Book Review: The Poetry of Maya Angelou
First posted in November, 2004

I had lunch at Winter Haven this afternoon. As is my new habit, I chose a book from their shelves to entertain me while I ate alone. Today I read some Maya Angelou poetry.

I'd never been exposed to Angelou's work before, but I knew that she is a celebrated poet and that she wrote and recited a poem for Clinton's inauguration, and that she's an inspiration to many women and to the African American community, and so I figured it was about time I figured out what all the fuss was about.

It has been said that Angelou has the unique ability to shatter the opaque prisms of race and class between reader and subject throughout her books of poetry and her autobiographies.¹ And to some extent she does do this with talent and flair. She writes from within her own experiences in a way that allows the reader a glimpse into her world, or the world of others with whom Angelou probably had some level of experience, at times without any concern for the reader's own world view. As a white middle-class woman, I am able to glimpse into the lure of the street to a black teenage male² or the distrust an abused woman feels at the hands of her lover³. And this is a powerful thing to be able to do, and I can see how she's won acclaim for being able to do it so well.

And I gather that she's best known for her ability to empower those who have been repressed or who, for whatever reason, lack confidence. A great deal of her work in this area appears to be written for blacks, and, not being black, I can't say how effective her work in that area is, but she's also written a bit to empower women, and I can attest that sometimes she's very eloquent in this regard.⁴ And it's not always centered towards people with whom she can relate based upon her culture or race or ancestry or gender or age; occasionally it goes beyond all cultural boundaries to inspire⁵ or relate⁶ to anyone who might be reading. However, I think that sometimes when she's attempting to empower, she does it at the expense of bridging gaps⁷, and I'm not sure whether or not this is intentional.

She strikes me as the sort who would want all of us⁸ to be equals, yet often the tone smacks of accusation and a seeming desire for division. Some would say this is completely understandable; and I'd agree that this is to some degree understandable, particularly her early poetry, written closer in time/contemporary with the civil rights movement in the United States. But when she dwells on the concepts of slavery⁹ or British colonialism¹⁰ or other horrid incidents of oppression long since laid to rest¹¹, well, I'm not advocating forgetting the past, and I'm not saying the past should be forgiven, but I am saying that I, as a human of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, as a Caucasian, as a woman, as all the things to which I might be related or with which I might be grouped willingly or not, I am for coming together, and though my forefathers might have wrought these atrocities, I had no hand in them, and should not be blamed for them, and there's no place for accusations which serve to drive people apart rather than bring them together. Dwell upon our common good, upon what we share, and remove these boundaries between us. It's not always overt in her writing¹², and I will grant you that this anthology I'm using¹³ might not be the sole publication upon which I should form an opinion of her work, but these are initial impressions, and if anyone thinks I'm taking her wrong, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

And I may well be taking her wrong. An excellent example of how I might is illustrated in the following two poems:

The Thirteens (Black) Your Momma took to shouting Your Poppa's gone to war, Your sister's in the streets Your brother's in the bar. The thirteens. Right On. Your cousin's taking smack Your Uncle’s in the joint, Your buddy's in the gutter Shooting for his point The thirteens. Right on. And you, you make me sorry You out here by yourself, I'd call you something dirty, But there just ain't nothing left, cept The thirteens. Right On.

The Thirteens (White) Your Momma kissed the chauffer, Your Poppa balled the cook, Your sister did the dirty, in the middle of the book, The thirteens. Right On. Your daughter wears a jock strap, Your son he wears a bra Your brother jonesed your cousin in the back seat of the car. The thirteens. Right On. Your money thinks you're something But if I'd learn to curse, I'd tell you what your name is But there just ain't nothing worse than The thirteens. Right On.

At first I really took offence to this (these) poem(s). "She's being rather stereotypical about my race," I thought, "and that's no better than having people stereotype about you. How does this bridge the divide to bring people together? What purpose does writing a separate poem for each race (as if there are but two) achieve?"

But then it occurred to me - perhaps these two poems are attempting to demonstrate the absurd stereotypes that exist regarding race and culture, to show that blacks can be as prejudiced as whites, and that it's just as evil as whites harboring unjustified preconceptions of blacks.

Then again, there's the consistent use of a capital letter for the B in 'Black' and the consistent lower case w in 'white.' And then there are poems like To a Suitor¹⁴. It's a rather stunning poem, really, with some powerful imagery of how love is, well, difficult to put into words, and that when it's felt, really felt, it makes us shine from within. But it also states quite clearly that the only suitor for her will be of her same race. Now, she's a poet, and poets write from the heart, and she may just have a more intense inclination toward others of her own race. I can relate to that; while I couldn't tell you that it was absolutely outside the realm of possibility that I might fall for someone who was of a different race (and I couldn't tell you that - I see beautiful, thoughtful, wonderful people everywhere I go, and I don't always go for the physical packaging; were that the case my former suitors would look like carbon copies of one another, and they aren't), I can tell you that, well, not only do I tend to go for people of my same race, but of my same hair color as well. There are certain physical features to which I am drawn, and those tend to be features found in my own race, though not exclusively so. So do I pass off To a Suitor as written merely for Angelou's own personal tastes, or is it a statement? And just precisely what does that statement say?

And in a similar vein, the same might be said of the divisiveness of which I spoke earlier. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, everyone is allowed to express emotion. Whether or not I agree with her feelings doesn't make them any less valid. If these are the emotions of a vast number of people, and it must be, given her following, then her voice has been heard as she hoped it would be. When that voice polarizes, if it polarizes, is it collecting people together to press them toward a noble cause? Or is it deepening the divide? A divide, I might add, that I for one had hoped was closing.

