Little Old Black Historian (For John Hope Franklin)

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Little Old Black Historian (For John Hope Franklin) Little old Black historian, from the start a grey beard, patriarch, ordained by his sophomore surprises the day he dog-eared page on page where Woodson, Rogers, Wesley stung him upright, would not go back on their shelf, would not unspike his chair, unchafe his tie, ungrip his cut imagination:stirred from sleep by his fingers searching the bedpost, he sweat like a runaway slave in the dark, palms hushing the swamp, feeling a treetrunk for moss, the sign of its freedom side, its north, the nighttime push-off for Canada - and his daylight popcorn hideaways dissolved as the western movies hocus-pocussed, the crack cavalry rounding the butte turning suddenly Black as the Fort Riley 10th, woolly as the Buffalo Soldiers bugling the war whoops of their forefathers, Black chieftains of Indian bands — strangely riding backwards white again, rounding the butte, Geronimo dead, fiercer than Oceola, killed under his flag of truce;stoking up again on Brawley, Embree, Ottley, adding more men to the fire (Fort Pillow women, children too), he fathered four — but none to bear his tuneless dream of body music hanging from the Southern trees, none to recognize the corpses in his footnotes, the slashings-out of lesser heroes like parentheses, canceled to keep the idea slim, marketable downtown — while daydreams opened windows to his second book until an anxious kiddie knock and wound-up voice said, "How long you gonna be in there?";years climbed the stairs to answer, slowly, their books his gems dug up, worked lovingly from lodes that glittered back to Mali, Timbuktu, their monographs his golden track laid like a winding sheet across the chanting wash of killer ships (suicides swirling under, hand-in-hand), their essays his sign carved on the oldest tree, posthumous promises, ghost-children grieving back: Dean Derricotte and Bessie Smith so needlessly dead, Robeson stoned in New York, Roland Hayes clubbed in Georgia,too many stars for remembrance in a sky brought low;little old Black historian raising the firmament, flagging: can't even say "good morning" without tears in his eyes.1981 1983

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Poem written by Emanuel in 1983, dedicated to John Hope Franklin. Emanuel draws parallels between the quest for education through literacy to that of freedom from slavery.

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  • type
    Image
  • created on
  • file format
    jpg
  • file size
    753 kB
  • container title
    James A. Emanuel Papers
  • creator
    James A. Emanuel
  • issue
    BOX 4 FOLDER 27, "The Chopping Block (Selected Poems), draft, 1988 (2 of 2)
  • rights
    James A. Emanuel Estate
  • rights holder
    James A. Emanuel Estate
  • version
    1981/1983