In Memory of the Great Poet, Lucille Clifton

I was heartbroken to learn that the amazing poet, Lucille Clifton, died on Saturday, February 13, 2010.  She is one of my favorite poets and I'll miss her amazing poetry.

When I read her poem, "Praise Song" I thought, 'Damn, this woman knows some of my relatives and is writing about them!'  I was inspired to write about my own three crazybeautiful alcoholic aunts.  That's what good poetry does for me:  it makes me pick up my pen (razor) and write (slice) from my heart (my wrists) and let the ink (blood) pour onto the page (floor). 

Does reading inspiring poetry do that for y'all?  What inspires you to write?

I wish I could recall when I first read a Lucille Clifton poem, but I can't.  I think it was "Homage to My Hips" because I remember printing it out and sending copies to many of my women friends and we all laughed with joy that a poet was writing the truth..... I also remember that her poetry deeply affected me and freed me to write more openly.  She truly wrote from her bruised and battered, beautiful poet-heart.  Below are a few of her poems.  I highly recommend her books. 

Love & Blessings,

~*~Marion~*~

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homage to my hips

by Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips

they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

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praise song
By Lucille Clifton

to my aunt blanche
who rolled from grass to driveway
into the street one sunday morning.
i was ten. i had never seen
a human woman hurl her basketball
of a body into the traffic of the world.
Praise to the drivers who stopped in time.
Praise to the faith with which she rose
after some moments then slowly walked
sighing back to her family.
Praise to the arms which understood
little or nothing of what it meant
but welcomed her in without judgment,
accepting it all like children might,
like God.

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Blessing the Boats
By Lucille Clifton

(at St. Mary's)

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

_______________________________

seeker of visions
By Lucille Clifton

What does this mean.
to see walking men
wrapped in the color of death,
to hear from their tongue
such difficult syllables?

Are they the spirits of our hope
or the pale ghosts of our future?
Who will believe the red road
will not run on forever?

Who will believe a tribe of ice
might live and we might not?.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

won't you celebrate with me
by Lucille Clifton

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

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the mississippi river empties into the gulf
by Lucille Clifton

and the gulf enters the sea and so forth,
none of them emptying anything,
all of them carrying yesterday
forever on their white tipped backs,
all of them dragging forward tomorrow.
it is the great circulation
of the earth's body, like the blood
of the gods, this river in which the past
is always flowing. every water
is the same water coming round.
everyday someone is standing on the edge
of this river, staring into time,
whispering mistakenly:
only here. only now.

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"People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad." ~Marcel Proust

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Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.
The Carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality  ~Emily Dickinson

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