Two poems by LOLITA STEWART-WHITE
Poor House Road Taken
for Clifton Walker, 1964
Two roads led west to Woodville,
and that night I studied on them both,
my mind fixed on getting home from the mill.
I looked down one that spilled out from the hill
to where it bent in the undergrowth,
then took the shortcut, which was just as fair,
Folk warned me that the Klan had staked their claim,
but I slipped through quiet-like and wondered where
when down the dirt stretch I seen them there
and knew my life would never be the same.
Come sunlight folk found me where I lay
and sent word to my Ruby to dress in black.
No, for me there would not be another day!
Still I weighed what led me on this way--
and wished that somehow I could have turned back.
My last word drifted out like a sigh;
taking a man from his family didn't make no sense.
Two roads led west to Woodville, and I--
I took the risk not knowing I would die.
To them my life made no difference.
200 The Paris-American
for Clifton Walker, 1964
Two roads led west to Woodville,
and that night I studied on them both,
my mind fixed on getting home from the mill.
I looked down one that spilled out from the hill
to where it bent in the undergrowth,
then took the shortcut, which was just as fair,
Folk warned me that the Klan had staked their claim,
but I slipped through quiet-like and wondered where
when down the dirt stretch I seen them there
and knew my life would never be the same.
Come sunlight folk found me where I lay
and sent word to my Ruby to dress in black.
No, for me there would not be another day!
Still I weighed what led me on this way--
and wished that somehow I could have turned back.
My last word drifted out like a sigh;
taking a man from his family didn't make no sense.
Two roads led west to Woodville, and I--
I took the risk not knowing I would die.
To them my life made no difference.
200 The Paris-American
Blue Note
for Ernest Hunter
We're alone now,
and I was singing
this song for you
—Donny Hathaway
What must it have been like
for a colored man to love his woman in 1958?
Brown bodies braided on cotton sheets,
their hips moved slow and deliberate.
Her fingers combed his dark landscape
before the light of daybreak
that broke his heart open
in the heat of an indifferent Georgia sun.
He hummed his blues for her
moaned under the blows of a billy club
until his very last note.
_________
Until his very last note,
he moaned under the blows of a billy club,
hummed his blues for her
in the heat of an indifferent Georgia sun
that broke his heart open.
Before the light of daybreak
her fingers combed his dark landscape,
their hips moved slow and deliberate,
brown bodies braided on cotton sheets.
For a colored man to love his woman in 1958,
that's what it must have been like.
201 The Paris-American
for Ernest Hunter
We're alone now,
and I was singing
this song for you
—Donny Hathaway
What must it have been like
for a colored man to love his woman in 1958?
Brown bodies braided on cotton sheets,
their hips moved slow and deliberate.
Her fingers combed his dark landscape
before the light of daybreak
that broke his heart open
in the heat of an indifferent Georgia sun.
He hummed his blues for her
moaned under the blows of a billy club
until his very last note.
_________
Until his very last note,
he moaned under the blows of a billy club,
hummed his blues for her
in the heat of an indifferent Georgia sun
that broke his heart open.
Before the light of daybreak
her fingers combed his dark landscape,
their hips moved slow and deliberate,
brown bodies braided on cotton sheets.
For a colored man to love his woman in 1958,
that's what it must have been like.
201 The Paris-American
