repeatedly: their dirges
and their ditties and their blues
and jubilees, praying
their prayers nightly to an
unknown god, bending their
knees humbly to an
unseen power;
For my people lending their strength to the years,
to the
gone years and the now years and
the maybe years,
washing ironing cooking
scrubbing sewing mending
hoeing plowing digging planting
pruning patching
dragging along never gaining never
reaping never
knowing and never understanding;
For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of
Alabama
backyards playing baptizing and
preaching and doctor
and jail and soldier and school
and mama and cooking
and playhouse and concert and
store and hair and
Miss Choomby and company;
For the cramped bewildered years we went to school
to learn
to know the reasons why and the
answers to and the
people who and the places where
and the days when, in
memory of the bitter hours when
we discovered we
were black and poor and small
and different and nobody
cared and nobody wondered and
nobody understood;
For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these
things to
be man and woman, to laugh and
dance and sing and
play and drink their wine and
religion and success, to
marry their playmates and bear
children and then die
of consumption and anemia and
lynching;
For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and
Lenox
Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New
Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy
people filling the cabarets and taverns and other
people’s pockets and needing bread and shoes and milk and
land and money and something—something all our own;
For
my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time
being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when
burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled
and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures
who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;
For
my people blundering and groping and floundering in
the dark of churches and schools and clubs
and societies, associations and councils and committees and
conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and
devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,
preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by
false prophet and holy believer;
For
my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,
trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,
all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless generations;
Let
a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of
healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing
in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs
be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now
rise and take control.
Margaret
Walker, “For My People” from This
is My Century: New and Collected Poems. Copyright © 1989 by
Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission of University of Georgia
Press.
Source: Poetry
(November 1937)