Geronimo nor Lover.

These merely peer and purr,

and pass the Passion over.

The Disciples stir

and thousandfold confer

with ranging Rangermen;

mutual in their “Yeah!—

this AIN’T all upinheah!”





“But WHY do These People offend themselves?” say they

who say also “It’s time.

It’s time to help

These People.”





Lies are told and legends made.

Phoenix rises unafraid.


The Black Philosopher will remember:

“There they came to life and exulted,

the hurt mute.

Then is was over.


The dust, as they say, settled.”

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Gwendolyn Brooks

Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks (June 7, 1917 – December 3, 2000) was an American poet, author, and teacher. Her work often dealt with the personal c…

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