Poems by Jacqueline Johnson
Mother Tongues III* I.
Just think, all those tongues
all those people,
caught in the quickening wind.
Hindu speak, Arawak cry, African
bluesong, Hopi wail.
Can you see the spirits caught in
Babel's confused tower?
Last night I dreamed it was standing upright.
There is a baby sitting on my knee,
I am in the center of a village.
I own its past and its future. Sometimes I
paint the generations with my hands.
II.
I am in search of my
mother tongue,
I am in search of
the mother tongue.
American can't hold me,
has always been my second language.
I am in search, I seek my mother tongue.
More than the sounding of women
it is an understanding,
a knowing about cosmos,
this universe of all our bodies - earth.
Just last night I was in
search of the mother tongue,
found myself in the bush
of Chibok, listening to
wailing mother spirits, knowing
in the African cosmos, 276 girls,
500 girls, 1,000 girls like me,
like you just disappeared.
III.
Last night, I dreamed all
the leaning faiths, all
the leaning truths everywhere
were standing upright.
I can see it in the smoke of the Ukraine, of Sarajevo,
how the whole city weeps. What happened
when they pulled the wall down?
What happened when they undid the boundaries?
This new Europe bleeds like in the old days.
IV.
I wonder if Lloyd McNeil remembers when
music was waiting to happen in him,
waiting for him to discover, metaphor,
paint and half notes.
His mind a fertile rooster flying free.
Ten years ago, Walcott said,
"surrender," and I did. And from that
moment, that forever the sound of
poetry has been calling ever since.
V.
Mind of my mind,
practicing guerilla warfare.
Mind of my mind,
growing flowers in heart of the Stuy.
Where does a woman go for solitude?
Can't find Sarton's garden anywhere.
Picking glass, cigarette butts, dog doo, condoms,
and candy wrappers from the earth - a woman too.
All she wants is our respect.
All we want is our respect.
VI.
Just this morning, I remembered my
awakeness, saw the possibilities of
flowers that couldn't find the sun.
Heard the babble in my neighborhood go
from confusion to clarity. Saw this artist
who refused government aid. Refused
to be a state artist. Found a way,
made a way to keep wild poppies of her art alive.
She knows freedom does not require
an application, just pursuit.
VII.
Last night I dreamed
all those made to lean generations,
all the leaning flags,
leaning people of Africa,
were standing upright.
--*from a "Gathering of Mother Tongues".
Indigo*
In waters run obsidian
from loss and loneliness,
reflections closer than I thought
surprise me.
“I want to live,” she says
pushing aside my lame rejections.
Her agile spirit reveals
what I deny;
she who knits back skin
torn by a scalpel’s steel.
Never weary of moon cycles,
she returns faithfully
wearing her many skirts.
Wise woman, yaya
keeper of delicateness
black black, so blue are her ways
one can barely glimpse her.
This Indigo,
I stain myself
with the wonder of her.
Jacqueline Johnson
--*from "A Woman's Season".