Gratitude
By Cornelius Eady
I’m here
       to tell youÂ
               an old story.Â
               This
Appears to be
         my work.
                 I live
                 in the world,
Walk
     the streets
             of New York,
             this
Dear city.
       I want
             to tell you
             I’m 36
Years old,
       I have lived
                 in and against
                 my blood.
I want to tell you
              I am grateful,
                        because,
                        (after all),
I am a black,
         American poet!
                  I’m 36,
                  and no one
Has to tell me
        about luck.
               I mean:
               after a reading
Someone asked me
                once:
                    If
                    you weren’t
Doing this,
       what
           (if anything)
           would you be doing?
And I didn’t say
            what we both
                      understood.
                     I’m
A black, American male.
                     I own
                          this particular story
                          on this particular street
At this particular moment.
                    This appears
                              to be
                              my work.
I’m 36 years old,
             and all I have to do
                              is repeat
                               what I notice
Over
   and over,
          all I have to do
          is remember.
And to the famous poet
                     who thinks
                              literature holds
                              no small musics:
Love.
    And to the publishers
                        who believe
                        in their marrow
There’s no profit
               on the fringes:
                          Love.
                          And to those
Who need
         the promise of wind,
                         the sound of branches
                         stirring
Beneath the line:
              here’s
                  another environment
                  poised
To open.
       Everyone reminds me
                         what an amazing
                         Odyssey
I’m undertaking,
             as well they should.
                             After all,
                             I’m a black,
American poet,
             and my greatest weakness
                                   is an inability
                                   to sustain rage.
Who knows
          what’ll happen next?
                          This appears to be one
                           for the books,
If you
    train your ears
                for what’s
                unstated
Beneath the congratulations(!)
                         That silence
                                   is my story,
                                   the pure celebration
(And shock)
          of my face
                   defying
                   its gravity,
So to speak.
           I claim
                this tiny glee
                not just
For myself,
         but for my parents,
                         who shook their heads.
                         I’m older now
Than my father was
                  when he had me,
                               which is no big deal,
                               except
I have personal knowledge
                      of the wind
                               that tilts the head back.
                               And I claim
This loose-seed-in-the-air glee
                          on behalf of the
                          social studies teacher
I had in the tenth grade,
                   a real bastard
                              who took me aside
                              after class
The afternoon
           he heard I was leaving
                              for a private school,
                              just to let me know
He expected me
            to drown out there,
                              that I held the knowledge
                              of the drowned man,
The regret
         of ruined flesh
                     in my eyes;
                     which was fair enough,
Except
      I believe I’ve been teaching
                            far longer now
                            than he had that day,
And I know
        the blessing
                  of a
                  narrow escape.
And I claim
        this rooster-pull-down-morning glee
                                       on behalf of anyone
                                       who saw me coming.
And said yes,
          even
             when I was loud, cocky,Â
             insecure,
Even
   when all they could have seen
                            was the promise of a germ,Â
                            even
When it meant
            yielding ground.
                        I am a bit olderÂ
                        than they wereÂ
When I walked
            into that room,
                       or class
                       or party,Â
And I understand the value
                      of the unstated push.
                                       A lucky man
                                       gets to sing
his name.
        I have survived
                    long enoughÂ
                    to tell a bitÂ
Of an old story.
            And to those
                       who defend poetry
                       against all foreign tongues:
Love.
     And to those who believe
                         a dropped clause
                         signifies encroachment:
Love.Â
     And to the bullies who need
                            the musty air of
                            the clubhouse
All to themselves:
              I am a brick in a house
                                 that is being built
                                 around your house.
I’m 36 years old,
              a black, American poet.
                                Nearly all the things
                                that weren’t supposed to occur
Have happened, (anyway),
                     and I have
                             a natural inability
                             to sustain rage,
Despite
       the evidence.
                I have proof,
                and a job that comes
As simple to me
             as breathing.
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