Maya Angelou's Poem About Michael Jackson

We Had Him

Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind.


Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace. Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.


In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time. No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.


Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.


Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us and we did have him.


He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.


Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that.


He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we know who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.


We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.


His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.


And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.


We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.


Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.


In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England


We are missing Michael.


But we do know we had him, and we are the world.

Maya Angelou, July 2009

 

Lisa Bellear’s 50th Birthday

Today we celebrated the 50^th birthday of warrior woman and mighty poet, Lisa Bellear. Melbourne friends and family gathered for a bittersweet celebration of our friend, cousin, role model, mentor, advocate and artist.  Bitter because Lisa passed away without warning almost five years ago at age 45. Sweet because the occasion called for the telling of stories, the looking at photographs, the eating of favourite foods, the recitation of poetry and the playing of spoons.

The guest list was compiled from a quick whip around of friends from her hundred walks of life – poets, artists, activists, survivors, warriors, dancers, educators, writers, broadcasters, the babysat and the mentored.  A last minute do, but one that had been brewing amongst a group of us who think almost daily about Lisa. A graveside party was contemplated, but the distance was prohibitive. What then?  A do would certainly do.

All the elements were there. The tender lamb chops, bottles of Queen Adelaide, Dionne Warwick belting out Walk on By, poetry and poets, photographers and photographs. Even the barbecue played its part, erupting into a flaming urban campfire – Lisa’s pyromaniac spirit was saluted.

At first I wanted to read Maya Angelou’s tribute to Michael Jackson, We Had Him to kick off the poetry. Maya is a national treasure for good reason. A poet who can capture a mood, the feeling of a time and pot it. Just like Lisa. A poem which tells the loss of a star gone too soon, but lingers on the brilliance left behind.  I will post the full poem in a separate post in case the link above ever expires.

But as we started the readings, her book, Dreaming in Urban Areas (UQP, 1996) fell open at Tanna Man, and so we started with this. A fine beginning, one of connection, roots and a need for justice.

Tanna Man

(for Faith Bandler)

Cuts cane

As white men

With long slim noses

And whips

Curse him.

Faster “nigger” harder.

Each piece of cane he cuts

represents and islander from home,

kidnapped, black birded, stolen.

Mango trees echo vision,

Freedom, isn’t meant to be

a luxury for idle white boss men

To contemplate and dwell.

June 1993

The poem was met with cries of ‘Strong ay!’ and the crowd rallied to the call for more readings.

Brunswick poets read more poems and sister Kylie read  A Suitcase Full of Mould, one of Lisa’s most poignant, prophetic and painful.

Technology failed us on a few fronts as we tried to show a slideshow of photos of Lisa but we saw footage of her comedy routine from Natives Getting Funny!, and her cameos in Destiny Deacon’s video work.

But suddenly one of her writing buddies, Christine Gillespie, popped on screen and read one of the favourite poems, changing the words slightly from Koori woman, to Warrior Woman:

Chops ‘n’ Things

(for Eva Johnson)

I can’t wait to curl around

a lemon scented tree

light a fire and

watch it burn down to

the embers as the sun

floats away, far away

our ancestors are

yarning and laughing

at this Koori woman

and through the

flames, the embers

and the burnt chops

and charcoaled

potatoes wrapped in foil

they’re saying, tidda girl

you’re okay.

keep on dreaming

keep on believing

September 1991

The night ended in hilarity including ukulele renditions,  dancing and spoon playing but one of the highlights was definitely Ardy Tibby’s poem, written a year after Lisa’s death.

LISA

Quickly, and often late, she'd arrive

In a flurry of curls

With much clanking of equipment and

rummaging about

in an ever enlarging carry bag

Would plunk down in a heap with a glass

of plonk

To be reclaimed later.

Laughing and running about to photograph

everyone and everything.

Then a lift home,

Gone with a smile and a wave.

Then

GONE

June 2006

But between the dancing and drinking, uncontrollable fire and comedy routines, the fine dining and the fine words, it was like Lisa was there, and the spirits and ancestors were yarning and laughing too.