Roxane Beth Johnson’s first book of poetry, “Jubilee,” won the Philip Levine Award for Poetry and was published by Anhinga Press, 2006. Here’s one of our favorite poems from that collection:
Weeknight Services
The organ’s flare-hued opera hummed loud
in the small church above the bar
with its bumpy music. Our voiccs wound
up being too small to drown it out by far.
We sung of Jesus’ blood with a tambourine,
one drum, twenty voices, paper fans, bells —
while the thump-thump of bass through the ceiling
made rhythm that silenced our fears of hell,
demons, white folks, Catholics, death’s certain flood.
But the music — blood of Jesus, God bless
the child I was then — the music: The blood,
we sang would wash us white as snow. Blessed
assurance, Jesus is mine, Oh…what fears.
When I hear those drums, my heart is in my ears.
The following poems are from her second book, Some Glad Morning.
Negro Help
We washed laundry six days a week. Wash shirts, wash of light. Water boil. Color white like bones. There was bleach and its smell of death, its feeling of hunger. White as the white of white-folks’ eyes. Our hands bleeding from bleach at night, at home in the soft night. Still we stirred sugar into tea. Salt water for our sores. The lightening bugs shook in the trees. The Klan coming on. Coming on. Come on, white skirmish, white wolf, white fire smoke and the smell of stones. Soap on scars, a drop of water. White as spit on a skillet. We washed for little. Bread and gravy, some gristle. Now and then some sweets. Some starch to keep our skirts creased. On and on through time, white as mending thread. Some of us burned on crosses and went up white as smoke. Some of us carried on with hair gone pale as fingerprints on a glass.
Altar Under Skin
Lord says make me an altar. My body is of a temple. Sweat cools on my skin like daylight on a wall it ebbs. Work then rest. Everyone in the fields all day. Doubt like Thomas it all continues yet occurring. Amen, amen. An orange is a world of sweetness sliced. I am a hidden clearing for dancing, spirit is a dove through trees flying. Sometimes I lay the seed, the birds other times I stalk. I am burned leaves crumbling in fire of red it rushes. Amen, amen. Lord says, don’t be afraid of the body killed by hand but watch the price of your soul. At night, I have no mind left to dream. There is no treasure place to hide but the body. Lord says make an altar. I tried once with twigs. Everything outside me is yet gone or stolen. Flight of crows now I memorize. On hands folded let me think. My body is of a temple. I put this there.
Slaves out back in the garden among the zinnias are
singing – death is a simple thing, he go from door to door. Say – this here’s how we stay alive: we pocket stones. Our favorite scripture is, Jesus weptand so we got to feel no shame. This is our hammer – we use the forked end to pull nails from our hopes. This here’s how a mother let go a child to be sold. Here’s how we beat out birds to hide in trees. Afraid we were, but knew even Jesus had no bed. Zinnias all over the place! Where’s your rock garden, girl? We need something stronger to keep the dust around our roots from going. Enough time here we’ve had, though. One last thing, though – here’s two stories we love to tell: Jesus slept on a boat during a storm; Pharaoh’s army drowned. Death is a simple thing, he go from door to door. Sometimes, we tremble.