Can a whole book consist of one forty-three line poem and still be strong and bold enough to hold one’s interest? If the poet is Maya Angelou, undoubtedly. Can the art of one man successfully echo the sentiments of this strong poet? If the artist is Diego Rivera, certainly. Even the cover stirs the soul. Diego’s painting is of a seated woman, hands fisted on her
crossed knees, her gaze unflinching and upward, flanked by two workers, also
gazing upward. Diego chose to draw the woman and the two people from a low angle, looking up at them looking up. Then the book’s title, Still I Rise, sits below the painting in yellow contrasted on a green background. Holding the book, I feel a holy Hell! Yes! Immediately I know the book will pull no punches but that it will ultimately uplift the soul. This small solid square book is all about rising up.

Most pages consist of a segment of the poem on one side of the page and a vertical or horizontal painting on the opposite page. Earthy colours such as brick red, clayish yellow and sap green plus a clear deep blue highlight each two page spread. So it comes down to the selection of the painting versus the words. How in sync is the selection? And how can such strength be equally portrayed as a marriage instead of as two powerful pieces of work each vying for attention or overshadowing each other? 

The poem’s segment length varies so the poem is anything but static. Sometimes a whole stanza is illustrated ie 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.Other times, a mere two lines: Did you want to see me broken?/ Bowed head and lowered eyes?

So does the selected painting accurately reflect the chosen words? The temptation is to find a coupling that is weak or a little off. A crack in the marriage. But it’s impossible. A couple spring to mind, but mine them deeper, both the words and the painting, and their juxtaposition beautifully compliments each other.

Take the lines: You may kill me with your hatefulness,/ But still, like air, I’ll rise. Appropriately written on a sky-blue page with a full-page sized portrait on the opposite page of Portrait of Dolores Olmeda, 1955, at first the portrait seems distanced from the words, especially the images of hate and death. But the woman looks fresh and hopeful. Clad in a bright flowered dress with a headband of flowers and ribbons woven in her hair, she carries a cloth-bottomed basket filled with mangoes. Her gaze is unyielding, forward-facing, steady and confident. She holds the abundant future, ie the ripe fruit, in one arm and lifts the flounce of her dress with her other hand. No restrictive clothing will hold her back. Her resolve seems strong and firm. No doubt that she’ll rise clear- eyed and firm of foot.

Then there are the pairings that resonate so well they seem to vibrate off the page. For instance, You may shoot me with your words,/ You may cut me with your eyes,/ is paired with the picture Mural Study of Hands, Chapingo, 1927. The picture shows a close up of a woman’s left hand clasping just under the wrist of her right hand which in turn cradles her chin. Such a unique coil of connection. The woman’s shoulder-length curly black hair and her mouth and nose are evident but the painting ends, interestingly, below her eyes. Intriguing but, as such, it emphasises the critical world’s eyes, not the woman’s eyes.

Likewise the portrait, Portrait of Ruth Rivera, 1949, which accompanies the lines: Does my sexiness upset you?/ Does it come as a surprise/ . Ruth Rivera is painted in a simple white dress that suggests her hips. She glances over her shoulder while holding a beautiful round mirror filled with golden light and her profile. She looks as though she was admiring herself when someone walked in the room but she shows no surprise, more a look of indignation of being dis- turbed. The mirror glows moon-like, subtly emphasis- ing the feminine and the mysteries of femininity. To reach the height needed, the mirror’s long handle is taped to another stick, a surprising attention to detail when noticed in the gorgeous murkiness of the lower background. Ruth’s sandaled foot peeks from under her dress as though she were postulating to no-one but herself, admiring her own beauty and strength.

The following page quivers with vitality. Complimenting the couplet That I dance like I’ve got diamonds/ At the meeting of my thighs?/, it is the only painting that features men. Dance in Tehuantepec, 1935 shows a man and a woman dancing barefoot while seated women watch. The man, all in yellow with a black hat, kicks and leans back while the young woman with twirling blue ribbons in her hair, has both feet solidly on the ground, her white skirts lifted and swaying about her ankles. In the distance, a second couple echoes the main dancers’ postures. The paint- ing vibrates with a passion that totally matches such
brazen words and uplifts the heart, the way a good dance and hypnotic music is apt to do.

