Copyright © 1978, 1983, 1990, 1994 by Maya Angelou

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

“Phenomenal Woman” and “Still I Rise” were originally published in And Still I Rise (Random House, Inc., 1978). “Weekend Glory” was originally published in Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? (Random House, Inc., 1983). “Our Grandmothers” was originally published in I Shall Not Be Moved (Random House, Inc, 1990).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Angelou, Maya.

Phenomenal woman : four poems celebrating women /

Maya Angelou.

p.  cm.

eISBN: 978-0-307-80762-5

I. Women—Poetry. I. Title.

PS3551.N464P48 1995

811′.54—dc20   94-27042

v3.1

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Phenomenal Woman

Still I Rise

Weekend Glory

Our Grandmothers

Dedication

About the Author

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.

STILL I RISE

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

WEEKEND GLORY

Some dichty folks

don’t know the facts,

posin’ and preenin’

and puttin’ on acts,

stretchin’ their necks

and strainin’ their backs.

They move into condos

up over the ranks,

pawn their souls

to the local banks.

Buyin’ big cars

they can’t afford,

ridin’ around town

actin’ bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right,

they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant

ain’t the biggest bet,

but I pay my bills

and stay out of debt.

I get my hair done

for my own self’s sake,

so I don’t have to pick

and I don’t have to rake.

Take the church money out

and head cross town

to my friend girl’s house

where we plan our round.

We meet our men and go to a joint

where the music is blues

and to the point.

Folks write about me.

They just can’t see

how I work all week

at the factory.

Then get spruced up

and laugh and dance

And turn away from worry

with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin’

from day to day,

but who are they kiddin’?

So are they.

My life ain’t heaven

but it sure ain’t hell.

I’m not on top

but I call it swell

if I’m able to work

and get paid right

and have the luck to be Black

on a Saturday night.

OUR GRANDMOTHERS

She lay, skin down on the moist dirt,

the canebrake rustling

with the whispers of leaves, and

loud longing of hounds and

the ransack of hunters crackling the near

branches.

She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward

freedom,

I shall not, I shall not be moved.

She gathered her babies,

their tears slick as oil on black faces,

their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.

Momma, is Master going to sell you

from us tomorrow?

Yes.

Unless you keep walking more

and talking less.

Yes.

Unless the keeper of our lives

releases me from all commandments.

Yes.

And your lives,

never mine to live,

will be executed upon the killing floor of

innocents.

Unless you match my heart and words,

saying with me,

I shall not be moved.

In Virginia tobacco fields,

leaning into the curve

of Steinway

pianos, along Arkansas roads,

in the red hills of Georgia,

into the palms of her chained hands, she

cried against calamity,

You have tried to destroy me

and though I perish daily,

I shall not be moved.

Her universe, often

summarized into one black body

falling finally from the tree to her feet,

made her cry each time in a new voice.

All my past hastens to defeat,

and strangers claim the glory of my love,

Iniquity has bound me to his bed,

yet, I must not be moved.

She heard the names,

swirling ribbons in the wind of history:

nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,

mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,

whore, hot tail, thing, it.

She said, But my description cannot

fit your tongue, for

I have a certain way of being in this world,

and I shall not, I shall not be moved.

No angel stretched protecting wings

above the heads of her children,

fluttering and urging the winds of reason

into the confusion of their lives.

They sprouted like young weeds,

but she could not shield their growth

from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor

shape them into symbolic topiaries.

She sent them away,

underground, overland, in coaches and

shoeless.

When you learn, teach.

When you get, give.

As for me,

I shall not be moved.

She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.

She searched God’s face.

Assured,

she placed her fire of service

on the altar, and though

clothed in the finery of faith,

when she appeared at the temple door,

no sign welcomed

Black Grandmother. Enter here.

Into the crashing sound,

into wickedness, she cried,

No one, no, nor no one million

ones dare deny me God. I go forth

alone, and stand as ten thousand.

The Divine upon my right

impels me to pull forever

at the latch on Freedom’s gate.

The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my

feet without ceasing into the camp of the

righteous and into the tents of the free.

These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-

purple,

honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted

down a pyramid of years.

She is Sheba and Sojourner,

Harriet and Zora,

Mary Bethune and Angela,

Annie to Zenobia.

She stands

before the abortion clinic,

confounded by the lack of choices.

In the Welfare line,

reduced to the pity of handouts.

Ordained in the pulpit, shielded

by the mysteries.

In the operating room,

husbanding life.

In the choir loft,

holding God in her throat.

On lonely street corners,

hawking her body.

In the classroom, loving the

children to understanding.

Centered on the world’s stage,

she sings to her loves and beloveds,

to her foes and detractors:

However I am perceived and deceived,

however my ignorance and conceits,

lay aside your fears that I will be undone,

for I shall not be moved.

I dedicate this book

to the memory of my mother,

Vivian Baxter,

the most phenomenal.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MAYA ANGELOU has written five volumes of autobiography, beginning with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. She has also published five collections of poetry: And Still I Rise; Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ’fore I Diiie; Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well; Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing?; and I Shall Not Be Moved; as well as On the Pulse of Morning, the poem she read at the inauguration of President Clinton. All of her poetry has been brought together in The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou.