Don’t Cry, Scream
(for John Coltrane/ from a black poet/
in a basement apt. crying dry tears
of “you ain’t gone.”)
into the sixties
a trane
came/ out of the
fifties with a
golden boxcar
riding the rails
of novation.
blowing
a-melodics
screeching,
screaming,
blasting—
driving some away,
(those paper readers who thought
manhood was something innate)
bring others in,
the few who didn’t believe that the
world existed around established whi
teness & leonard bernstein)
music that ached.
murdered our minds (we reborn)
born into neoteric aberration
& suddenly you envy the
BLIND man—
you know that he will
hear what you’ll never
see.
your music is like
my head — nappy black/
a good nasty feel with
tangled songs of:
we-eeeeeeeeee sing
WE-EEEeeeeeeee loud &
WE-EEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEE high
with
feeling
a people playing
the sound of me when
i combed it. combed at
it.
i cried for billy holiday.
the blues. we ain’t blue
the blues exhibited illusions of manhood.
destroyed by you. Ascension into:
scream-eeeeeeeeeeeeee-ing sing
SCREAM-EEEeeeeeeeeeee-ing loud &
SCREAM-EEEEEEEEEEE EEE-ing long with
feeling
we ain’t blue, we are black.
we ain’t blue, we are black.
(all the blues did was
make me cry)
soultrane gone on a trip
he left man images
he was a life-style of
man-makers & annihilator
of attache case carriers.
Trane done went.
(got his hat & left me one)
naw brother,
i didn’t cry,
I just––
Scream-eeeeeeeeeeeeee e-ed sing loud
SCREAM-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ED & high with
we-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ee feeling
WE-E-EEEEEeeeeeeeee EEEEEEEE letting
WE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, yr/voice
WHERE YOU DONE GONE, BROTHER? break
it hurts, grown babies
dying. born. done caught me
a trane. steel wheels broken
by popsicle sticks. i went out
& tried to buy a nickle bag
with my standard oil card.
blonds had more fun––
with snagga-tooth niggers
who saved pennies & pop bottles for week-ends
to play negro & other filthy inventions.
be-bop-en to james brown’s
cold sweat––these niggers didn’t sweat,
they perspired. & the blond’s dye came out,
i ran. she did too, with his pennies, pop bottles
& his mind. tune in next week same time same station
for anti-self in one lesson.
to the negro cow-sissies
who did tchaikovsky &
the beatles & live in
split-level homes & had
split-level minds & babies.
who committed the act of
love with their clothes on.
(who hid in the bathroom to read
jet mag., who didn’t read the chicago
defender because of the misspelled
words & had shelves of books by
europeanso n display. untouched. who
hid their little richard lightnin’
slim records & asked: “John who?”
instant hate.)
they didn’t know any better,
brother, they were too busy getting
into debt, expressing humanity &
taking off color.
SCREAMMMM/we-eeeee/screech/teee improvise
aheeeeeeeee/screeeeeee/theeee/ee with
ahHHHHHHHHH/WEEEEEEEE/scrEEEEEEE feeling
we-eeeeeeWE-EEEEEEEEWE-EE-EEEEE
the ofays heard you
& were wiped out. spaced.
one clown asked me during,
my favorite things, if
you were practicing.
i fired on the muthafucka & said,
“i’m practicing.”
naw brother,
i didn’t cry.
i got high off my thoughts––
they kept coming back,
back to destroy me.
& that BLIND man
i don’t envy him anymore
i can see his hear
& hear his heard through my pores.
i can see my me. it was truth you gave,
like a daily shit
it had to come.
can you scream––brother? very
can you scream––brother? soft
i hear you.
i hear you.
and the Gods will too
Copyright Credit: Haki Madhubuti, "Don't Cry, Scream" from Groundwork: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1996 by Haki Madhubuti. Reprinted by permission of Third World Press.
Source: Third World Press (Groundwork: New and Selected Poems, 1996)