This little book shows no qualms at cutting be- tween stanzas to shift the kilter, to toss us off balance. Despite this, I think Maya Angelou would approve even though it may give a slightly different interpre- tation to her work. Interestingly, the poem doesn’t ap- pear intact, on one page in the book, forcing the reader to take it however it is presented, piece by piece, page by page, digesting every word.

Rivera’s paintings are listed in the back of the book and cover a range of years from 1924 to 1955. Angelou’s poem appears to have first been published in 1978. This book was first published in 2001. The difference in times forms an inspiring arc, a multilayered umbrella of creativity.

The back cover of the book has no words, only a repeated painting: Nude With Calla Lillies (Desnudo con alcatraces), 1944. A naked woman kneeling on a woven mat embraces a huge basket overflowing with white calla lilies. She could be embracing the book itself! Its softness provides a refreshing contrast to the gritty industry of the front cover painting suggesting that woman still rises, on her own terms, through her own strength. She embraces the lilies as hope and assurance that yes, she will rise, whatever it takes.

What a joy for anyone to experience this little gem of a book. More especially, perhaps, what a joy for a creative. At least for this writer, the joy of cre- ating is in the process but also in the unknown, the release of a piece into the world at some point, some- how. One never knows when creating something how, when or even if it will breathe on its own, who it will journey to, who it will uplift, who will cling to it like a life raft in a dark stormy sea, what it could be paired with.
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Perhaps it could be argued that a female artist’s paintings, maybe even different artists, should have illustrated the poem. Yet, it’s hard to fault any of the pairings—this little book simply works as a support- ive marriage. In wondering how Maya Angelou and Diego Rivera would have viewed this book, I think they would have both approved, probably as true cre- ative souls, neither of them surprised by the delightful combination of support and strength from each other’s work. Perhaps, as it is meant to do, this small book would have uplifted their souls.

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​Sue Blott has been writing for as long as she can remember, in as many different genres as possible. She isdelighted to have won this prize for her review of a small book crammed with hope and power; a fitting anthem for these turbulent days.

It’s a sticky-hot July night with a heavy stillness in the air. I’m wakened by the sound of thunder. It takes me a moment to realise that the thunder is not outside. It’s inside. The thunder is on my stairs. It’s the thunder of many booted-feet, their owners’ outfit- ted in full tactical gear. Plastic action figures come to life, a mixture of steroids and testosterone, whipped to a sweaty frenzy. A dangerous cocktail. There is shouting and the static of walkie-talkies. I get up, still groggy, my nightshirt inside-out. I stand still in the hallway, a disheveled middle-aged mother, frozen in a blinding spotlight, as a disembodied voice barks out: “There’s three of them.” I feel less than human. Later I learn that they were trying out one of their new toys, some sort of heat-sensing device that determines how many people are in a building and their approximate location. Apparently there was quite a contingent of officers lying in wait in the back lane, an unusual sight in our quiet neighbourhood. 

   After thrusting a piece of paper at me, my daughter and her partner are hauled away and I am permitted to stay but confined to my vehicle. An actual thunderstorm breaks out now, the worst of the summer. I have a lifelong fear of thunderstorms and usually hide in the bathroom with my eyes scrunched shut and my ears covered. But not tonight. Tonight, I am out in the storm and I have no fear, only rage, a rage so violent that it steams up the windows of my vehicle. Flashes of lightning reveal the intruders going up and down my outside stairs and when the thunder subsides I hear snatches of their conversation, small talk, casual comments on the design of my house which is built against a rock cut, like a fortress. It is a fortress no more. 

   I steam in my vehicle for almost three hours when a bathroom break becomes necessary. I am allowed to remain inside now, under guard in my own living room. I look around at my artwork, at cherished items of furniture, the handmade bookcases construct- ed by my late father and the books they contain. I have nothing of any monetary value in my house but there is much that has meaning. It is my sanctuary. I had my home broken into once before. I remember arriving home one afternoon just before Christmas and being annoyed to see the front door wide open with the heat blasting away. That time my TV was taken along with some unwrapped Christmas gifts, nothing worth filing an insurance claim over. The police never did catch the culprits, kids probably, who gained access to the house via my bedroom window. My daughter’s bed- room was ransacked then too but it was hard to tell with her being in the messy teenage stage of life. I can still picture the officer, notebook in hand, pen poised, staring at the disarray and his hesitant question, “Uh, was the room like this before the break-in?” 

