EACH ONE, PULL ONE (Thinking of Lorraine Hansberry) We must say it all, and as clearly Trying to bury us. As we can. For, even before we are dead, Were we black? Were we women? Were we gay? Were we the wrong shade of black? Were we yellow? Did we, God forbid, love the wrong person, country? Or politics? Were we Agnes Smedley or John Brown? But, most of all, did we write exactly what we saw, As clearly as we could? Were we unsophisticated Enough to cry and scream? Well, then, they will fill our eyes, Our ears, our noses and our mouths With the mud Of oblivion. They will chew up Our fingers in the night. They will pick Their teeth with our pens. They will sabotage Both our children And our art. Because when we show what we see, They will discern the inevitable: We do not worship them. We do not worship them. We do not worship what they have made. We do not trust them. We do not believe what they say. We do not love their efficiency. Or their power plants. We do not love their factories. Or their smog. We do not love their television programs. Or their radioactive leaks. We find their papers boring. We do not worship their cars. We do not worship their blondes. We do not worship their penises. We do not think much Of their Renaissance We are indifferent to England. We have grave doubts about their brains. In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance Or sing Share the intelligence and thus the fate Of all our people In this land. We are not different from them, Neither above nor below, Outside nor inside. We are the same. And we do not worship them. We do not worship them. We do not worship their movies. We do not worship their songs. We do not think their newscasts Cast the news. We do not admire their president. We know why the White House is white. We do not find their children irresistible; We do not agree they should inherit the earth. But lately you have begun to help them Bury us. You who said: King was just a womanizer; Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry, A traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer, merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer: reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor; Agnes Smedley, a spy. I look into your eyes; You are throwing in the dirt. You, standing in the grave With me. Stop it! Each one must pull one. Look, I, temporarily on the rim Of the grave, Have grasped my mother's hand My father's leg. There is the hand of Robeson Langston's thigh Zora's arm and hair Your grandfather's lifted chin And lynched woman's elbow What you've tried to forget Of your grandmother's frown. Each one, pull one back into the sun We who have stood over So many graves Know that no matter what they do All of us must live Or none. Written by Alice Walker | Create an image from this poem

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by Alice Walker I said to Poetry: "I'm finished with you. " Having to almost die before some wierd light comes creeping through is no fun. "No thank you, Creation, no muse need apply. Im out for good times-- at the very least, some painless convention. " Poetry laid back and played dead until this morning. I wasn't sad or anything, only restless. Poetry said: "You remember the desert, and how glad you were that you have an eye to see it with? You remember that, if ever so slightly?" I said: "I didn't hear that. Besides, it's five o'clock in the a. m. I'm not getting up in the dark to talk to you. " Poetry said: "But think about the time you saw the moon over that small canyon that you liked so much better than the grand one--and how suprised you were that the moonlight was green and you still had one good eye to see it with Think of that!" "I'll join the church!" I said, huffily, turning my face to the wall. "I'll learn how to pray again!" "Let me ask you," said Poetry. "When you pray, what do you think you'll see?" Poetry had me. "There's no paper in this room," I said. "And that new pen I bought makes a funny noise. " "Bullshit," said Poetry. "Bullshit," said I. Poem by Alice Walker

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 I was hoping we were moving away from this, but sadly, it will be more relevant than ever starting in January. It's so, so, sad:

EACH ONE, PULL ONE

(Thinking of Lorraine Hansberry)
We must say it all, and as clearly
Trying to bury us.
As we can. For, even before we are dead,

Were we black? Were we women? Were we gay?
Were we the wrong shade of black? Were we yellow?
Did we, God forbid, love the wrong person, country?
Or politics? Were we Agnes Smedley or John Brown?

But, most of all, did we write exactly what we saw,
As clearly as we could? Were we unsophisticated
Enough to cry and scream?

Well, then, they will fill our eyes,
Our ears, our noses and our mouths
With the mud
Of oblivion. They will chew up
Our fingers in the night. They will pick
Their teeth with our pens. They will sabotage
Both our children
And our art.

