3 Poems About Youth

By Robert Hayden, Stanley Kunitz & Audre Lorde

The Whipping

by Robert Hayden

The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,
pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
pursues and corners him.
She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling
boy till the stick breaks
in her hand. His tears are rainy weather
to woundlike memories:
My head gripped in bony vise
of knees, the writhing struggle
to wrench free, the blows, the fear
worse than blows that hateful
Words could bring, the face that I
no longer knew or loved . . .
Well, it is over now, it is over,
and the boy sobs in his room,
And the woman leans muttering against
a tree, exhausted, purged--
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
she has had to bear.

The Testing-Tree

by Stanley Kunitz

1

On my way home from school

up tribal Providence Hill

past the Academy ballpark

where I could never hope to play

I scuffed in the drainage ditch

among the sodden seethe of leaves

hunting for perfect stones

rolled out of glacial time

into my pitcher's hand;

then sprinted lickety-

split on my magic Keds

from a crouching start,

scarcely touching the ground

with my flying skin

as I poured it on

for the prize of the mastery

over that stretch of road,

with no one no where to deny

when I flung myself down

that on the given course

I was the world's fastest human.

2

Around the bend

that tried to loop me home

dawdling came natural

across a nettled field

riddled with rabbit-life

where the bees sank sugar-wells

in the trunks of the maples

and a stringy old lilac

more than two stories tall

blazing with mildew

remembered a door in the

long teeth of the woods.

All of it happened slow:

brushing the stickseed off,

wading through jewelweed

strangled by angel's hair,

spotting the print of the deer

and the red fox's scats.

Once I owned the key

to an umbrageous trail

thickened with mosses

where flickering presences

gave me right of passage

as I followed in the steps

of straight-backed Massassoit

soundlessly heel-and-toe

practicing my Indian walk.

3

Past the abandoned quarry

where the pale sun bobbed

in the sump of the granite,

past copperhead ledge,

where the ferns gave foothold,

I walked, deliberate,

on to the clearing,

with the stones in my pocket

changing to oracles

and my coiled ear tuned

to the slightest leaf-stir.

I had kept my appointment.

There I stood in the shadow,

at fifty measured paces,

of the inexhaustible oak,

tyrant and target,

Jehovah of acorns,

watchtower of the thunders,

that locked King Philip's War

in its annulated core

under the cut of my name.

Father wherever you are

I have only three throws

bless my good right arm.

In the haze of afternoon,

while the air flowed saffron,

I played my game for keeps--

for love, for poetry,

and for eternal life--

after the trials of summer.

4

In the recurring dream

my mother stands

in her bridal gown

under the burning lilac,

with Bernard Shaw and Bertie

Russell kissing her hands;

the house behind her is in ruins;

she is wearing an owl's face

and makes barking noises.

Her minatory finger points.

I pass through the cardboard doorway

askew in the field

and peer down a well

where an albino walrus huffs.

He has the gentlest eyes.

If the dirt keeps sifting in,

staining the water yellow,

why should I be blamed?

Never try to explain.

That single Model A

sputtering up the grade

unfurled a highway behind

where the tanks maneuver,

revolving their turrets.

In a murderous time

the heart breaks and breaks

and lives by breaking.

It is necessary to go

through dark and deeper dark

and not to turn.

I am looking for the trail.

Where is my testing-tree?

Give me back my stones!

Hanging Fire

by Audre Lorde

I am fourteen

and my skin has betrayed me

the boy I cannot live without

still sucks his thumb

in secret

how come my knees are

always so ashy

what if I die

before morning

and momma's in the bedroom

with the door closed.

I have to learn how to dance

in time for the next party

my room is too small for me

suppose I die before graduation

they will sing sad melodies

but finally

tell the truth about me

There is nothing I want to do

and too much

that has to be done

and momma's in the bedroom

with the door closed.

Nobody even stops to think

about my side of it

I should have been on Math Team

my marks were better than his

why do I have to be

the one

wearing braces

I have nothing to wear tomorrow

will I live long enough

to grow up

and momma's in the bedroom

with the door closed.