Monday, April 27, 2015

An Evie Shockley Poem

du bois in ghana

at 93, you determined to pick up and go—
and stay gone. the job nkrumah called you to,
to create, at last, your encyclopedia africana
              (encompassing a continent chipped

like wood beneath an axe, a large enough
diaspora to girdle the globe, and a mere four
thousand years) was either well-deserved
               sinecure or well-earned trust

that your health was as indestructible as
your will. my mind wrestles with possible pictures:
the victorian sensibility, the charcoal wool
              formality of your coats and vests, the trim

of your beard as sharp as the crease of your
collar—how would these du boisian essentials
hold up to sub-saharan heat? would
              your critical faculties wilt in accra’s

urban tropics as i’ve read that westerners’
are wont to do? dr. du bois, i presume
you took the climate in stride, took to it,
              looked out your library’s louvered windows

onto a land you needed
neither to condemn nor conquer,
and let the sun tell you what you already knew:
             this was not a port to pass on.

your 95th birthday photo found you bathed
in white cloth, cane still in hand, sharing a smile
with a head of state who knew your worth—joy
             that this nation’s birth occurred in time

for you to step out of a cold, cold storm
into outstretched arms. would your pan-
african dream have survived a dictatorial
             nkrumah, an nkrumah in exile? you took

the prerogative of age and died without telling,
without knowing. a half-century later, here
in the country where you were born, i look
             into a screen and watch as, near and far, a pan-

demic of violence and abuse staggers the planet.
we seed the world with blood, grow
bleeding, harvest death and the promise
             of more. when i turn bitter, seeing no potential

for escape, i think of the outrages you saw—wars,
lynchings, genocide, mccarthy, communism’s
failure to rise above corrupting power
             any better than capitalism had, the civil rights

movement’s endless struggle—and how
you kept writing and walking, looking
for what you knew was out there. your memory,
             your tireless radiant energy, calls me

to my work, to my feet, insisting
that somewhere on the earth, freedom is
learning to walk, trying not to fall,
             and, somewhere, laboring to be born.



  1. The poet Evie Shockley writes: “For months, in late 2014 and early 2015, I had felt only able to write out of rage or despair. The black body count was mounting (as it had been before and continues to today) and no other emotions or motivations for creating seemed adequate to the enormity of the socially and legally sanctioned murders of black men and women taking place in the U.S. every week (or so it seemed). Then I stumbled across the photograph of Du Bois I mention in the poem and started thinking about how he sustained his life-long commitment to the struggle against racism.” Well, poetry is the route that I've chosen (and there is considerable anger and despair there too), but this very fine poem says to me that there is a variety of ways that we may commit to this life, trying against the odds to make it better, communicating successfully, and sustaining one vision long enough that it be remembered. I guess we all need to work past the foolishness of the world.

  2. I guess we do. (Sigh.)

    And yes, a very fine poem indeed. Thanks for sharing it.