# data[].attributes.body
Colin daniel

# data[].attributes.body
He was a very famous poet. His work was published in newspapers and books, performed in theaters, and collected in anthologies. He received numerous awards, including one from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

-Ryan Palmer

# data[].attributes.body
Langston Hughes was one of the most influential poets of the harlem renaissance movement, if not the most influential. He brought out black culture through Harlem and started to established a name for black people in society

Georgie Angelides

# data[].attributes.body
Christine Rogers
This is Carl Van Vechten and he has taken over 1,000 photographs (Van Vechten Collection)

and mass majority of them include portraits of figures from the Harlem Renaissance.

# data[].attributes.body
This is a picture of Carl Can Vechten who had taken pictures of the times surrounding the Harlem Renaissance and documenting what he came upon and saw along the way. He took many pictures of celebrities and other famous figures around the Harlem Renaissance including this boxer

# data[].attributes.body
Although the Great Depression put an end to the Harlem Renaissance, the influence of many African American writers lasted for decades. This led to the 'birth' of many great writers like Toni Morrison (below).

--John Silva

# data[].attributes.body
Louis Armstrong was a famous African-American trumpeter during the Harlem Renaissance. He became one of the most widely played, and influential musicians in all of jazz. He not only appealed to the African-American audience, he was popular among whites as well.

Sean Melone

# data[].attributes.body
The Jazz Singer was the first full-length film to use synchronized sound to tell a story, popularizing "talkies" forevermore.
-Ben Mizrach

# data[].attributes.body
During the 1920s  pianist Willie Smith, Addington Major on cornet, Ward Andrews on trombone, and Ernest Elliot on clarinet accompanied cabaret singer Mamie Smith launched the first successful commercial blues recording, "Crazy Blues." The recording became extremely popular and led into the Classic Blues Craze.

-Ally Hornstein

# data[].attributes.body
David Perry
Aaron Douglas was a big figure for art in the Harlem  Renaissance. He focused on African art and was one of the first painters to be considered an Africanist.

# data[].attributes.body
The Cotton Club was an African American cabaret that many famous artists of the time performed at.  Many now famous artists started their careers here, and many white elites enjoyed the musical entertainment of the African Americans despite the segregation policies.

# data[].attributes.body
Jes' low down de chariot right easy
Right easy, right easy
Jes' low down de chariot right easy
An' bring God's servant home

Jes' tip eround my room right easy
Right easy, right easy
Jes' tip eround my room right easy
And bring God's servant home

Jes' move my pillow 'round right easy
Right easy, right easy
Jes' move my pillow 'round right easy
And bring God's servant home

Jes' turn de cover back right easy
Right easy, right easy
Jes' turn de cover back right easy
And bring God's servant home

Jes' tone de bell right easy
Right easy, right easy
Jes' tone de bell right easy
And bring God's servant home

Above are some African American spiritual lyrics published by the Federal Writer's Project (FWP) in 1937. Spiritual lyrics help represent the African American religious and real life experience, and often include biblical references. The tone is often negative, depicting a desire for freedom and for equal treatment. Although first introduced to whites in the 1870's, the Harlem Renaissance helped to popularize the spiritual music movement, as it became more widespread in the 1920's.

# data[].attributes.body
I thought that this was interesting because she was a mixed race woman who went to college and became a nurse and librarian, but also wrote articles and books. She also got the Harmon Foundation Bronze Award in 1929

# data[].attributes.body
This is a picture of Duke Ellington who was one of the great talents of the Harlem Renaissance.

# data[].attributes.body
Muddy's real name is McKinley Morganfield. He got the nickname Muddy Waters from his grandmother because he enjoyed playing in the rich Delta dirt after a rainstorm. His first instrument was a harmonica and didn't have a guitar till the age of 17.
-Casey Scheper

# data[].attributes.body
Sydney Paoletti
"Shuffle Along" was a musical comedy known as the first Broadway musical to ever be written, produced, and and performed solely by African Americans. This musical is known to be the most significant achievement in black theatre of its time as it provoked the public's interest in black theatricals and proved that white audiences would pay to see African Americans perform. Thus, "Shuffle Along" became a turning point in the history of African American entertainment.

# data[].attributes.body
Arna Wendell Bontemps was a major contributor to the Harlem Renaissance movement. He was a famous author of many poets and novels during this time period. He worked with Countee Cullen, a leading figure in the H.R. movement, and created a famous novel, then turned it into a musical. He also worked with Langston Hughes, a famous poet of the H.R. movement and created a well known poem from the time period called "the Poetry of the Negro"

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public




This Volime is for



REFERENCE USE ONLY



If t At l^rlr^wwfwf^^^



KANSAS CITY. MO PUBLIC LIBRARY




a DDOi ^s^fl7^



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO
1746-1949



THE POETRY
OF THE NEGRO
1746-1949



AN ANTHOLOGY EDITED BY

LANGSTON HUGHES

AND

ARNA BONTEMPS



DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC, 1951
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK



COPYRIGHT, 1949, BY LANGSTON HUGHES AND ARNA BONTEMPS

ALL PJGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



The editors of this anthology are deeply indebted to the following per-
sons for advice, guidance, research, or discovery: in regard to the poetry
of the Caribbean, particularly are we grateful to Vivian L. Virtue and
Wycliffe S. Bennett of the Toe'try League of Jamaica, and to Edna
Manley; for invaluable assistance in assembling the biographies of the
Haitian poets, to Rene Piquion, Clovis Chariot, and Dr. Mercer Cook;
for careful research and help with the many details of checking and
preparing the manuscript, to Dr. Hugh S. Smythe, Rosamond Johnson,
Minnie Redmond Bowles, Nathaniel V. White, and Marjorie Greene;
for aid in securing certain poems to Ralph Ellison and Cedric Dover;
and to Arthur Spingarn for sharing with us his vast knowledge of the
Negro literature of this hemisphere.



