On Wednesday, May 26th,
Maya Angelou died. She was 86 years old, and had lived a life rich in words,
wisdom, and people right up until she passed—may we all be so blessed. She was
a poet, a singer, a dancer, an actress, and an activist. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was her first memoir, and it was groundbreaking
both as a social piece and as literature: powerful enough to inspire, and also
controversial enough that it prompted many school districts to try and ban it
(my kind of book). She was one of my heroines, a true lady and great artist,
and she will be acutely missed.
I had the great pleasure of seeing
her speak in Seattle a handful of years ago. She came to the Paramount Theater,
and I had tickets way up in the nosebleed section; I had heard recordings of
her voice, but never seen a picture of her (I tend to be oblivious to media in
a lot of ways), and I honestly had forgotten how old she was, so it was very
striking to see her live on stage. To this day, seeing and hearing Maya Angelou remains one of the most
powerful experiences of my life. It inspired me to write the following poem,
which I share with a certain amount of frustration because this is the
original, raw draft—I have a refined finished version somewhere and I can’t
find it. So this is a rather pitiful tribute to a great woman, but the emotion
behind it is deep and sincere.
Having
no photo of you
to prejudice my mind,
I created your portrait
from the template of your words.
With your poetry as my palette,
your cadence to suggest hues, and your
rhymes to offer shape,
I drew in my heart your likeness
to hang over my mental recitation of your work.
This portrait gave you
an Amazon's strong jaw,
and Athena's brow;
eyes like a Siren watching night blacked waters
the high cheeks of Justice
and the even lips of Mary, eloquent even in silence before the Cross.
Then a ticket and a concert hall gave summons,
which I would not reject.
Full eager and light I
came to adore my idol,
observe this face at last.
And there,
robed in red,
they
to prejudice my mind,
I created your portrait
from the template of your words.
With your poetry as my palette,
your cadence to suggest hues, and your
rhymes to offer shape,
I drew in my heart your likeness
to hang over my mental recitation of your work.
This portrait gave you
an Amazon's strong jaw,
and Athena's brow;
eyes like a Siren watching night blacked waters
the high cheeks of Justice
and the even lips of Mary, eloquent even in silence before the Cross.
Then a ticket and a concert hall gave summons,
which I would not reject.
Full eager and light I
came to adore my idol,
observe this face at last.
And there,
robed in red,
they
arranged
you
seated
before the curtain rose.
Your octogenarian limbs could not
cross the stage unaided,
trimmed your energy
Your octogenarian limbs could not
cross the stage unaided,
trimmed your energy
to scarcely an hour,
made lean your face and
made lean your face and
gray your hair--
Revealed my portrait as a fallacy.
But then your voice came
clear throughout the hall.
All images, real and myth, became as
dry leaves swept heedless before strong spring winds.
A soul so large no mortal frame could matter
Spoke.
Revealed my portrait as a fallacy.
But then your voice came
clear throughout the hall.
All images, real and myth, became as
dry leaves swept heedless before strong spring winds.
A soul so large no mortal frame could matter
Spoke.
When I
heard you sing
I, Shall not, I shall not
be moved,
I felt
foundations of temples in my bones
my ears filled, welcoming all pieces;
and for the first moment in my life
my limbs stirred
in urge to kneel.
my ears filled, welcoming all pieces;
and for the first moment in my life
my limbs stirred
in urge to kneel.
There is no greater honor that having a poem written to praise you. You did a good job. Loved it.
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