Now is again the time wherein I explain that I like what others would term "flowery" poetry: heavy on the visual imagery, heavy on the metaphor (not too heavy, mind you), talk about love, talk about nature, win my heart if you intertwine the two. And she's capable of that. There's some of her work that's extraordinarily smooth and vivid and visceral. About love of people, love of self, love of place, love of God. And she knows that she can do it. And I think she likes to do it. But I think she is under the impression that it lacks importance when compared with all the despair she sees in the world. Poetry for her is not a refuge, it's a place to make a stand. Against poverty, against oppression, against war, against a whole myriad of horrible things.

In short, there are several different faces to Angelou. She's aware of this, I think, as are her readers.

Some of these faces have a mission; sometimes it is achieved, sometimes it's achieved at a cost.

Some of these faces are willing to drown themselves in beauty, in emotion, in hope.

Some of these faces succeed in doing both simultaneously. And it is these final faces that I prefer, but they are few.

In closing, I give her the final word:

Artful Pose Of falling leaves and melting snows, of birds in their delights Some poets sing their melodies tendering my nights sweetly. My pencil halts and will not go along that quiet path I need to write of lovers false and hate and hateful wrath quickly.

_____
1	http://www.mayaangelou.com/ShortBio.html
_____
2	An excerpt from Letter to an Aspiring Junkie		The streets? Climb into the streets man, like you climb into the ass end of a lion. Then it's fine. It's a bug-a-loo and a shing-a-ling, African dreams on a buck-and-a-wing and a prayer. That's the streets man, Nothing happening.
_____
3	An excerpt from Men		One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you Were the last raw egg in the world. Then They tighten up. Just a little. The First squeeze is nice. A quick hug. Soft into your defenselessness. A little More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a Smile that slides around the fear. When the Air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly, Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered. It is your juice That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes. When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue, Your body has slammed shut. Forever. No keys exist.
_____
4	An excerpt from Phenomenal Woman		Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. [...] Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.
_____
5	Call Letters: Mrs. V. B.		Ships? Sure I'll sail them. Show me the boat, If it'll float, I'll sail it. Men? Yes, I'll love them. If they've got the style, To make me smile, I'll love them. Life? 'Course I'll live it. Let me have breath, Just to my death, And I'll live it. Failure? I'm not ashamed to tell it, I never learned to spell it. Not failure.
_____
6	Retrospect		Last year changed its seasons subtly, stripped its sultry winds for the reds of dying leaves, let gelid drips of winter ice melt onto a warming earth and urged the dormant bulbs to brave the pain of spring. We, loving, above the whim of time, did not notice. Alone, I remember now.
_____
7	An excerpt from On Working White Liberals		I'm afraid they'll have to prove first that they'll watch the Black man move first Then follow him with faith to kingdom come, This rocky road is not paved for us, So, I'll believe in Liberal's aid for us When I see a white man load a Black man's gun.
_____

8	Regardless of all these aforementioned groupings which many call boundaries: gender, race, culture, age - in my opinion these should merely be 'groupings' or 'categories' and not 'boundaries,' for we all have common threads, things to share, things to learn from one another.

_____
9	Southeast Arkanasia		After Eli Whitney's gin brought to generations' end bartered flesh and broken bones Did it cleanse you of your sin      Did you ponder? Now, when farmers bury wheat and the cow men dump the sweet butter down on Davy Jones Does it sanctify your street           Do you wonder? Or is guilt your nightly mare bucking wake your evenings' share of the stilled repair of groans and the absence of despair                over yonder?
_____
10	London		If I remember correctly, London is a very queer place. Mighty queer. A million miles from jungle, and the British lion roads in the stone of Trafalgar Square. Mighty queer. At least a condition removed from Calcutta, but old men in Islington and in too-large sweaters dream of the sunrise days of the British Raj. Awfully queer. Centuries of hate divide St. George's channel and the Gaels, but plum-cheeked English boys drink sweet tea and grow to fight for their Queen. Mighty queer.
_____

11

Not that there aren't other such atrocities presently afoot, of course, but I see no problem writing of those incidents contemporary with your work. That's where powerful impact can be made. Dwelling on slavery of African Americans in the United States achieves little in the present day, whereas a poem like this might have a chance to affect change:

	An excerpt from These Yet to be United States		Why are you unhappy? Why do your children cry? They kneel alone in terror with dread in every glance. Their nights are threatened daily by a grim in heritance. You dwell in whitened castles with deep and poisoned moats and cannot hear the curses which will your children's throats.
_____

12	It's not always overt in her writing, though sometimes it's beneath the surface and sometimes it's plain as day. I'm not trying to say she's always divisive, but that she is on more occasions than I cared for, at least in this anthology, and I don't think there's a place for that anymore. You don't bring people together by lumping them in groups, by telling them how they're different, how my fathers wronged your fathers. Embrace fully instead the ways in which we can come together and walk, side by side, into the future.
_____
13	The Poetry of Maya Angelou, copyright 1993, Book-of-the-Month Club, Inc.

_____
14	To a Suitor		If you are Black and for me, press steady, as the weight of night. And I will show cascades of brilliance, astrally. If you are Black and constant, descend importantly, as ritual, and I will arch a crescent moon, naturally.

[ TOP OF THIS PAGE | MORE REVIEWS | HOME ]