Another Poem by Alice Walker
The Poem is called Gray
I have a friend
who is turning gray,
not just her hair,
and I do not know
why this is so.
Is it a lace of vitamin E
pantothenic acid, or B-12?
Or is it from being frantic
and alone?
"How long does it take you to love someone?"
I ask her.
"A hot second,"she replies.
"And how long doe you love them?"
"Oh, anywhere up to several months."
"And how long does it take you
to get over loving them?"
"Three weeks,"She said,"tops."
Did I mention I am also
turning gray?
It is because I *adore* this woman
who thinks of love
this way.
...to the beginning...
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there,then Durham, then here
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me-we two-you, me talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me-who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, and learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records-Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't maek me not like
the same things others folks like who are ohter races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white-
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's America.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me-
although you're older-and white-
and somewhat more free.
That is my page for English B.
...to the beginning...
P free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
...to the beginning...
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