Gratitude
I’m here
to tell you
an old story.
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,
insecure,
Even
when all they could have seen
was the promise of a germ,
even
When it meant
yielding ground.
I am a bit older
than they were
When I walked
into that room,
or class
or party,
And I understand the value
of the unstated push.
A lucky man
gets to sing
his name.
I have survived
long enough
to tell a bit
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.
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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