Already I Am No Longer Looked At

What, What Am I To Do With All Of This Life?

It Frightens Me To Realize That, If I Had Died Before The Age Of Fifty, I Would Have Died A 'negro' Fraction.

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

I Felt That I Had To Write. Even If I Had Never Been Published, I Knew That I Would Go On Writing, Enjoying It And Experiencing The Challenge.

People Like Definite Decisions, / Tidy Answers, All The Little Ravelings / Snipped Off, The Lint Removed, They / Hop Happily Among Their Roughs / Calling What They Can't Clutch Insanity / Or Saintliness.