MAYA ANGELOU

 


Marguerite Ann Johnson;  is an American author and poet. She has published seven autobiographies, three books of essays, and several books of poetry, and is credited with a list of plays, movies, and television shows spanning more than fifty years. She has received dozens of awards and over thirty honorary doctoral degrees. Angelou is best known for her series of seven autobiographies, which focus on her childhood and early adult experiences. 


                                                                                                                                    Marguerite Ann Johnson was born on April 4, 1928 in Saint Louis , Missouri and raised in Arkansas. Her mother worked as a prostitute working for a stage but later left it. At 8 years old Maya was raped by her mother's then-boyfriend and her attacker was beaten to death. These events constituted a traumatic event that caused Maya pathological silence.


 Although much of her childhood was spent with her grandmother in rural Arkansas . At 16 she earned her graduation in high school. That same year her son Guy was born , and began working as a cook and waitress. In 1940 she was sent to live with her mother to San Francisco. During the decade of the fifties performed in nightclubs and began a successful career as a singer, dancer, actress , director of magazines, civil rights activist , poet and novelist.





 The most famous work is the series of autobiographical novels that starts with I know why the caged bird sings (1970 ) , which describes the lives of some African Americans with a witty language. In almost all his works denounces racism , and exalts the courage , perseverance , survival and the estimation itself. They have been awarded numerous awards and honorary degrees . In 1993 , she read her poem "On the Pulse of Morning" at the inauguration of President Bill Clinton.


And the most recently poem she wrote  is  "HIS DAY IS DONE" as a tribute to Nelson Mandela.

POEM

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,