Because when we show what we see,
They will discern the inevitable:
We do not worship them.

We do not worship them.
We do not worship what they have made.
We do not trust them.

We do not believe what they say.
We do not love their efficiency.
Or their power plants.
We do not love their factories.
Or their smog.
We do not love their television programs.
Or their radioactive leaks.
We find their papers boring.
We do not worship their cars.
We do not worship their blondes.
We do not worship their penises.
We do not think much
Of their Renaissance
We are indifferent to England.
We have grave doubts about their brains.

In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance
Or sing
Share the intelligence and thus the fate
Of all our people
In this land.
We are not different from them,
Neither above nor below,
Outside nor inside.
We are the same.
And we do not worship them.

We do not worship them.
We do not worship their movies.
We do not worship their songs.

We do not think their newscasts
Cast the news.
We do not admire their president.
We know why the White House is white.
We do not find their children irresistible;
We do not agree they should inherit the earth.

But lately you have begun to help them
Bury us. You who said: King was just a womanizer;
Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry,
A traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer,
merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer:
reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor;
Agnes Smedley, a spy.

I look into your eyes;
You are throwing in the dirt.
You, standing in the grave
With me. Stop it!

Each one must pull one.

Look, I, temporarily on the rim
Of the grave,
Have grasped my mother's hand
My father's leg.
There is the hand of Robeson
Langston's thigh
Zora's arm and hair
Your grandfather's lifted chin
And lynched woman's elbow
What you've tried to forget
Of your grandmother's frown.

Each one, pull one back into the sun

We who have stood over
So many graves
Know that no matter what they do
All of us must live
Or none.

Written by Alice Walker

EACH ONE, PULL ONE (Thinking of Lorraine Hansberry) We must say it all, and as clearly Trying to bury us. As we can. For, even before we are dead, Were we black? Were we women? Were we gay? Were we the wrong shade of black? Were we yellow? Did we, God forbid, love the wrong person, country? Or politics? Were we Agnes Smedley or John Brown? But, most of all, did we write exactly what we saw, As clearly as we could? Were we unsophisticated Enough to cry and scream? Well, then, they will fill our eyes, Our ears, our noses and our mouths With the mud Of oblivion. They will chew up Our fingers in the night. They will pick Their teeth with our pens. They will sabotage Both our children And our art. Because when we show what we see, They will discern the inevitable: We do not worship them. We do not worship them. We do not worship what they have made. We do not trust them. We do not believe what they say. We do not love their efficiency. Or their power plants. We do not love their factories. Or their smog. We do not love their television programs. Or their radioactive leaks. We find their papers boring. We do not worship their cars. We do not worship their blondes. We do not worship their penises. We do not think much Of their Renaissance We are indifferent to England. We have grave doubts about their brains. In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance Or sing Share the intelligence and thus the fate Of all our people In this land. We are not different from them, Neither above nor below, Outside nor inside. We are the same. And we do not worship them. We do not worship them. We do not worship their movies. We do not worship their songs. We do not think their newscasts Cast the news. We do not admire their president. We know why the White House is white. We do not find their children irresistible; We do not agree they should inherit the earth. But lately you have begun to help them Bury us. You who said: King was just a womanizer; Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry, A traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer, merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer: reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor; Agnes Smedley, a spy. I look into your eyes; You are throwing in the dirt. You, standing in the grave With me. Stop it! Each one must pull one. Look, I, temporarily on the rim Of the grave, Have grasped my mother's hand My father's leg. There is the hand of Robeson Langston's thigh Zora's arm and hair Your grandfather's lifted chin And lynched woman's elbow What you've tried to forget Of your grandmother's frown. Each one, pull one back into the sun We who have stood over So many graves Know that no matter what they do All of us must live Or none. Written by Alice Walker | Create an image from this poem

Content from PoetrySoup.com. Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/alice_walker
Copyright © PoetrySoup and Respective Poets.