Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Diiie by Maya Angelou

Source of book: I own this

 

I would say that in pop culture, the American poet of the 1990s was Maya Angelou. She read a poem at Clinton’s first inauguration, her books were everywhere, and her face was on television as a pop icon. 

 

This contributed to her reputation as a “pop” poet rather than a serious one. Which, in my opinion, would be a mistake. Plenty of poets of the past were wildly popular, and also met high artistic and cultural standards. Which is why we still read them today. 

 

I also believe that we will be reading Maya Angelou in the future. 

 

As I noted in other posts that I feel in some ways, Angelou’s celebrity detracted from other worthy poets of her time, particularly other black women. This isn’t her fault, of course. Rather, it is an example of the phenomenon sharply satirized by R. F. Kuang: white-dominated publishing and culture tends to consider one person of color enough for diversity, and lets that one person monopolize budgets and publicity and attention. 

 

The cure for this isn’t to throw shade at people like Angelou, but to actively seek out and promote other authors whose works tend to be unjustly neglected. For other black authors, I recommend checking out my Black History Month list. 

 

I own her complete poetry, but hadn’t read that much systematically. I did feature her longer poem, published as a separate work, Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem in one of my Christmas poetry posts about a decade ago. 

 

I decided to start at the beginning and read her first collection. I suppose this could qualify both as a Black History Month and Women’s History Month selection as well. 

 

I haven’t read any of Angelou’s non-fiction yet, so I am not going to give a mini-biography here. I do hope to read her prose in the future.

 

This first collection, Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ‘Fore I Diiie, was published in 1971, a couple years after her autobiography. 

 

The poems in this collection range from modern to traditional, from really short to at least medium length, and cover topics from nature to politics. I selected my five favorites to feature in this post. 

 

I will start with a nature poem, because I have always loved that topic, and enjoy how each poet treats it. Nature is part of us, just as we are part of nature, and to sever ourselves from nature, as too many humans do, is to do a moral injury to our psyches, which also tends to result in harm to others and our ecosystem as well. 

 

Late October

 

Carefully

the leaves of autumn

sprinkle down the tinny

sound of little dyings

and skies sated 

of ruddy sunsets

of roseate dawns

roil ceaselessly in

cobweb greys and turn

to black 

for comfort.

 

Only lovers

see the fall

a signal end to endings

a gruffish gesture alerting

those who will not be alarmed

that we begin to stop

in order simply

to begin

again.  

 

The end is also the beginning. Death leads to life. The cycle continues. And honestly, I love fall, almost as much as spring. 

 

This next one is such a gem, I get chills every time I re-read it. And when I read poetry, I read it out loud and multiple times, because the music is part of the beauty, and the secrets reveal themselves over time and repetition. 

 

Remembering

 

Soft grey ghosts crawl up my sleeve

to peer into my eyes

while I within deny their threats

and answer them with lies.

 

Mushlike memories perform

a ritual on my lips

I lie in stolid hopelessness

and they lay my soul in strips.

 

This poem is in a simple traditional form, but, like Emily Dickinson, Angelou turns simplicity into profundity. We all have memories like this, ones we tend to not want to remember, ones we cannot escape. Our souls feel these deeply enough that we tend to resort to denial and lies to counteract them. Healing requires acknowledging them and coming to peace in some way with our pasts. 

 

Here is another one I love. 

 

In A Time

 

In a time of secret wooing

Today prepares tomorrow’s ruin

Left knows not what right is doing

My heart is torn asunder.

 

In a time of furtive sighs

Sweet hellos and sad goodbyes

Half-truths told and entire lies

My conscience echoes thunder.

 

In a time when kingdoms come

Joy is brief as summer’s fun

Happiness its race has run

Then pain stalks in to plunder.

 

It’s a bitter little poem, but speaks truth, and finds emotional resonance. It may not be the entire truth, but it is a truth, held in tension with others. 

 

There are a lot of political poems in this collection. I picked this one to feature. 

 

To a Freedom Fighter

 

You drink a bitter draught.

I sip the tears your eyes fight to hold,

A cup of lees, of henbane steeped in chaff.

Your breast is hot,

Your anger black and cold,

Through evening’s rest, you dream,

I hear the moans, you die a thousands’ death.

When cane straps flog the body

dark and lean, you feel the blow,

I hear it in your breath. 

 

I particularly love the use of “thousands’” rather than “thousand.” The death isn’t a thousand singular deaths, but a single death died by thousands. The many sacrificed to white supremacy over the centuries. It’s a compelling word picture, and a great capture of the scope of the struggle. 

 

I’ll end with this one, which strikes a bit close to home. As a white “liberal,” I know I have my blind spots. This is a pretty pointed criticism. 

 

On Working White Liberals

 

I don’t ask the Foreign Legion

Or anyone to win my freedom

Or to fight my battle better than I can.

 

Though there’s one thing that I cry for

I believe enough to die for

That is every man’s responsibility to man.

 

I’m afraid they’ll have to prove first

That they’ll watch the Black man move first

Then follow him with faith to kingdom come.

This rocky road is not paid for us,

So I’ll believe in Liberals’ aid for us

When I see a white man load a Black man’s gun. 

 

*liberal. I find myself unexpectedly being considered a liberal these days, despite being conservative by temperament, simply because I strive for basic human decency. Apparently, seeking racial equality makes one a “liberal.” Indeed, it appears these days that believing that we all have responsibility to other humans is a “liberal” thing, and that the right wing believes empathy is a sin, rather than literally the foundation of Christ-following. What times we live in. 

 

And yes, Angelou is right. We white liberals need to follow, rather than insist on leading. And we need to arm our black brothers and sisters (whether literally or figuratively) by providing them with the resources to fight for their freedom. 

 

I am looking forward to reading more of Angelou’s poems, and encourage everyone to do so.