I died in 1960 from a prison sentence and poetry brought me back to life..

To write a blues song is to regiment riots and pluck gems from graves..

Black Poets should live--not leap From steel bridges, like the white boys do..

Let all Black Poets die as trumpets, And be buried in the dust of marching feet..

Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my gene….

Love is a rock against the wind. Not soft like silk and lace..

We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do..

I boil my tears in a twisted spoon And dance like an angel on the point of a needle..