Poem for Poetry Thursday
I was hoping to write something new, but what I'm working on is not ready. So here's an old poem that was published at a once-cool Web zine called Can We Have Our Ball Back. Now, I think they're defunct--every time I go to their site I get porn links and pop-ups.
Happy Poetry Thursday!
Afro Puffs
In kindergarten, I was the only one with afro puffs.
The only other person at school with a hairstyle even resembling a fro
was my dad when he picked me up at the end of the day.
They were stellar long before I knew who Angela Davis was.
My hair was parted down the center into two clusters,
one on each side. Mom used hair grease to oil my scalp
and comb out the naps, with barrettes holding them in place.
Afterwards, she used the afro pick: a short straight metal comb
with that muscular black plastic hand in salute. To me
it was cold steel that looked like prison bars,
but there was always that fist high above the bars grasping.
We watched Sanford and Son and Good Times
while fixing my hair, and I knew Wilona kept hers
in her purse. I’d see them sticking out of the back pockets of blue jeans
belonging to the neighborhood kings and queens.
It would be much later before I attached faces to those fists.
Happy Poetry Thursday!
Afro Puffs
In kindergarten, I was the only one with afro puffs.
The only other person at school with a hairstyle even resembling a fro
was my dad when he picked me up at the end of the day.
They were stellar long before I knew who Angela Davis was.
My hair was parted down the center into two clusters,
one on each side. Mom used hair grease to oil my scalp
and comb out the naps, with barrettes holding them in place.
Afterwards, she used the afro pick: a short straight metal comb
with that muscular black plastic hand in salute. To me
it was cold steel that looked like prison bars,
but there was always that fist high above the bars grasping.
We watched Sanford and Son and Good Times
while fixing my hair, and I knew Wilona kept hers
in her purse. I’d see them sticking out of the back pockets of blue jeans
belonging to the neighborhood kings and queens.
It would be much later before I attached faces to those fists.
Comments
Thanks for stopping by and commenting on my post.
How is the North Shore? It's been a long time since I was there.
Thank you.
And Red Sox Nation is thrilled about the acquisition of Dice-K.
Regina, thanks for stopping by. It's amazing how many of us have some part of our identity tied to our hair.
Anyway, me being from Idaho, I read the title and think, oh, a breakfast cereal.
Love the poem, too. Jan'et Dubois, wow.
Nice poem.
"They were stellar long before I knew who Angela Davis was."
AND
"It would be much later before I attached faces to those fists."
Those two lines made me think of my own experience. My mother is biracial but was raised with the white side of her family, so she didn't really teach us much about black heritage or anything. I remember the afro puffs and the fists on the picks, but it wasn't until high school that I learned who Angela Davis was, connected the fist with the Black Power movement, or understood that hair means so much more than fashion to black women. To me, the poem was about a new awareness of the importance of everyday things.