Protests inspire impassioned poetry

Valerie M. Street diagnosed the ills plaguing our country now: “It is racist, ageist, sexist and homophobic in its core./ George Floyd’s death just put the spotlight on the original sin./ The country now says ‘Black Lives Matter,’ but they don’t./ Four hundred and one years after being brought against our will; battered, bombed, raped, abused, used, hung on a tree, or under a knee by people that can’t ‘see’ our humanity.

“When does it end?/ Must one side always win? or lose? or cry, or die or lie about the truth of what is right before/ their eyes?/ In a world of hate and pain, can Love ever reign again?” asks Street, an African American and a longtime San Francisco resident.

Her poem was among the dozens I received from readers following a call for submissions about the national reckoning in the wake of George Floyd’s death at the hands of police.

Thank you all for giving me a chance to read your searing, questioning poems, which seem a fitting way to mark Juneteenth — Friday, June 19 — an annual holiday commemorating the end of slavery in the United States.

In considering Floyd’s death, Alice Connelly Nagle asks: “Imagine the face/ of someone you love pasted/ onto his body. Imagine/ a public and torturous death./ It makes me think of the Christ/ of my childhood, a nailed man/ we were asked to study, hanging/ from a cross. Imagine/ so that we would understand/ him as God, but also/ human. A son,” writes the El Cerrito resident, who is white.

In his final few breaths, Floyd called for his mother, Cissy, who had passed away two years earlier. African American poet Tanya Parker’s “My Sweet Boy” portrays this devastating moment. The author of “The Aftermath” offers a mother’s lament, portraying Cissy’s comforting words to her dying son.

“Momma, Momma —/ Send the angels/ It’s my neck/ My Sweet Boy—/ Dusk is about to set/ Nine months, nine minutes/ Can’t cry ’cause I know/ what’s to come next/ All of Heaven awaits you/ a few more minutes/ my sweet boy,/ then no more memory/ my sweet boy.”

Charles Wright, who is white, remembers learning about racial injustice as a child. His father, a brakeman on the Union Pacific Railroad, explained to him why black people only worked in the kitchen areas and as porters because of a lack of opportunity and racial prejudice. The conversations left a lasting impression on him, he said.

The birds in Fairfax’s Crystal Canyon — where Wright lives — inspired him. “Elegant black wings float in meditative serenity/ Riding the volatile, shifting air currents/ Where valleys, wind and temperature collide. In stark contrast to the crystal blue sky .../ High above the earthly chaos/ Perpetually observing … Quietly side slipping with highly tuned control/ To obtain a divergent perspective/ Patiently waiting for the moment/ WHEN BLACK LIVES MATTER.”

Smita Deshpande considers the threats African Americans face at every turn. “At risk, in harm’s way, exposed to danger,/ When their doorsteps they cross and outside they venture./ Their homes, man’s castle, not a guarantee,/ No promise of safety or sanctity./ No daytime stroll in the park just for a lark/ Harassed, hounded, hunted, killed if out after dark,” writes the Indian immigrant now living in Cupertino. “Of moral and national duty a shocking dereliction,/ If there is no collective mission and immediate correction.” Jan Hartnett Lewis of Oakland penned an acrostic. The first letter in each line of her poem spells out the phrase: “How do you use your power to what end?”— a question the retired English teacher is also asking herself these days.

“Power — whose power does this? Whose power fixes?” asks Lewis, who is white. “Only say the word and heal my soul — a prayer. We have lived too long with no change coming./ Every coffin dweller in this long line/ Reserves the right to be heard — what happened? How/ To make life better for those in pain — whose work?”

Violence against the African American community has continued with the mysterious deaths of Robert Fuller and Malcolm Harsch, both found hanging from trees in Southern California; federal authorities have announced they will review the local investigations. In Atlanta, the police chief resigned after an officer shot and killed Rayshard Brooks, who had fallen asleep in his car in the drivethrough of a fastfood restaurant. After the shooting, officer Garrett Rolfe was fired and then charged with murder this week.

Looking ahead, Glenn Dizon, a Filipino American retired jewelry artist from San Rafael, warns about the dangers of returning to “normal,” the title of his poem. “if the arc/ of this story/ is to return to normal/ and throw this moment/ onto the bonfires of history/ to reduce the pain and suffering/ to smoke and ash/ then we have lost/ the opportunity/ to illuminate/ for all future generations/ that normal/ may just be/ the arc of complacency/ that brought/ us here/ in the first place.”