Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
a poem by Amiri BarakaLately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knee, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
Clasped
Hands
a poem by Eillya-Marí Kocumba
I used to be a wave
I used to be a wave
Ebbing and flowing across
The same blue seas
And I would see the same old fish
Desperately fighting the same old tides...
But I found solace in the ships that pass.
Brightly colored sails
Erected high in the distant sky--
They come and go on the horizon
Riding the wave of opportunity...
Am I so different?
No one drifts in my current
It leads to some unknown destination
Far, far in the distance
Beyond the eye, beyond imagination...
There's nothing there in my path,
Only God's creation