Men Poem by Maya Angelou
Men
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pauses,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.
One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.
Maybe.
It's a beautiful poem but sad that it's about when she was raped when she was 8 years old. It's amazing how the most beautiful and soulful people have their talent born of sorrowful circumstances
This poem is beautiful and if others cannot see the raw feelings being exposed then they do nit understand. Not only the feelings of the poet but rather the deeper meaning behind it too. This is life, face is in words, only then you will be able face and understand it in the real world.
If one has nothing good to say, then one is beat say nothing at all.
I would not appreciate the content there is a tinge of bias I feel... by the way, what made you to look at men? Men are always Going somewhere. They knew I was there. Fifteen Years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pauses, Their shoulders high like the Breasts of a young girl,
Wino men, old men. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going somewhere. a very fine poem. tony
One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you Were the last raw egg in the world. poetic images. tony
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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12/6/2024 1:15:39 AM # 1.0.0
who are you people to say this is good? ? bad!