It pains me to find out that Lucille Clifton, the beloved American poet, passed away on Saturday after a long battle with cancer. Clifton had a long, celebrated career spanning forty years, writing poems about what it means to be a black woman in America, to have the legacy of slavery lapping at her ankles, and what it meant to see her elders and icons have to bear the daily slog of being othered in a racist land.
Clifton is famous in the feminist community for poking at sexism with a short stick, most notably for “Wishes for Sons” and “Homage to My Hips.” Her narrative poems move me most, such as when she wrote about finding out she had cancer in the poem “1994.”
1994i was leaving my fifty-eighth year
when a thumb of ice
stamped itself hard near my heartyou have your own story
you know about the fears the tears
the scar of disbeliefyou know that the saddest lies
are the ones we tell ourselves
you know how dangerous it isto be born with breasts
you know how dangerous it is
to wear dark skini was leaving my fifty-eighth year
when i woke into the winter
of a cold and mortal bodythin icicles hanging off
the one mad nipple weepinghave we not been good children
did we not inherit the earthbut you must know all about this
from your own shivering life
Many of her poems have an element of redemption, or a wish for redemption, as in the praise song “Miss Rosie.” Ms. Clifton cries for us to recognize our own worth,
What the Mirror Said
listen,
you a wonder,
you a city of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.
listen,
somebody need a map
to understand you.
somebody need directions
to move around you.
listen,
woman,
you not a noplace
anonymous
girl;
mister with his hands on you
he got his hands on
some
damn
body!
And to be accountable for what tragedy results when we erase the humanity of others.
Sorrow Song
for the eyes of the children,
the last to melt,
the last to vaporize,
for the lingering
eyes of the children, staring,
the eyes of the children of
buchenwald,
of viet nam and johannesburg,
for the eyes of the children
of nagasaki,
for the eyes of the children
of middle passage,
for cherokee eyes, ethiopian eyes,
russian eyes, american eyes,
for all that remains of the children,
their eyes,
staring at us, amazed to see
the extraordinary evil in
ordinary men.
Such a beautiful woman, such an affirmational, reaching heart.
Dwayne Betts has a touching tribute to Ms. Clifton here, including one of my favorite poems, “Signs.” I will post more as I see them.
She will be sorely missed.
I’ve made up a transcript of the video:
[Introductory screen of a cosmic scene with a 'Poetry everywhere' title.]
[Photo of Clifton, a close-up of her face as she looks away from the camera.] Voiceover: Lucille Clifton grew up in western New York near Buffalo, worked as a government clerk and office assistant. [Photo taken to the left side and behind of Clifton at a podium; she is bent over her papers; we can see some of the audience.] Her first book, Good Times, was rated one of the best books of 1969 by the New York Times. [Photo of Clifton from the front and to the side, looking down at the podium again we can presume as there's a microphone in front of her.] Lucille Clifton, who said, ‘one should wish to celebrate more than wish to be celebrated’.
[Her name and 'won't you celebrate with me' appear at the bottom of the screen, and we move into video. The photos have been from this poetry recital. Clifton, a black woman with short white hair and glasses, wearing earrings, a long necklace, and a black shirt under a pinkish shirt, recites the poem, of which you can find a copy through that link.]
[The program credits are overlaid as people stand up and applaud.]
RIP.
Those are beautiful, thank you for sharing them here.
I’ve got another one of her poems coming up in a few hours on my Thursday Short Poem. She was marvelous.