Original words copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou
Music, revised words, and arrangement CC BY-SA 4.0 by Jim Bearden
When I first saw this poem, in a book of Maya Angelou’s poetry, I was struck by how it seemed to jump off the page, with its own bright melody. I later discovered that I wasn’t the only one who had thought of setting this poem to music, and that there were several recorded versions. All of them that I have heard so far, though, went for a slow, majestic melody, which wasn’t anything like the bright, upbeat one I had heard when I read it. So this is my idea of what I think it should sound like, and you can see what you think of it, compared to any others you’ve heard. In my original version, I acknowledged the obvious problem that I’m the wrong gender to sing this in the first person, as it was written. So more recently, I decided that a better way to be able to handle this problem would be to rewrite it so that I’m the right gender to sing it, more sincerely, about the phenomenal women I’ve known in my life, especially the one that I’ve been married to for more than fifty years now.
Verse 1:
Pretty women wonder where her secret lies:
She’s 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 her arms, the span of her hips,
The stride of her steps, the curl of her lips.
Chorus:
She’s a woman —
Phenomenally!
Phenomenal woman —
That’s she!
Verse 2:
She walks 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 her — a hive of honey bees.
I say:
It’s the fire in her eyes, and the flash of her teeth,
The swing of her waist, and the joy in her feet.
Chorus
Verse 3:
Men themselves have wondered about just what they see —
They try so much, but they can’t touch her inner mystery.
When I try to tell them, they say they still can’t see.
I say:
It’s in the arch of her back, the sun of her smile,
The ride of her breasts, the grace of her style.
Chorus
Verse 4:
Now you understand just why her head’s not bowed;
Why she won’t shout, or jump about, or have to talk real loud.
When you see her passing, it ought to make you proud.
I say:
It’s in the click of her heels, the bend of her hair,
The palm of her hand, the need for her care.
Chorus
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