{"id":9596,"date":"2014-03-01T01:10:16","date_gmt":"2014-03-01T06:10:16","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/paganpages.org\/content\/?p=9919"},"modified":"2014-02-28T21:58:53","modified_gmt":"2014-03-01T02:58:53","slug":"warrior-women-7","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/2014\/03\/01\/warrior-women-7\/","title":{"rendered":"Warrior Women"},"content":{"rendered":"

Maya Angelou<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings<\/span><\/p>\n

The free bird leaps
\non the back of the wind
\nand floats downstream
\ntill the current ends
\nand dips his wings
\nin the orange sun rays
\nand dares to claim the sky.<\/p>\n

But a bird that stalks
\ndown his narrow cage
\ncan seldom see through
\nhis bars of rage
\nhis wings are clipped and
\nhis feet are tied
\nso he opens his throat to sing.<\/p>\n

The caged bird sings
\nwith fearful trill
\nof the things unknown
\nbut longed for still
\nand his tune is heard
\non the distant hill
\nfor the caged bird
\nsings of freedom<\/p>\n

The free bird thinks of another breeze
\nan the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
\nand the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
\nand he names the sky his own.<\/p>\n

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
\nhis shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
\nhis wings are clipped and his feet are tied
\nso he opens his throat to sing<\/p>\n

The caged bird sings
\nwith a fearful trill
\nof things unknown
\nbut longed for still
\nand his tune is heard
\non the distant hill
\nfor the caged bird
\nsings of freedom.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This poem was written by someone who has been caged. Psychologically, I mean. Who else would know why, exactly, the caged bird sings?<\/p>\n

The author of this poem is the incredible Miss Maya Angelou, who just happens to be one of my favorite poets. Her work has an underlying emotion hiding behind an aspect of candidness and, if you read between the lines, you will see the complete, unvarnished truth. What talent!<\/p>\n

Miss Angelou was born in Missouri and raised in Arkansas. By all accounts, her early years were rife with turmoil and tragedy. She became a mother at the age of sixteen and raised her child alone until, eight years later, she married for the first time.<\/p>\n

Maya Angelou has worked hard her entire life and in many different areas of interest. She has earned countless awards and honorary degrees, too many to list, really. One event in her life, though, is of great interest to me. President Bill Clinton asked Miss Angelou to write a poem for his inauguration. She wrote On the Pulse of Morning<\/em> and read it aloud, to the world, on January 20, 1993.<\/p>\n

“ON THE PULSE OF MORNING” <\/em><\/p>\n

A Rock, A River, A Tree
\nHosts to species long since departed,
\nMarked the mastodon,
\nThe dinosaur, who left dried tokens
\nOf their sojourn here
\nOn our planet floor,
\nAny broad alarm of their hastening doom
\nIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.<\/em><\/p>\n

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
\nCome, you may stand upon my
\nBack and face your distant destiny,
\nBut seek no haven in my shadow.
\nI will give you no hiding place down here.<\/em><\/p>\n

You, created only a little lower than
\nThe angels, have crouched too long in
\nThe bruising darkness
\nHave lain too long
\nFace down in ignorance.
\nYour mouths spilling words<\/em><\/p>\n

Armed for slaughter.
\nThe Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
\nBut do not hide your face.<\/em><\/p>\n

Across the wall of the world,
\nA River sings a beautiful song. It says,
\nCome, rest here by my side.<\/em><\/p>\n

Each of you, a bordered country,
\nDelicate and strangely made proud,
\nYet thrusting perpetually under siege.
\nYour armed struggles for profit
\nHave left collars of waste upon
\nMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
\nYet today I call you to my riverside,
\nIf you will study war no more. Come,
\nClad in peace, and I will sing the songs
\nThe Creator gave to me when I and the
\nTree and the rock were one.
\nBefore cynicism was a bloody sear across your
\nBrow and when you yet knew you still
\nKnew nothing.
\nThe River sang and sings on.<\/em><\/p>\n

There is a true yearning to respond to
\nThe singing River and the wise Rock.
\nSo say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
\nThe African, the Native American, the Sioux,
\nThe Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
\nThe Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
\nThe Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
\nThe privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
\nThey hear. They all hear
\nThe speaking of the Tree.<\/em><\/p>\n

They hear the first and last of every Tree
\nSpeak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
\nPlant yourself beside the River.<\/em><\/p>\n

Each of you, descendant of some passed
\nOn traveller, has been paid for.
\nYou, who gave me my first name, you,
\nPawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
\nCherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
\nForced on bloody feet,
\nLeft me to the employment of
\nOther seekers — desperate for gain,
\nStarving for gold.
\nYou, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
\nYou the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
\nSold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
\nPraying for a dream.
\nHere, root yourselves beside me.
\nI am that Tree planted by the River,
\nWhich will not be moved.
\nI, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
\nI am yours — your passages have been paid.
\nLift up your faces, you have a piercing need
\nFor this bright morning dawning for you.
\nHistory, despite its wrenching pain
\nCannot be unlived, but if faced
\nWith courage, need not be lived again.<\/em><\/p>\n

Lift up your eyes upon
\nThis day breaking for you.
\nGive birth again
\nTo the dream.<\/em><\/p>\n

Women, children, men,
\nTake it into the palms of your hands,
\nMold it into the shape of your most
\nPrivate need. Sculpt it into
\nThe image of your most public self.
\nLift up your hearts
\nEach new hour holds new chances
\nFor a new beginning.
\nDo not be wedded forever
\nTo fear, yoked eternally
\nTo brutishness.<\/em><\/p>\n

The horizon leans forward,
\nOffering you space to place new steps of change.
\nHere, on the pulse of this fine day
\nYou may have the courage
\nTo look up and out and upon me, the
\nRock, the River, the Tree, your country.
\nNo less to Midas than the mendicant.
\nNo less to you now than the mastodon then.<\/em><\/p>\n

Here, on the pulse of this new day
\nYou may have the grace to look up and out
\nAnd into your sister’s eyes, and into
\nYour brother’s face, your country
\nAnd say simply
\nVery simply
\nWith hope —
\nGood morning.<\/em><\/p>\n

What a powerful poem! And what an honor to read it on inauguration day. The ultimate honor, as far as I am concerned. Wow.<\/em><\/p>\n

I never get tired of ready the work of Maya Angelou. She inspires me. It seems nothing can stop her. <\/em><\/p>\n

She has been called a “global renaissance woman.” Indeed.<\/em><\/p>\n

If you want to hear Miss Maya Angelou read her poem on President Clinton’s inauguration day, go here:<\/em><\/p>\n

http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=59xGmHzxtZ4<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Maya Angelou   I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings The free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom The free bird thinks of another breeze an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.   This poem was written by someone who has been caged. Psychologically, I mean. Who else would know why, exactly, the caged bird sings? The author of this poem is the incredible Miss Maya Angelou, who just happens to be one of my favorite poets. Her work has an underlying emotion hiding behind an aspect of candidness and, if you read between the lines, you will see the complete, unvarnished truth. What talent! Miss Angelou was born in Missouri and raised in Arkansas. By all accounts, her early years were rife with turmoil and tragedy. She became a mother at the age of sixteen and raised her child alone until, eight years later, she married for the first time. Maya Angelou has worked hard her entire life and in many different areas of interest. She has earned countless awards and honorary degrees, too many to list, really. One event in her life, though, is of great interest to me. President Bill Clinton asked Miss Angelou to write a poem for his inauguration. She wrote On the Pulse of Morning and read it aloud, to the world, on January 20, 1993. “ON THE PULSE OF MORNING” A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon, The dinosaur, who left dried tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spilling words Armed for slaughter. The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song. It says, Come, rest here by my side. Each of you, a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I and the Tree and the rock were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your Brow and when you yet knew you still Knew nothing. The River sang and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing River and the wise Rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew The African, the Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the Tree. They hear the first and last of every Tree Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River. Plant yourself beside the River. Each of you, descendant of some passed On traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, you, Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then Forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of Other seekers — desperate for gain, Starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot, You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought, Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am that Tree planted by the River, Which will not be moved. I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours — your passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain Cannot be unlived, but if faced With courage, need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon This day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands, Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For a new beginning. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out and upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here, on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister’s eyes, and into Your brother’s face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope — Good morning. What a powerful poem! And what an honor to read it on inauguration day. The ultimate honor, as far as I am concerned. Wow. I never get tired of ready the work of Maya Angelou. She inspires me. It seems nothing can stop her. She has been called a “global renaissance woman.” Indeed. If you want to hear Miss Maya Angelou read her poem on President Clinton’s inauguration day, go here: http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=59xGmHzxtZ4<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":187,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"iawp_total_views":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9596","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9596","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/187"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9596"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9596\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9596"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9596"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9596"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}