When I started blogging about Malcolm and re-reading the Autobio, my recollection was that most of the poetry about him was pretty dreadful. In general, I'm against didacticism and overly political points. But again, some of this stuff is just beautiful. Here's a piece by Sonia Sanchez that I used to love in college. You can see her recite it, without the blue language, here. Like Larry Neal, Sanchez is right out of the Black Arts Movement.
Malcolmdo not speak to me of martyrdom,of men who die to be rememberedon some parish day.i don't believe in dyingthough, I too shall die.and violets like castanetswill echo me.yet this man,this dreamer,thick lipped with wordswill never speak againand in each winterwhen the cold air crackswith frost I'll breathehis breath and mournmy gunfilled nights.he was the sun that taggedthe western sky andmelted tiger-scholarswhile they searched for stripes.he said, "fuck you, whiteman. we have beencurled too long. nothingis sacred, not yourwhite face nor anyland that separatesuntil some voicessquat with spasms."do not speak to me of living.life is obscene with crowdsof white on black.death is my pulse.what might have beenis not for him/or mebut what could have beenfloods the womb until I drown.
"And violets like castanets\will echo me." Just lovely.
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