Sent to you by moya via Google Reader:
via Words, Words, Words by teresa on 2/17/10
Lucille Clifton has passed away. She leaves behind family and friends, powerful poetry and countless black women writers for whom she was a patron saint. I once heard someone say that she was a poet's poet. I have read only a small portion of her work, but I see why. She seemed to look inward, to her own life and community and this very spiritual, political act of being a woman, for inspiration. A singular depiction of an isolated instance can reveal answers about the whole of humanity. Everything is everything.
Among the things I take away from her work, I take that I am enough. Lucille Clifton could have written of loftier things; she could have made references to things I know nothing of and flexed language that required a vocabulary lesson before I could get through a poem. She didn't do that. She spoke to being human, of women and men and babies and families. She spoke of God and light and death and thriving – apartments, city blocks, neighborhoods. All she needed was right there. We were enough for her. We are enough still.
Lucille, "which stands for light", shine always. Amen.
I've now added The Book of Light to my reading list.