Newspaper Page Text
Page 4
MAROON TIGER
Wednesday, December 18, 1968
THE TAVERN
By Philip Erskine Brown
Emmanuel wiped the fish
grease from his hands, and, turn
ing, saw Joe crouched over the
bar. He saw him there — the old
carpenter sourly belching over
the bent mug of cheap wine. One
decanter. Two decanters. Emp
tied! Emmanuel worried.
“Don’t you think you’ve had
enough, Joe? I mean you should
n’t overdo it. The Roman cops
don’t cater to Jews staggering
in the alleys after twelve;
they’re on this ‘law and order’
bit now; or had you forgotten?”
“Damn ’em.” The sunburned
face held sunken, blurry eyes,
dimmed by stale Syrian wine.
“Aint no cop gonna put his hands
on me!”
“Problems, Joe?” Emmanuel
asked with a smile, brushing the
fly from Joseph’s lower, tremb
ling lip. “I’ve never seen you
like this before. Would you like
to talk about it? About your
problem?”
“TALK!” the carpenter rasped
and slammed the mug furiously
onto the counter, causing the
wine to splash in his face, over
Emmanuel’s greasy apron, over
his hand, spreading like drooling
blood from a nail pierced hand.
“How can I talk? I can’t even
see you!”
“Try.”
“I—I—” Joe shoved the mug
away and dropped his head,
bristled like the thorns of a
briary crown. “It’s off, Emmanu
el. It’s off. Engagement’s off.”
“WHAT! You and Mary have-”
“She wuznt nuthin’ but a front.
A front. She’s fool’d everbody the
way she did me. You. I found
her out.”
“What do you mean? You mean
she isn’t a—”
“She’s a goddamn whore. She’s
been pumped up. ’N’ I can’t
POSSIBLY be the bastard’s—”
“Joe! Dont say that. But do-do
you have any idea who the ba
by’s father is?”
Joe began speaking; he had
to talk. Without that he wouldn’t
have been able to recognize him
self in his own mind. “She took
me for a fool. Tol’ me—tol’ me
a dove, a dove, a white dove
with black eyes, flew down from
Heaven and raped her. A dove
raped her! Caught her with its
wings, held her breasts down
with his beak—and raped her.
She takes me for a fool. But I
am not. I will not be made a
fool by some - some cheap, two-
timin’ slut who opens her knees
to any camel driver that slob
bers.” Joe whimpered finally,
“Only young men can kindle
the heart’s desire; old men, like
me, like you, frighten love
away.”
“But do you LOVE her?” Em
manuel asked with piercing eyes.
“Do you, son?”
“I—I—yes, I do.”
“Then LOVE her. And by that
same love, Joe, save the world.”
Unvirgined Madonna
By Harold McKelton
Virgin Mary, behold the silhouette image that is your mirror!
Virgin Mary, spy your image and witness your darker
reflection in an unvirgined Madonna!
Lo! as night is she that delivers to me the bastard son of
one who met the price;
Lo! as ebon is she that scrubs the floor, that licks the boot,
that baths the fatigue in
hellelujah blues.
Virgin Mary, look pity on the jet whore of circumstance
and savagery,
Virginia Mary, spy the image of her who delivers to the world
her bastard child, lower than
a manger.
II
Sing shepherds and imps and dayworkers and lambs and
hustlers: sing of the coming truth.
(Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.)
Sing, white-scrubbed minds of youthful souls that dream of
starry freedoms.
(Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.)
Sing holy seed and egg, united to be born, to die before
conceived.
(Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.)
III
Fat, Pregnant, Bulging Mary, blessed art thou among women.
Your fertility fused with the irony of your life.
Your majesty subdued by the spirit of love . . . pain . . .joy
. . sorrow . . hope . . despair;
Forced into the drama of survival.
Black, Comely, Proud Mary, Blessed art thou among women.
NINA
By Ben Wright
Nina Simone
Comes on strong.
Her voice is husky and sexy.
She purrs and gyragates—
Contorts her body like a snake.
Intelligentsia
By Philip Brown, Literary Editor
Her “Three Women”
Sets off sparks like an eel.
A gospel sound—
‘Any day, now, I shall be
released.’
An organ—
‘Any day, now, I shall be free.’
“Mississippi Goddam!”
The sun sets.
Tlie night is blue and red.
Black faces stare.
‘Suzanne takes you down’
Seemingly more caustic and
haunting than the
Poet (Leonard. Cohen) intended;
A guitar—
‘AH men will be sailors then,
Until the sea shall free them’—
Vibrations of the sea;
‘And you want to travel with
her;
And you want to travel blind . ..
’Cause she’s touched your perfect
body
With her mind.’
The Blues—
‘Bad luck is killin’ me,’ and
“Do What You Gotta Do.”
You can really learn how to be
happy.
The last few numbers:
“Muddy Waters,’ says Nina,
“gave it a name . . .
Rollin’ and tumblin’.”
She doesn’t always turn you on,
and
Sadly enough thats
A REVOELEUTION.
