Herbert Woodward Martin

Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

My Mother At The End of Her Days

Enlarge poem

My mother at the end of her days could not see to sign

her name on the dotted line. She could write her name;

It was the line that caused trouble. She had a sweet name,

I cannot deny. So many communal ancestors died trying

to learn how to write. How could impatient haste deny

her the opportunity to honor those dead she would soon

face? I was not the best counselor in those failing days.

Time for the Banker was golden and mighty, still he

could not afford her the time it took to place her name

on the dotted line the Law required. She was forced

to set down Slavery’s strong X. With those two improper

strokes all of her joys were denied. I wept that that

act set a longing in her heart and took from her hand

an accomplished task she had learned long ago.

I am far from that clinical day

and the impolite act I was forced to commit against

a love removed and dying aggressively of cancer

Herbert Woodward Martin

Featured Poem:

My mothers voice

Enlarge poem

Lord child, I done told you a million times

them words youse foolin’ around with don’t make no sense.

Them words is the devil’s work,

you better leave ’em alone you hear?

Here you sit from morning to night,

writin’ down what you think is right.

Whoever told you you had the right to decide bad and good?

It ain’t worth the time of day,

unless it’s going to bring you some silver.

And I don’t see how it’s possible,

for anybody to be payin’ you for somethin’

you done scribbled down like chicken scratch.

And don’t go tellin’ me nothin’ about

what or how much money white people make.

You ain’t white.

And I don’t want to hear nothin’ ’bout no fame.

Attention ain’t no good when you’re dead.

It don’t make no sense.

Furthermore, it don’t make no never-mind,

how much you scream,

or how long and wooly you let your hair grow,

or how many baths you refuse to take.

If you ain’t got no money,

you ain’t got nothin’ to say.

And I didn’t have to go to no fool college to learn that.

I have been walkin’ through this world and learnin’

since I knowed exactly who I was.

So if I tell you I hand dipped snuff, look for the box.

Boy, where is ya goin’? I’m talkin’ to you.

You better come back here and listen.

Lord, Lord, these children are gonna be the death of us all.

Not that we ain’t givin’ ’em plenty of kindlin’ wood.

All work on this website is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.5 South Africa License.

My mothers voice by Herbert Woodward Martin

Download the audio file

How does this featured poem make you feel?

Amazement (3)
Pride (1)
Optimism (0)
Anger (0)
Delight (0)
Inspiration (0)
Reflection (3)
Captivation (0)
Peace (0)
Amusement (2)
Sorrow (1)
Vigour (0)
Hope (0)
Sadness (0)
Fear (0)
Jubilation (0)

Comments

Biography

Herbert Woodward Martin, born in 1933, served as professor of English and poet-in-residence at the University of Dayton in Ohio, United States of America, for more than three decades where he taught creative writing and African-American literature. He is the author of nine volumes of poetry and has devoted decades to editing and giving performances of the works of the poet and novelist Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906).

Martin’s publications include:

New York The Nine Million, Abracadabra Press, 1967
The Shit-Storm Poems , Pilot Press, 1972
The Persistence of The Flesh, Lotus Press, 1976
The Forms of Silence, Lotus Press, 1980
Galileo’s Suns, Bottom Dog Press, 1999
The Log of The Vigilante, Mellen Press, 2000
Escape To The Promised Land, Bottom Dog Press, 2005
Inscribing My Name, Kent State University Press, 2007
On the Flyleaf: Poems, Bottom Dog Press, 2013

Editor:

Paul Laurence Dunbar: A Singer of Songs, State Library of Ohio, 1980
In His Own Voice: The Uncollected Works of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ohio University Press, 2002
Paul Laurence Dunbar: Selected Poems, Penguin Press, 2004
The Collected Novels of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ohio University Press, 2009

United States

Biography

Martin’s publications include:

New York The Nine Million, Abracadabra Press, 1967
The Shit-Storm Poems , Pilot Press, 1972
The Persistence of The Flesh, Lotus Press, 1976
The Forms of Silence, Lotus Press, 1980
Galileo’s Suns, Bottom Dog Press, 1999
The Log of The Vigilante, Mellen Press, 2000
Escape To The Promised Land, Bottom Dog Press, 2005
Inscribing My Name, Kent State University Press, 2007
On the Flyleaf: Poems, Bottom Dog Press, 2013

Editor:

Paul Laurence Dunbar: A Singer of Songs, State Library of Ohio, 1980
In His Own Voice: The Uncollected Works of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ohio University Press, 2002
Paul Laurence Dunbar: Selected Poems, Penguin Press, 2004
The Collected Novels of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ohio University Press, 2009

My Mother At The End of Her Days

Enlarge poem

My mother at the end of her days could not see to sign

her name on the dotted line. She could write her name;

It was the line that caused trouble. She had a sweet name,

I cannot deny. So many communal ancestors died trying

to learn how to write. How could impatient haste deny

her the opportunity to honor those dead she would soon

face? I was not the best counselor in those failing days.

Time for the Banker was golden and mighty, still he

could not afford her the time it took to place her name

on the dotted line the Law required. She was forced

to set down Slavery’s strong X. With those two improper

strokes all of her joys were denied. I wept that that

act set a longing in her heart and took from her hand

an accomplished task she had learned long ago.

I am far from that clinical day

and the impolite act I was forced to commit against

a love removed and dying aggressively of cancer

Herbert Woodward Martin

Featured Poem:

My mothers voice

Enlarge poem

Lord child, I done told you a million times

them words youse foolin’ around with don’t make no sense.

Them words is the devil’s work,

you better leave ’em alone you hear?

Here you sit from morning to night,

writin’ down what you think is right.

Whoever told you you had the right to decide bad and good?

It ain’t worth the time of day,

unless it’s going to bring you some silver.

And I don’t see how it’s possible,

for anybody to be payin’ you for somethin’

you done scribbled down like chicken scratch.

And don’t go tellin’ me nothin’ about

what or how much money white people make.

You ain’t white.

And I don’t want to hear nothin’ ’bout no fame.

Attention ain’t no good when you’re dead.

It don’t make no sense.

Furthermore, it don’t make no never-mind,

how much you scream,

or how long and wooly you let your hair grow,

or how many baths you refuse to take.

If you ain’t got no money,

you ain’t got nothin’ to say.

And I didn’t have to go to no fool college to learn that.

I have been walkin’ through this world and learnin’

since I knowed exactly who I was.

So if I tell you I hand dipped snuff, look for the box.

Boy, where is ya goin’? I’m talkin’ to you.

You better come back here and listen.

Lord, Lord, these children are gonna be the death of us all.

Not that we ain’t givin’ ’em plenty of kindlin’ wood.

My mothers voice by Herbert Woodward Martin

Download the audio file

How does this featured poem make you feel?

Amazement (3)
Pride (1)
Optimism (0)
Anger (0)
Delight (0)
Inspiration (0)
Reflection (3)
Captivation (0)
Peace (0)
Amusement (2)
Sorrow (1)
Vigour (0)
Hope (0)
Sadness (0)
Fear (0)
Jubilation (0)

My Mother At The End of Her Days

Enlarge poem

My mother at the end of her days could not see to sign

her name on the dotted line. She could write her name;

It was the line that caused trouble. She had a sweet name,

I cannot deny. So many communal ancestors died trying

to learn how to write. How could impatient haste deny

her the opportunity to honor those dead she would soon

face? I was not the best counselor in those failing days.

Time for the Banker was golden and mighty, still he

could not afford her the time it took to place her name

on the dotted line the Law required. She was forced

to set down Slavery’s strong X. With those two improper

strokes all of her joys were denied. I wept that that

act set a longing in her heart and took from her hand

an accomplished task she had learned long ago.

I am far from that clinical day

and the impolite act I was forced to commit against

a love removed and dying aggressively of cancer

Herbert Woodward Martin

Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

My Mother At The End of Her Days

My Mother At The End of Her Days