   But this is different. This is a legally sanctioned invasion and as a law-abiding citizen (apart from the occasional speeding ticket) it is beyond frustrating to be so helpless, to have to listen to one’s home being ransacked. They went methodically from room to room. I couldn’t keep track of how many were in the house. They all seemed to have identical hair- cuts and voices. It’s regulation I guess. Finally, they are done. After some bluster from the sergeant or corporal or guy in charge, whatever he’s called, it is evident that they have nothing. No illicit drugs. Nothing without a prescription. Nothing. All this destruction and disruption for nothing. I am furious and getting up on my virtual soapbox, hands on hips, I lecture them on their Gestapo-like tactics and their place as agents of the state in our capitalist system. Okay, I was raised by a Communist. Once I get political they roll their eyes and depart and I am left to survey the damage. Despite my lack of sleep, adrenalin keeps me moving. First on the agenda: find the cats. Not mine of course. His takes this invasion in stride but my daughter’s two cower in the bedroom. They are street cats and may have encountered the police before. The littlest one runs away the following week, and perhaps illogically, I blame the police.  

   I coax them out of hiding and then return to my inventory-taking. I tried to film the destruction but my lack of video skills coupled with a shaking hand made the results dark and hazy. I tried watching it a few times afterwards but it was painful to listen to the outrage in my voice. It made me feel helpless again. My daughter’s bedroom has taken the worst hit. Heavy boots have kicked in the cupboard over the stairs. The doors were tied together with pink satin ribbon to keep the cats out but the police couldn’t be bothered to untie the bow or maybe they were taking out their frustration on coming up empty-handed. The cupboard contains stuffed animals and other toys. They break open a locked briefcase. It belonged to my late father and as such is very precious to my daughter. All it held were some of her old school papers which they dumped all over the floor. My bedroom seems untouched and the living room and dining room were hardly disturbed. The basement was gone through but not the shed although they did look under the deck. 
They spent a lot of time rummaging around in my kitchen cupboards looking for a meth lab I guess. They dragged out a brand-new unused kitchen scale which I threw out afterwards of course. The contents of my junk drawer were spread out all over the floor. When I open my spice cupboard I discover they have spilt my large bottle of pure vanilla. Baking is one of my passions. It relaxes me like no other activity. I love mixing the ingredients and the smell of vanilla and brown sugar. I didn’t bake for a year. Every time I opened that cupboard I remembered.  

   I am fortunate that my father had brought me up to understand that while we should always obey the law, we should never forget that the police were there to protect those in power, they were part of the system. That lessened my shock. Still, it was a bit of disappointment as a part of me wanted to believe in those comic book heroes. My daughter held no such expectations. She and her partner eventually arrive home without charges or apologies. They are tired
but not surprised. They sleep. I do not. I wait for the dawn. The sun rises and I am a different person. Still human. In fact, more human. When one looks back on life there are always a few life-changing moments that stand out-both the good and the bad. This definitely makes the list. But I am grateful for this experience because I have seen things from another perspective and am now better equipped to understand the challenges many people face in improving their lives. 

    My daughter and her partner were in that stage at the time, trying to rebuild their lives in a good way. Life is no longer black and white to me and it’s harder to tell the bad guys from the good guys. I took the day off to get some rest and clean up the mess but I have never repaired the door frame. It is a reminder to me. I don’t want to forget. I need to remember. I also kept my brass door knob with its tell-tale indentation. If there was any justice I would have overcome my fear of storms but no, that phobia came back with a vengeance.

   I still puzzle though, over the purpose of the raid. Was it a message? A warning? A training exercise? A fishing expedition? I have been told that it could have been much worse, that they could have punched through the drywall and ripped up flooring but apparently they only do that if they think they are going to find something. So again, what was the point? Whatever the rationale it was unwarranted. 

   This incident motivated me to become even more involved in social justice. Search warrants are powerful tools in the police arsenal and they need to be used fairly and only when necessary. This particular warrant was what is known as a dial-a-warrant and is granted by an out-of-area judge over the phone after hours, from someone who has no knowledge of the area and the players and must rely solely on the information the police provide. 
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   I can bake now but when I sleep my fists are clenched, ready to do battle. Many mornings I wake up to aching hands and sore shoulders which are locked into permanent fighter stance. 

   And when I don’t sleep I lie awake listening for the sound of thunder.