Gordon Parks, Black Muslim Rally, Harlem, 1963
If Into Love The Image Burdens
by Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka
The front of the head
is the scarred cranium. The daisy
night, alone with its mills. Grumbling
through history, with its nest
of sorrow. I felt lost
and alone. The windows
sat on the street and smoked
in dangling winter. To autumn
from spring, summer’s questions
paths, present to the head
and fingers. The shelf. The
rainbow. Cold knuckles rub against
a window. The rug. The flame. A woman
kneels against the sill. Each figure
halves silence. Each equation
sprinkles light.
Grey hats and eyes
for the photographed
trees. Grey stones and limbs
and a herd of me’s.
Past, perfect.
Each correct color
not in nature, makes
us weep. Each inexpressible
idea. The fog lifts. The fog
lifts. Now falls. The fog
falls.
And nothing is done, or complete. No person
loved, or made better or beautiful. Came here
lied to, leave
the same. Dead boned talk
of history. Grandfathers skid
down a ramp of the night. Flame
for his talk, if it twists
like light on leaves.
Out past the fingers.
Out past the eyes.
__________________
Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka, The Dead Lecturer, Grove Press, 1964
