Funny
that I should think of it now.
I never saw another one like it—:
now, that I think of it.
There was a red piece of altar-cloth,
which had belonged to my father,
but I was much too old for it,
and I left it behind.
There was a little brown ball,
belonging to a neighbor’s little boy.
I still remember his face,
brown, like the ball, and shining like the sun,
the day he threw it to me
and I caught it
and turned my back, and dropped it,
and left it behind.
I was on my way.
Drums and trumpets called me.
My universe was thunder.
My eye was fixed
on the far place of the palace.
But, sometimes, my attention was distracted
by this one, or that one,
by a river, by the cry of a child,
the sound of chains,
of howling. Sometimes
the wings of great birds
flailed my nostrils,
veiled my face, sometimes,
from high places, rocks fell on me,
sometimes, I was distracted by my blood,
rushing over my palm,
fouling the lightning of my robe.
My father’s son
does not easily surrender.
My mother’s son
pressed on.
Then,
I began to imagine a strange thing:
the palace never came any closer.
I began, nervously, to check
my watch, my compass, the stars:
they all confirmed
that I was almost certainly where I should be.
The vegetation was proper
for the place, and the time of year.
The flowers were dying,
but that, I knew,
was virtual, at this altitude.
It was cold,
but I was walking upward, toward the sun,
and it was silent, but—
silence and I have always been friends.
Yet—
my journey’s end seemed
farther
than I had thought it would be.
I feel as though I have been badly bruised.
I hope that there is no internal damage.
I seem to be awakening
from a long, long fall.
My radio will never work again.
My compass has betrayed me.
My watch has stopped.
Perhaps
I will never find my way to the palace.
Certainly,
I do not know which way to turn.
My progress has been
discouraging.
Perhaps
I should locate the turning
and then start back
and study the road I’ve travelled.
Oh, I was in a hurry,
but it was not, after all,
if I remember,
an ugly road at all.
Sometimes, I saw
wonders greater than any palace,
yes,
and, sometimes, joy leaped out,
mightier than the lightning of my robe,
and kissed my nakedness.
Songs
came out of rocks and stones and chains,
wonder baptized me,
old trees sometimes opened, and let me in,
and led me along their roots,
down, to the bottom of the rain.
The green stone,
the scarlet altar-cloth,
the brown ball, the brown boy’s face,
the voice, in Norman’s Gardens,
trying to say: I love you.
Yes.
My progress has been discouraging.
But I think I will leave the palace where it is.
It has taken up quite enough of my time.
The compass, the watch, and the radio:
I think I will leave them here.
I think I know the road, by now,
and, if not, well. I’ll certainly think of something.
Perhaps the stars will help,
or the water,
a stone may have something to tell me,
and I owe a favor to a couple of old trees
And what was that song I learned from the river
on one of those dark days?
If I can remember the first few notes
Yes
I think it went something like
Yes
It may have been the day I met the howling man,
who looked at me so strangely.
He wore no coat.
He said perhaps he’d left it at Norman’s Gardens,
up-town, someplace.
Perhaps, this time, should we meet again, I’ll
stop and rap a little.
A howling man may have discovered something I should know,
something, perhaps, concerning my discouraging progress.
This time, however,
hopefully,
should the voice hold me to tarry,
I’ll be given what to carry.
Amen
No, I don’t feel death coming.
I feel death going:
having thrown up his hands,
for the moment.
I feel like I know him
better than I did.
Those arms held me,
for a while,
and, when we meet again,
there will be that secret knowledge
between us.
James Baldwin, Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems
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