A Prayer For Friday
Sonia Sanchez
£ This Is Not a Small Voice This is not a small voice you hear this is a large voice coming out of these cities. This is the voice of LaTanya. Kadesha. Shaniqua. This is the voice of Antoine. Darryl. Shaquille. Running over waters navigating the hallways of our schools spilling out on the corners of our cities and no epitaphs spill out of their river mouths. This is not a small love you hear this is a large love, a passion for kissing learning on its face. This is a love that crowns the feet with hands that nourishes, conceives, feels the water sails mends the children, folds them inside our history where they toast more than the flesh where they suck the bones of the alphabet and spit out closed vowels. This is a love colored with iron and lace. This is a love initialed Black Genius. This is not a small voice you hear. £ Morning Song and Evening Walk 1. Tonite in need of you and God I move imperfect through this ancient city. Quiet. No one hears No one feels the tears of multitudes. The silence thickens I have lost the shore of your kind seasons who will hear my voice nasal against distinguished actors O I am tired of voices without sound I will rest on this ground full of mass hymns. 2. You have been here since I can remember Martin from Selma to Montgomery from Watts to Chicago from Nobel Peace Prize to Memphis, Tennessee. Unmoved among the angles and corners of aristocratic confusion. It was a time to be born forced forward a time to wander inside drums the good times with eyes like stars and soldiers without medals or weapons but honor, yes. And you told us: the storm is rising against the privileged minority of the earth, from which there is no shelter in isolation or armament and you told us: the storm will not abate until a just distribution of the fruits of the earth enables men (and women) everywhere to live in dignity and human decency. 3. All summerlong it has rained and the water rises in our throats and all that we sing is rumored forgotten. Whom shall we call when this song comes of age? And they came into the city carrying their fastings in their eyes and the young 9-year-old Sudanese boy said, "I want something to eat at nite a place to sleep." And they came into the city hands salivating guns, and the young 9-year-old words snapped red with vowels: Mama mama Auntie auntie I dead I dead I deaddddd. 4. In our city of lost alphabets where only our eyes strengthen the children you spoke like Peter like John you fisherman of tongues untangling our wings you inaugurated iron for our masks exiled no one with your touch and we felt the thunder in your hands. We are soldiers in the army we have to fight, although we have to cry. We have to hold up the freedom banners we have to hold it up until we die. And you said we must keep going and we became small miracles, pushed the wind down, entered the slow bloodstream of America surrounded streets and "reconcentradas," tuned our legs against Olympic politicians elaborate cadavers growing fat underneath western hats. And we scraped the rust from old laws went floor by floor window by window and clean faces rose from the dust became new brides and bridegrooms among change men and women coming for their inheritance. And you challenged us to catch up with our own breaths to breathe in Latinos Asians Native Americans Whites Blacks Gays Lesbians Muslims and Jews, to gather up our rainbow-colored skins in peace and racial justice as we try to answer your long-ago question: Is there a nonviolent peacemaking army that can shut down the Pentagon? And you challenged us to breathe in Bernard Haring's words: the materialistic growth—mania for more and more production and more and more markets for selling unnecessary and even damaging products is a sin against the generation to come what shall we leave to them: rubbish, atomic weapons numerous enough to make the earth uninhabitable, a poisoned atmosphere, polluted water? 5. "Love in practice is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams," said a Russian writer. Now I know at great cost Martin that as we burn something moves out of the flames (call it spirit or apparition) till no fire or body or ash remain we breathe out and smell the world again Aye-Aye-Aye Ayo-Ayo-Ayo Ayeee-Ayeee-Ayeee Amen men men men Awoman woman woman woman Men men men Woman woman woman Men men Woman woman Men Woman Womanmen.
£ Catch the Fire (Sometimes I wonder: What to say to you now in the soft afternoon air as you hold us all in a single death?) I say— Where is your fire? I say— Where is your fire? You got to find it and pass it on. You got to find it and pass it on from you to me from me to her from her to him from the son to the father from the brother to the sister from the daughter to the mother from the mother to the child. Where is your fire? I say where is your fire? Can’t you smell it coming out of our past? The fire of living…not dying The fire of loving…not killing The fire of Blackness…not gangster shadows. Where is our beautiful fire that gave light to the world? The fire of pyramids; The fire that burned through the holes of slaveships and made us breathe; The fire that made guts into chitterlings; The fire that took rhythms and made jazz; The fire of sit-ins and marches that made us jump boundaries and barriers; The fire that took street talk sounds and made righteous imhotep raps. Where is your fire, the torch of life full of Nzingha and Nat Turner and Garvey and DuBois and Fannie Lou Hamer and Martin and Malcolm and Mandela. Sister/Sistah Brother/Brotha Come/Come CATCH YOUR FIRE…DON’T KILL HOLD YOUR FIRE…DON’T KILL LEARN YOUR FIRE…DON’T KILL BE THE FIRE…DON’T KILL Catch the fire and burn with eyes that see our souls: WALKING. SINGING. BUILDING. LAUGHING. LEARNING. LOVING. TEACHING. BEING. Hey. Brother/Brotha. Sister/Sista. Here is my hand. Catch the fire…and live. live. livelivelive. livelivelive. live. live.
