Our Grandmothers Poem by Maya Angelou

Our Grandmothers

Rating: 4.6


She lay, skin down in the moist dirt,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near
branches.

She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward
freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.


She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomorrow?


Yes.
Unless you keep walking more
and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of
innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,


I shall not be moved.


In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve
of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands, she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,


I shall not be moved.


Her universe, often
summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her feet,
made her cry each time into a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed.


yet, I must not be moved.


She heard the names,
swirling ribbons in the wind of history:
nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, But my description cannot
fit your tongue, for
I have a certain way of being in this world,


and I shall not, I shall not be moved.


No angel stretched protecting wings
above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of reason
into the confusions of their lives.
The sprouted like young weeds,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away,
underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless.


When you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,


I shall not be moved.


She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.
She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother, Enter here.


Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God, I go forth
along, and stand as ten thousand.


The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.


The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my
feet without ceasing into the camp of the
righteous and into the tents of the free.


These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple,
honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted
down a pyramid for years.
She is Sheba the Sojourner,
Harriet and Zora,
Mary Bethune and Angela,
Annie to Zenobia.


She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of handouts.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners,
hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.


Centered on the world's stage,
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
however my ignorance and conceits,
lay aside your fears that I will be undone,


for I shall not be moved.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: grandmother
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Susan Williams 30 December 2015

Maya writes the history not only of the slaves but their owners [a hard word to say when related to ownership of a human being] as well and the society in which they moved trying to find a way to live even in the church of God perverted by mankind's prejudices and smallnesses. No wonder she was a phenomenal woman and poet.

56 4 Reply
NIGE R 26 February 2019

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5 35 Reply
Faithful 06 April 2021

Your comment is purely evil. You bring evil upon yourself. We shall not be moved.

7 0 Reply
monty 13 December 2018

hoe hoe hoe hoe hoe

1 22 Reply
Tanzania 20 February 2018

to long like linda this a poem not a book and i had to write this into a speech like i took 10 breaks and i had to rewrite this 7 times then i had to learn had to say it on my own then i had to say it in fount of the WHOLE SCHOOL and on top of that i messed up and i was laughed at by everybody even my teachers like come on man like no disrespect but this needs to be wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy shorter gezzez.

4 17 Reply
Nigga69 17 January 2022

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0 4 Reply
GermanBoy 17 January 2022

My Grandmother was the hunter

0 1 Reply
Honorman420 17 January 2022

LEGALIZE IT LEGALIZE IT LEGALIZE IT LEGALIZE IT LEGALIZE IT LEGALIZE IT

0 3 Reply
Six9ine 17 January 2022

Nice poem

0 0 Reply
Rosemary Isabell 25 January 2021

Great poem

0 0 Reply
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