My Papa was from Birmingham and I spent my summers there growing up. The statue images of the 4 Little Girls, the man being sprayed with the firehose and the dog barking viciously, and the thought of how many white sheets (or lack thereof) in the aftermath were evoked on this Resurrection Sunday.
But when she describes closing my eyes and seeing the white sheets, I can’t help but think, my God how I can’t wait to hear You say, “you’ve endured this world, but you did not fold in this world. Well done my child” and the angels crying out loud.
She did that! Thank You Lord for what it is and what it isn’t.
This poem is unlike any Easter poem I’ve read. The movement and pacing is mesmerizing. I instantly thought about Paul’s awakening, the violence of White sheets aka white folks on Black bodies in what should be sacred spaces. While at the same time, folks still seeking hope from God and the power of praise in difficult days.
This was such an incredibly vivid piece. Growing up in the church or just having a collective knowing when you’re black and celebrate Christian holidays, there’s really nothing like being in the mix of that energetic experience.
Wake up Monday morning to this poem after so much racket resurrection Sunday— knife wounds Easter- large brown man said me and mine was mice 🐁 vermin to be scuttled like snake in the garage; ungrateful coons eating out the garbage with tiny hands stuffing the mouth; junk family; ungrateful and not caring enough for him and his big broken back his needs; leaving mangoes skin and seed like bird feed all over the house; but woke up this morning to Denise and them; remembering Mama Callie and the the dove descended on the congregation; how I danced in whole circles and up and down passed from arm to arm little left behind girl searching and I fell on my knees — settled in my own house now: deep loud brown man making a million dollars move but po’ thing never had the wholly ghost: sent his own to me and I’m circling them in love; Callie’s love heart hands pressed on my Aching mind and the doves are gathered like hens in a circle
My Papa was from Birmingham and I spent my summers there growing up. The statue images of the 4 Little Girls, the man being sprayed with the firehose and the dog barking viciously, and the thought of how many white sheets (or lack thereof) in the aftermath were evoked on this Resurrection Sunday.
But when she describes closing my eyes and seeing the white sheets, I can’t help but think, my God how I can’t wait to hear You say, “you’ve endured this world, but you did not fold in this world. Well done my child” and the angels crying out loud.
She did that! Thank You Lord for what it is and what it isn’t.
Where is that "you've endured this world..." quote from?
That’s what I want to hear the Lord say to me.
It's so beautifully stated ❤️
This poem is unlike any Easter poem I’ve read. The movement and pacing is mesmerizing. I instantly thought about Paul’s awakening, the violence of White sheets aka white folks on Black bodies in what should be sacred spaces. While at the same time, folks still seeking hope from God and the power of praise in difficult days.
You put into words the thoughts that came to mind. It was hurt but hopeful.
POWERFUL!
This is the kind of poem that imprints on the mind and heart. It transcends generations. Beautifully done.
This was such an incredibly vivid piece. Growing up in the church or just having a collective knowing when you’re black and celebrate Christian holidays, there’s really nothing like being in the mix of that energetic experience.
I love this poem. As the grandchild of a Baptist minister, this day brings a flood of memories.
Praise Jesus! the poetry took me to church. the poetry was praise and worship. Happy Easter power to the poets power to the Word!
Whew, my heart clinched while reading this, I felt myself inside that church.
Whew!!! This right here is the meat of the poem for me, and will preach all day long. I truly enjoyed every minute of this piece!
"A church lady writhes against….
A church lady writhes against
an egg white wall while a church man
beats his chest then the drums.
Praise Jesus.
Then the roof opens up…
The roof opens up and…
The roof opens up and angels descend…
The roof opens up and angels descend into…
16th Street Baptist Church.
And the angels are white…
the angels are white,
but not like the pictures, but like…
bombs.
The angels are white."
👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾
Wake up Monday morning to this poem after so much racket resurrection Sunday— knife wounds Easter- large brown man said me and mine was mice 🐁 vermin to be scuttled like snake in the garage; ungrateful coons eating out the garbage with tiny hands stuffing the mouth; junk family; ungrateful and not caring enough for him and his big broken back his needs; leaving mangoes skin and seed like bird feed all over the house; but woke up this morning to Denise and them; remembering Mama Callie and the the dove descended on the congregation; how I danced in whole circles and up and down passed from arm to arm little left behind girl searching and I fell on my knees — settled in my own house now: deep loud brown man making a million dollars move but po’ thing never had the wholly ghost: sent his own to me and I’m circling them in love; Callie’s love heart hands pressed on my Aching mind and the doves are gathered like hens in a circle