mostly, when my heart speaks
joy flows
happiness glows
& the heights of my ecstacy tend to show

even when addressing instances of hurt,
                                  phases of pain and sorrow
I tend to shift towards resolution
avoiding pointed discussion
But I don’t hear that type of balance
in the poetry my sisters sing

This is no criticism
’cause to each their own thing
Perhaps they’re just more honest
and my way is less than true,
’cause if you breathe,
we’ve both done
&               been done by the deed
and know hurt & pain
hit each gender the same

So, like the sister said,
I was gonna write a nice sweet poem,
but truth busted my face,
               chased me all around my place
there was nowhere to hide,
not even inside
no peace, no how, no way

So if we are to face the truth,
                       be the truth
then we must know,
when we act out of fear
                              ignorance
or                           pain,
we just create more of the same
it’s not just no win,
it’s both lose,
and if you’re seeking blame
don’t ask whose,
it’s yours
it’s mine
it’s both or neither, every time

I’ve been hurt
and         demeaned in many ways,
                                   ways I never thought possible
I hung in, and now understand
why abused spouses remain despite the pain,
praying for sun in the pouring rain

But each of us has a line,
                            a point we should never cross,
that place where rules go out the window
                beyond mercy
&                         compassion
’til rage is the only color you can see

Reduced below our humanity,
the animal rises
      war erupts,
and lovers become the enemy

Folks will say they have no temper,
               say they’ve never been that mad,
and even they know they’re lying
Some will ask if you ever loved that much,
and that too is sad

How do you stop it?
Where does it end?
With me, with you
by choosing not to begin
Because you feel is no excuse
to be out of control

Manipulation of any sort
is not an Olympic
or domestic sport
It’s competition for control,
which is the hidden underlying goal
If one wins, we both lose,
no matter the tactics or premise you use

It is so easy to forget
this is a three-way fight —
it’s between you, me, and we
If we,
if us loses,
   us dies,
then it’s just you
&     it’s just me
faking love and harmony

by

jamal
ali

© 15 march 1994

pain
hurting
fear
sorrow
loads we’ve carried too long
so wrapped up in the shroud
we’ve come to believe it’s part of our identity
                                          our essence
                                          the nature of life
and any who would know us
must walk this gauntlet
to reach us

then the gauntlet —
       what must be passed —
                                         is not us
but our shield
     our persona
     our shroud
we clutch with death-like desperation
                   hands frozen in emotional arthritis
                   arms locked, clinging to what we don’t want

after all,
what would we be without our pain?
who would we be without our anger
                                 our outrage?

if, right now, today
you could start life fresh
                         without racism
                         without the rape
                                        abuse
                                        fear
or                                     pain,
if you could wake up tomorrow
and it was all behind you,
               no longer connected to you
who would you be?
what would you look like?
what would you feel like?

Hey, no one’s saying it’s easy
or                even saying now is your time to do it
but maybe
it’s time to dream it
            to imagine it
            to prepare for it
’cause it’s just something else to be slave to

think about it —
do you carry the pain of your burned fingers with you
to remind you to use a potholder?
no, ’cause you’ve learned the lesson
do you drag your textbooks with you
                                   every day
                                   for the rest of your life
or just the lessons,
    just the knowledge
as tools to conquer the next challenge?

what’s been done to us
the past
we cannot change,
but we can choose to lose it’s misery
for this is the actual victory
over the memories which hold us back

the guilty may never admit,
may never be caught
you may never even be believed

Does this mean we must forget
or                              give up the fight?

No, just take the bat out of your hand
            take the bullets out of the gun —
the bat you beat yourself with
the gun you shoot yourself with,
over the past

Biko said
“The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor
                                    is the mind of the oppressed”

imagine for a minute,
you were still Black
but you came from a place
                         where racism wasn’t even an idea
                         where oppression wasn’t part of your reality
                         where you’d never heard of these things,
then you came to America
and were faced with all we’re faced with
today

you’d still have to deal,
you’d have to face the reality,
but you
     your mind
     your heart
would not be burdened
like ours

how different would your tactics be?
how different would your experiences be?
like being a New Yorker in apartheid South Africa,
it would be vastly different

we complain of stress,
                    the pressure of bills
                    racism, drugs, crime
but what is that to slavery?
did our ancestors have stress?
can you even begin to compare it,
much less share it?

then, if we have a choice,
do we choose to be slaves to our past?
do we drag the chains of childhood
               the scars of mistake and failure
               the ache of injustice
with us every step of our lives?

it’s volunteered slavery —
even the blind can see

we cannot begin to heal our hands
’til we release the fire which burns us
we cannot heal our hearts
’til we stop the pain where it starts,
in the now

sure, it’s just a dream
                  a possibility
                  a spark,
and that’s how the magic starts

within

by

jamal
ali

© 11 december 2001