WANTED
\ Resurrected Shakespeares!
| Romantic Wordsworths!
: Raging LeRoi Joneses!
Wanted!
Your pen for Intelligentsia!
YELETIDE IN BLACKNESS
By W. Grayson Mitchell
I am a black man, an oppressed
black man, an emasculated black
man. I am a black man waging
war against my oppressor, a
black man seeking the death of
my emasculator.
For me, there is no cheer, no
merriment, no good will towards
men, no joy, no peace. My laugh
ter is hidden by my tears; my
smile is erased by my grief. I
am a black man. No carols I sing;
no greetings I extend.
There are no treats in Christ
mases when the treats I had were
when the lyrics tell “I’m dream
ing of a white Christmas,” not
when the carillons chime “Silent
Night.” Try to see that for hun
dreds of years my Christmases
have been white, those Christ-
maes when the treats I had were
more hunger, more frustration
and more hurt. And see, too
many of my nights have been
silent, but now the nights are
my budides and we move togeth-
BROTHER SAYS
My Black Children,
Through a vision I have re
ceived this message from our
Heaven. Listen to me. And be
wise. Blackness, I have seen, is
a condition of mind; it is not a
condition of pigmentation. NE
GRO is a child of degradation,
nurtured on the bowels of slav
ery; too often cradled by Toms.
The oogenesis of Life is black
ness; blackness is the plastic Mo
ther of all Creation. Black Pow
er is stupidity if it is not coupled
with sincerity of purpose; mean
ingful revolutons are not fads;
cheap fads are not accompanied
by the pools of blood that drench
the bodies of Malcolm and Mar-
One must straighten the
crooked road of one’s own mind,
black leader, before he can show
black people the way. UHURU!
THIS IS THE CRY. UHURU! WE
WILL BE FREE THOUGH WE
MUST DIE. I TOO HAVE; SEEN
THE PROMISED LAND! Black
people don’t become black peo
ple by combing naturals; they
must do their homework. They
must read. They once were di
vided; they once hated them
selves. But now — look out,
whitey. Black Power might just
git yo’ momma, too. My black
children, say ‘Amen’ and believe
on these things, for so were they
shown to me in a vision.
Stereotyped
By REB & H. K.
tin.
Being stereotyped is a Drag.
Like Man, we ALL don’t Drink.
I’m gonna tell you something,
fellow:
You have messed up my mind
and
Now I think Whitey’s a Bigot and
I think you are all fakes.
Ha! Ha!
How does it feel, White Man?
I’ve stopped grinnin’.
You dig Black Women . . .
Well, dig!
I catch your hand on a Black
Sister,
You die.
You think all Black Men
Want a white woman.
Not hardly.
Whitey, I’m tired of being
stereotyped,
And until things change,
You are in for it.
Devil, Beast, Slob, Bum,
All white men.
You! Robbie Jeffress
er to get the man.
Christmas is a honkies’ thing.
He has the joy, all the peace, the
merriment and all those things
that I’ve wanted for so long.
He’s the Santa Claus. He’s the
Messiah. I’m just an angry black
man, an angry black man trying
like hell to mess up that honkie’s
world.
Red was the color of the blood
that flowed from my mother’s
womb, as some vicious honkie
found joy in her being raped.
Green was the color of the leaves
on the big pine tree limb that
held my father as he dangled
from a rope. Red and green—the
Yuletide hues—the colors that re
call pain and suffering and grief.
I am a black man. For me,
all days are the same. I see no
need to rejoice. I see no need to
be merry. I am a black man;
my life is not a chest of gold,
frankincense and myrrh.
A Lady Called Candice
In the back seat we both sat;
she with the smell of Arabian
perfume and I with the hope that
the journey would soon end. Her
arms were as soft as the feathers
of a dove. And her lips were en
graved with a note called love.
With her eyes like the crust of
sunkissed pie, she extended me
her hand with its palm toward
the sky. And carefully I placed
my hand in hers. “My God,” I
thought, “her hand is soft as fur!”
With a motion mellow as music
piped from afar, she gently arose
and began to climb from the car.
Although we are parted and she
is now gone, I have no fears, for
our love still lives on; and always
will I be filled with bliss—as
long as I remember a lady, Can-
dice.
W. Earl Berry.
Afraid . . Lonely . .
Black
By David Manning
I slowly opened the door, all
the while wondering about my
new schoolmates.
But all my small fears im
mediately vanished when every
one greeted me in such a con
genial manner. All of heaven’s
glory shone in the form of friend
ly smiles. I was flattered by ev
eryone. I was liked by all.
I, like many blacks, had fallen
for the false smiles of my “white”
friends. These smiles made me
feel white. I wanted to be white!
I was white!
Fortunately, though, I gradu
ally began to see through the
false smiles of my “friends.” I
finally realized that they hated
me; to them, I was a savage.
After awakening from my fan
tasy world, I pitied my white
schoolmates for holding such
bitterness in their hearts for
another human.
I am no longer alone.
I am not afraid.
And I am beautifully black!