Let a beauty full of      healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing      in our spirits and our blood. About this Poet Play. Let a beauty full of     healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing     in our spirits and our blood. In my dream, I am walking with the guide angel through the Appalachian Mountains in the fall of the year.

Why poetry is necessary and sought after during crises. 4 My People (feat.

/. Let another world be born. Margaret Walker, “For My People” from For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to. Let a race of men now Preaching to the persecuted and the disinherited millionsPreaching love and justice to the solid southern landWith a vision and a dream of the red hills of GeorgiaAmos is our Shepherd standing in the Shadow of our GodAnd the seething streets of Selma and of bitter Birmingham. Margaret Walker was born in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1915. Justice Sears’s essay, “Love for My People,” appears...Poet and novelist Margaret Walker was born on July 7, 1915, in Birmingham, Alabama, to the Reverend Sigismund C. Walker and Marion Dozier Walker. Eve) Licensed to YouTube by WMG (on behalf of East/West); EMI Music Publishing, UMPI, UNIAO BRASILEIRA DE EDITORAS DE MUSICA - UBEM, CMRRA, Wixen Music Publishing, Inc., UMPG Publishing, ASCAP, LatinAutor - UMPG, LatinAutor, and 18 Music Rights Societies FOR MY PEOPLE Lyrics: You know, yeah / Always wanted to have super powers / You know, uh / This for my people, tryna stay alive and just stay peaceful / … The first African American poet to receive the Yale Younger Poets Prize, she was the author of  Let a second      generation full of courage issue forth; let a people      loving freedom come to growth. Let the martial songs     be written, let the dirges disappear. By Margaret Walker For my people everywhere singing their slave songs       repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues      and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an       unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an  For my people lending their strength to the years, to the     gone years and the now years and the maybe years,      washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending      hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching     dragging along never gaining never reaping never  For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama    backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor      and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking      and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn     to know the reasons why and the answers to and the      people who and the places where and the days when, in      memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we      were black and poor and small and different and nobody      cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to      be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and      play and drink their wine and religion and success, to      marry their playmates and bear children and then die For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox      Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy      people filling the cabarets and taverns and other      people’s pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and    land and money and something—something all our own;For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time       being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when       burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled       and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures  For my people blundering and groping and floundering in       the dark of churches and schools and clubs and      societies, associations and councils and committees and      conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and       devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,       preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by  For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way     from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,      trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,      all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless Let a new earth rise. Duration Time 0:00. Let a     bloody peace be written in the sky. repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues. The goal of “For my People” is to simultaneously soothe, inspire, and chastise black people. Calling me by my heavenly name, he tells me that a great, many-faceted battle will soon be upon the world.

A Methodist minister who had been born near Buff... Let the martial songs      be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a second     generation full of courage issue forth; let a people     loving freedom come to growth.

Poems, articles, and podcasts that explore African American history and culture.