Ian: Journal Three

Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person, Could Believe in the War between Races: by Lorna Dee Cervantes

In my land there are no distinctions.
The barbed wire politics of oppression
have torn down long ago. The only reminder
of past battles, lost or won, is a slight
rutting in the fertile fields.

In my land
people write poems about love,
full of nothing but contented childlike syllables.
Everyone reads Russian short stories and weeps.
There are no boundaries.
There is no hunger, no
complicated famine or greed.

I am not a revolutionary.
I don't even like political poems.
Do you think i can believe in a war between races?
I can deny it. I can forget about it
when I'm safe,
living on my own continent of harmony
and home, but i am not
there.

I believe in revolution
because everywhere the crosses are burning,
sharp-shooting goose-steppers round every corner,
there are snipers in the school...
(I know you don't believe this.
You think this is nothing
but faddish exaggeration. But they
are not shooting at you.)

I'm marked by the color of my skin.
The bullets are discrete and designed to kill slowly.
They are aiming at my children.
These are facts.
Let me show you my wounds: my stumbling mind, my
"excuse me" tongue, and this
nagging preoccupation
with the feelings of not being good enough.

These bullets bury deeper than logic.
Racism is not intellectual.
I can not reason these scars away.

Outside my door
there is a real enemy
who hates me.

I am a poet
who yearns to dance on rooftops,
to whisper delicate lines about joy
and the blessings of human understanding.

I try. I go to my land, my tower of words and
bolt the door, but the typewriter doesn't fade out
the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage.
My own days bring me slaps on the face.
Every day i am deluged with reminders
and this is not
my land
and this is my land

I do not believe in the war between races.

but in this country
there is war.

Part One: I believe this poem could be considered a Prose Poem. Because the author is telling a story, but using incredible sensory imaging. It almost seems like she is telling a story to a friend, but we know she isn't and i think that has a great effect on the reader. There really isn't much Rhythm to this poem and could definitely be considered an experimental piece of writing. Metering I believe comes into the picture in this poem, simply because there really is no sentence structure. The Syntax in this poem is very interesting, she creates a great cliffhanger effect after every sentence it seems, and its almost as if her sentences are completed by fragments, which might help her convey a point easier.

Part Two: I believe this poem was a statement that was never meant to be heard, i think that the author didn't really seem like publishing this poem would do any good because its more of something for her to write, rather than something made for others to read. The tone varies, from calm and reflective to stern and angry. She is trying to create a mood that describes how she, an african-american, felt during the very turbulent 1960's. She had to get her emotions out in whatever way she could, and she did. I really liked the flow of this poem a lot because it takes you on a roller coaster of emotions, which is what i believe the author intended to do.