Obama: Is He The Sun, Gwen? Poem by Tahir Mallam Muhammad

(* Gwendolyn Brooks,1917-2000)

The last time the Sun was here
we could not greet him, could not welcome him
partly because of the intense hammering
of his words, nor could our eyes bear
the sight he wants us to see
so we flopped when we sent him
in a cloud of blood behind the White mountains
behind the reach of our belated lamentations

Since then the pounding has never ceased
and the sight has remained, Maya, a fetid swamp of our tears

And now a Sun has risen anew, renewed?
from behind the Black mountains
suffused in a cloud of rainbows
holding promises we dread to bear
for those behind the shadow have long Klux-ed
our hopes to boogaloo on the lacerated streets of Harlem
or serenade our blues in the backwaters of Chicago.

Yet this Sun refuses to go away
inundating the caged birds in our hearts
with another sermon of possibilities never before imagined
Then the caged birds stirred, afraid to goof again
so we watched, we prayed apprehensive of the intent
as we reach out for the stretched hands across the divide
in a fraternity warmed by the Sun to sprout
the true words of Love.

The agitated caged birds in our hearts
sing the song of an audacious hope,
so we hope and believe in the Dreams
long foretold of the sway of our Sun
borne by the compassed Winds.

Let’s cut short the celebration
for the new journey is longer,
more treacherous

Though no darkness remains in my cell
but the glare from the Sun on our hands
ain’t no less dazzling.