For His People, Everywhere

For a poetic man like President Elect Barack Obama, it is only fitting that I honor him here on my blog with a dynamic and epic poem from a great African American writer, Margaret Walker.

"For My People" was the title poem in a volume that served as Walker’s master's thesis for the Iowa Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa. Walker earned her Ph.D. from that university in 1965. “Her World War II-era poem, "For My People," won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award in 1942. Dr. Margaret Abigail Walker Alexander was born on July 6, 1915 and died November 30, 1998. She would undoubtedly have been immensely proud of this heroic and fearless American son, Barack Obama.

For My People
by Margaret Walker

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties, their blues and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the gone years and the now years and the maybe years, washing, ironing, cooking, scrubbing, sewing, mending, hoeing, plowing, digging, planting, pruning, patching, dragging along, never gaining, never reaping, never knowing, and never understanding.

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama backyards, playing and baptizing and preaching and doctor and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn to know the reasons why, and the answers to, and the people who, and the places where, and the days when, in memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we were black and poor and small and different, and nobody cared, and nobody wondered, and nobody understood.

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to be Man and Woman, to laugh and dance and sing and play and drink their wine and religion and success, to marry their playmates and bear children and then die of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy people filling the cabarets and taverns and other people's pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and land and money and something—something all our own;

For my people, walking blindly, spreading joy, losing time, being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied and shackled and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people, blundering and groping and floundering in the dark of churches and schools and clubs and societies, associations and councils and committees and conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches, preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by false prophet and holy believer.

For my people, standing, staring, trying to fashion a better way from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding, trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people, all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless generations;

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second generation full of courage issue forth; let a people loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing in our spirit and our blood. Let the martial songs be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now rise and take control.