Maya Angelou Quote
A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack 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 thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,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 profitHave left collars of waste uponMy 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 songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and 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 Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours--your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out 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 dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simply
A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack 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 thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,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 profitHave left collars of waste uponMy 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 songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and 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 Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours--your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out 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 dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simply
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About Maya Angelou
She became a poet and writer after a string of odd jobs during her young adulthood. These included fry cook, sex worker, nightclub performer, Porgy and Bess cast member, Southern Christian Leadership Conference coordinator, and correspondent in Egypt and Ghana during the decolonization of Africa. Angelou was also an actress, writer, director, and producer of plays, movies, and public television programs. In 1982, she was named the first Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Angelou was active in the Civil Rights Movement and worked with Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. Beginning in the 1990s, she made approximately 80 appearances a year on the lecture circuit, something she continued into her eighties. In 1993, Angelou recited her poem "On the Pulse of Morning" (1993) at the first inauguration of Bill Clinton, making her the first poet to make an inaugural recitation since Robert Frost at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961.
With the publication of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Angelou publicly discussed aspects of her personal life. She was respected as a spokesperson for Black people and women, and her works have been considered a defense of Black culture. Her works are widely used in schools and universities worldwide, although attempts have been made to ban her books from some U.S. libraries. Angelou's most celebrated works have been labeled as autobiographical fiction, but many critics consider them to be autobiographies. She made a deliberate attempt to challenge the common structure of the autobiography by critiquing, changing and expanding the genre. Her books center on themes that include racism, identity, family and travel.