for gloria douglass johnson
her life was dwarfed, and wed to blight,
her very days were shades of night,
her every dream was born entombed,
her soul, a bud,--that never bloomed.
from "foredoomed….”
but u reaped no fell felicity in
sadness, nor in stifled creative
spirit or in a woman’s perennial
subservience. u bore the double
cross bravely, its transverse
pieces -- the personal modesty of
wifedom & gravely maudlin
motherhood -- its upright piece --
yr calling as a teacher -- made
fitful furrows in the ground as it
drug through yr shadow behind
u. yet dared u sneak away from
yr safe narrow nest:
to write rhapsodicallylangston hughes, alain locke,
lyrical verse, in quatrains,
sonnets, iambic heptameter,
with an unpretentious spirit;
to nurture harlem’s luminous
lights in yr poetic halfway
house; yr “s” street salon.
angelina weld grimké, jean
toomer & countee cullen, yr
regular saturday nighters, as
were louis alexander, gwen
bennett, marita bonner, jessie
redmon fauset & zora neale
hurston – yr great heart san-
daled their feet & sent them
forth, yr sons full of bronze
& brawn & potency; yr daughters,
haloed & honored. u did not
die while u loved them, but
loved them until u died, giving
so much of yrself & so much
more than cadenced words.
Joseph McNair;2009
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