Lucille Clifton

Poetry is where I go to think.

About life and stuff.

I love this,

By Lucille Clifton which makes me think of childhood in poverty and hard dirt, rocks and no shoes. Singing of shoes, dreaming of shoes. Fields full of stones in which we would try to gather rocks spring after spring but still the rocks grew out of the soil and we built fences to divide us from ourselves in the other fields. The apples were hard green when we ate them and our stomachs sour and painful, but we ate the apples green and the fish when they were still small and sucked on straw and picked up rocks and that was another time when I spoke another language.

I remember meeting Lucille Clifton and how kind she was to Mark and to me and how she told us that she liked Red Hen very much and that what we were doing was a good thing.  She was a kind and good woman and a poet of ferocity and genius and I miss her.

mulberry fields


they thought the field was wasting

and so they gathered the marker rocks and stones and

piled them into a barn    they say that the rocks were shaped

some of them scratched with triangles and other forms    they

must have been trying to invent some new language they say

the rocks went to build that wall there guarding the manor and

some few were used for the state house

crops refused to grow

i say the stones marked an old tongue and it was called eternity

and pointed toward the river    i say that after that collection

no pillow in the big house dreamed    i say that somewhere under

here moulders one called alice whose great grandson is old now

too and refuses to talk about slavery    i say that at the

masters table only one plate is set for supper    i say no seed

can flourish on this ground once planted then forsaken    wild

berries warm a field of bones

bloom how you must i say

Published in: on August 30, 2015 at 8:44 pm  Leave a Comment  

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