Poetry Friday — Lucille Clifton

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Nine and a half years ago, I saw Lucille Clifton read in a little chapel on a Sunday morning
at the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival.

I was pregnant with my second daughter, and both filled up and utterly exhausted after a weekend full of words. So it’s no surprise that I cried as she read.

There was something about her poems that just split my heart open and then something about her voice that offered comfort. She did not shy away from darkness in the least, but she herself was awash in light.

Lucille Clifton died this week.
It is a terrific loss to the poetry world and, I’d go out on a limb and say, to the human world, too.

I’ve been thinking of her a little every day since then, mostly during moments of goodness and joy, but also yesterday when a man flew a plane into a building here in Austin, Texas — out of anger and futility. And I’m thinking of her again this morning as I head off to speak to young people at a local juvenile detention center — young people who must have their own anger and futility simmering. it’s everywhere, really. It’s just a matter of what you do with it. Lucille Clifton turned it into words.

won’t you celebrate with me

by Lucille Clifton

won’t you celebrate with me

what i have shaped into

a kind of life? i had no model.

born in babylon

both nonwhite and woman

what did i see to be except myself?

i made it up

here on this bridge between

starshine and clay,

my one hand holding tight

my other hand; come celebrate

with me that everyday

something has tried to kill me

and has failed.

 

Go here to listen to Lucille Clifton read.
Or here…

In gratitude.
Namaste.

26 Responses to “Poetry Friday — Lucille Clifton”

  1. jamarattigan

    What a poignant but beautiful memory of Lucille. I do love this poem, and know what you mean about how she seems to exude comfort with her words.

    Was so sorry to hear about the plane accident yesterday. That it wasn’t really an accident, and that the pilot needed help to manage his anger but couldn’t find it, is so tragic.

    • liz_scanlon

      Me, too, Jama. It’s hard for me to fathom that there aren’t a zillion options before doing something like that. It was just a blessing that the results weren’t far, far more tragic.
      Thank goodness for poetry, right?

  2. saralholmes

    Now you’re making me cry. But I’ll try to celebrate today, for Lucille Clifton and for you and for all those kids you’ll be visiting and as you say, for all of us, each of us trying to decide what to “do with it.”

    • liz_scanlon

      Yes, I think I was crying, too, as I wrote this. It was one of those mornings. Which is okay, and even better thanks to Lucille Clifton…

  6. Anonymous

    That poem just stops you in your tracks, huh? What a loss. As I just typed at Tanita’s site, there’s a special place in the afterlife that I hope exists that is reserved for her.

    Jules
    7-Imp

    • liz_scanlon

      Isn’t it funny, Tanita and I choosing the very same poems, Jules? There are ALL SORTS of reserved tables for Lucille, I’m sure of it….