Audio poetry WRITING

The Little Black Boy by William Blake

The Little Black Boy by William Blake "When my father thinks upon me significantly, I feel him. This is the only time I think of him. He is sad, and will die in this state, not knowing how to relinquish regret, and separate from living pain. Although I wish him peace, I am not the master. Although I sound jaded, I am sure of my words. I don' t know what it's like to be a black man with a white mother. I only know that in his 50's, he had not yet accepted that part of himself as reality. I know this because I told him he hated himself, and without hesitation, he agreed. My comment was made without sensititivity to the expression of his anger, which is always an attempt to release pain. He stopped speaking in anger to me after that day, but only because I went straight to his heart with my words. He thinks of me now only because he would re-do all things if he could. I think of him because he can't, and because I wish him peace and love regardless. History is relived through me in a twist of sorts. I understand his pain, and hope to absorb it so that I might transform it. None of us are above our histories, and should we accept the challenge, we can rise not only to meet, but to erase the cycle for future generations; so that skin color, and all other defined orientations of mankind not become a preamble to touching our chosen loves and deities. " - Marisol A. Rasa

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child: 
But I am black as if bereav’d of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree 
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say. 

Look on the rising sun: there God does live 
And gives his light, and gives his heat away. 
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear 
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice. 
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.

Thus did my mother say and kissed me, 
And thus I say to little English boy. 
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy: 

I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear, 
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee. 
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.


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