I died in 1960 from a prison sentence and poetry brought me back to life.
Love is a rock against the wind. Not soft like silk and lace.
We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do.
Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown
hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric
messages, galvanizing my genes.
Let all Black Poets die as trumpets,
And be buried in the dust of marching feet.
To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.
I boil my tears in a twisted spoon
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
Black Poets should live--not leap
From steel bridges, like the white boys do.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends