Maya Angelou's Poems



Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size  
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.

I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,  
The stride of my step,  
The curl of my lips.  
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,  
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,  
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.  
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.  
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,  
And the flash of my teeth,  
The swing in my waist,  
And the joy in my feet.  
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered  
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,  
They say they still can’t see.  
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,  
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.  
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.  
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,  
The bend of my hair,  
the palm of my hand,  
The need for my care.  
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Alone
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

When I Think About Myself
When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big joke,
A dance that's walked
A song that's spoke,
I laugh so hard I almost choke
When I think about myself.

Sixty years in these folks' world
The child I works for calls me girl
I say "Yes ma'am" for working's sake.
Too proud to bend
Too poor to break,
I laugh until my stomach ache,
When I think about myself.

My folks can make me split my side,
I laughed so hard I nearly died,
The tales they tell, sound just like lying,
They grow the fruit,
But eat the rind,
I laugh until I start to crying,
When I think about my folks.

Cirilo Bautista's Selected Poems



Being Blue in Switzerland
I walk along the shore of Lake Lucerne
The sunlight glimmers on the water 
and pigeons eat crumbs under the trees.

The wind is cold, so I button my black jacket and tighten my woolen mufflers.
Dew still clings to the red and yellow tulips.

Lovers embrace on the wooden piers while slowly
the boat from Gotthard sails into port.
Two swans and a duck float near 
the piers, seeking the bread a man has thrown
into the water, there under the blue sky.

I feel lonely by the shore of Lake Lucerne.
I hold my head high and whistle a tune.
The Fountains at Villa D'Este, Tivoli
As if he owned the ocean.
Here, one man’s dream explodes in 
water, carved in splashing splendour
by lion teeth, angel mouth, breasts
of virgins that do not rest. Day
and night the liquid sizzles, channeling
the dream from terrace to terrace,
from stone to stone, till it gathers to a pool
that caresses the fish. My brain swims
with the fish as they trace their antique
silence to a thousand spouts
and fountains, then back to the pool again….
One dies again, also, bursting through
the skin, and flings his wingless wars
to the sun, broken and raining sadness
on the soul; but just for a moment,
like spumes in air, or the swing of swans
to shore, no longer, no better. Bodies
bloom and reel in space, juggled and spun by
light, by water, to flash a brilliance,
no longer, no better. Was this what he
thought, he who planned the garden of his mind,
to freeze that brilliance? Did he, in despair,
command the water to move his mind
to each crevice, each pool, each silent
sibilance, each flowing,
each song of many endings, each murmur,
while he slept, as if he owned the ocean?
Offering for Picasso
This poem
is for Picasso
who didn't have hair and looked like cheese.
He divided up
the bodies of people
and a new form of art was born in the world.
A circle of yellow
became the sun
a rainbow sprouted in an intestine exposed,
a lost bicycle
when pounded and earrings thrown
let grow in the world to a thousand green beans:
Now that he's gone
Picasso, what machine
would keep order in our dreams? What charm
would vaccinate
against the blood of war and abandonment
so that the tattered world would again be beautiful?
Oh How To Find Silence In the World
Being spotted in the color of skin,
why I take care in San Francisco,
waiting for the bus to Iowa.
They say racial prejudice is strong,
Negros and not whites kawawa,
and because of this they will revolt.
I shiver and shiver from fear and hunger
because I just landed from Tokyo.
A Negro came into the station—
naka-African hairdo; he holds a small
whip: it’s scary to look, so
I did not look at him. Kumakalansing
the metal on the strings of his shoes
and he shouts, “Peace, brothers!” Smiled showing
white teeth. Looked at me—
maybe he laughed at what he saw—
a tiny dayuhan, dark and from
some lupalog.
Upside down
my insides went in fright and pulled
a cigarette so the redness of my face

wouldn’t show. I nahalata
that the Whites there too were quiet
so quiet, unable to speak in front
of that Negro. Only when he left returned
the normalcy in the station—others
read again, neighbors gossiped again,
laughter, the janitor sweeped again.
After a while that Negro passed again
two white Americanas on each arm,
blonde, their beauty with no equal.
The janitor stopped sweeping.
I thought, “So this is racial prejudice.”

Lyrics of We Are All God’ Children by Jaimie Rivera



 This is the lyrics of the official theme song of the visit of Pope Francis to the Philippines this 2015:
We Are All God’ Children

Have you walked the pavements where they sleep?
Do you feel their hands
When you give them alms?
Did you ever give them bread to eat?

Have you seen their homes washed by the floods?
While a mother tightly holds her child
Do you hear the wind
Of the raging storm?
Can you tell them where it's coming from?

Let us show our love and mercy
With true kindness and humility
For God loves the weak and the needy
Just like you and me

We are all God's children
We are all the same
He is calling us by name to help the poor and lame
And learn what life is really for
It's to know and love and serve the Lord

Stand together and let's do our part
Hear their voices mend their broken hearts
Choose to be brave fight for their rights
Give them back their honor and their pride

Please do not be blind and just leave them behind
To struggle in darkness or give them empty promises

We are all God's children
We are all the same
He is calling us by name to help the poor and lame
And learn what life is really for
It's to know and love and serve the Lord

It's to know and love and serve the Lord
It's to know and love and serve the Lord