PREFACE



The title of this volume has somewhat more reference to a theme and
a point of view than to the racial identity of some of its contributors.
But this does not mean it has none at all. A number of the poems were
chosen because the writers belonged to the group which is defined in
the United States as Negro, even though the sum of such inclusions may
be smaller than the number of selections made on other grounds.

If the compilers had sought for a racial idiom- in verse form among
Negroes, they should have concerned themselves with the words of
Negro spirituals, witii folk rhymes, with blues, and other spontaneous
lyrics. These song materials, no doubt, suggest a kind of poetry that is
racially distinctive, that lies essentially outside the literary traditions of
the language which it employs. But the present anthology consists of
poems written within that tradition, by Negroes as well as others.

The common thread, of course, is the Negro's experience in the
Western world. Where the author is a Negro, any comment on any
subject is considered within this limit. Poems by others are included
only when they touch the subject directly, except in the case of the
Caribbean countries, where a departure from this principle seemed
necessary in a few cases in order to make representative selections.

Another factor, too, blurred this logic a little. Racial distinctions vary
from country to country. Any effort to apply the yardstick of the United
States to the other Americas is likely to confuse more than it clarifies.
No such attempt was made by the compilers. Moreover, in the pre-

vii



vili PREFACE

dominantly Negro countries around the Caribbean, selections of repre-
sentative poems were made sometimes without respect either to racial
implications in the verses or to the identity of the poets. This point was
explained to those contributors to whom it was not clear.

The arrangement of the poems was influenced by other considera-
tions. In the major section, containing the work of Negro poets of the
United States, a chronological order was followed, based on the date
of the poet's birth, or the closest estimate that could be made of it. The
poems in the other two sections follow sequences which seemed gen-
erally appropriate for reading purposes, the deciding element being
sometimes historical, sometimes dramatic.

On the whole the aim was to assemble selections which would be at
once representative of the Negro's own poetic expression and of the
poetry he inspired others to write. The Long Island slave Jupiter Ham-
mon's "An Evening Thought: Salvation by Christ, with Penitential
Cries" (1760) was the first well-known literary work by a Negro pub-
lished in the United States. Evidence of an earlier Negro poet has been
found in references to a Lucy Terry, to whom a verse account of an
Indian raid on Deerfield in 1746 is credited. But the original version of
this literary work appears to have been lost. The one used by George
A, Sheldon in his Negro- Slavery in Old Deerfield and quoted in this
volume is rather enigmatically described as "secondary."

Hammon was followed by Phillis Wheatiey, a delicate girl who not
only produced a larger amount of poetry but also won the attention of
George Washington and Thomas Jefferson as well as a number of
prominent people in London. Somewhat later another slave, who was
permitted to hire himself out, found employment in the home of the
president of the University of North Carolina and in this atmosphere
composed poems that were published in Raleigh in 1829.

These articulate slaves belonged to a tradition of writers in bondage
which goes back to Aesop and Terence. While Aesop's writing appears
to have won him rewards of a sort, there is no sure indication that he
succeeded in writing himself out of servitude. Terence did, however,
and so did Phillis Wheatley of West Africa and Boston. Hammon be-
came a pamphleteer for freedom, but his final years are obscure. George
Moses Horton, the slave poet of North Carolina, waited for his de-
liverance till the Northern armies invaded the South.

Meanwhile in Louisiana free men of color* became an important
element of the population, gained wealth, sent their youth to Paris to



PREFACE ix

study drama, music, and fencing, and to hobnob with the friends of
Alexandre Dumas; to Rome to devote themselves to sculpture and sing-
ing. Many of these young people were not inclined to return to their
native state, with its oppressive racial attitudes, but some were drawn
again by the bittersweet allurements of home in New Orleans. Enough
trained musicians came back, for example, to bring about the organiza-
tion of a symphony orchestra of one hundred members among this
group at one time. Their influence in literature was strong enough to
produce an anthology of poetry in 1845. The volume was called Les
Cenelles., and it contained verse by a dozen of the younger French-
speaking poets among the free Negroes writing at that time, including
Victor Sejour, who was later to become a popular playwright in Paris.
Oddly, the members of this group had not been taught to link them-
selves personally with the condition of the slaves, and their poetry
scarcely touched racial feeling.

So the traditions of Negro poetry derive from influences and sources
as far apart as those that inspired Jupiter Hammon's "An Address to
Negroes in the State of New York" (1787) and Horton's book of verse,
The Hope of Liberty, on the one hand, and Phillis Wheatley's refined
and tempered Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral ( 1773 )
and Les Cenelles on the other. The lines from these to Dunbar and
Braithwaite, to Hughes and Cullen and Donald Jeffrey Hayes, to Mar-
garet Walker and Gwendolyn Brooks are not hard to draw.

The Negro in Western civilization has been exposed to overwhelming
historical and sociological pressures that are bound to be reflected in
the verse he has written and inspired. The fact that he has used poetry
as a form of expression has also brought him into contact with literary
trends and influences. How one of these forces or the other has pre-
dominated and how the results may be weighed and appraised are
among the questions to which the poetry itself contains answers.

LANGSTON HUGHES
ARNA BONTEMPS



CONTENTS



1. NEGRO POETS OF THE U. S. A.



LUCY TERRY

Bars Fight 3

JUPITER HAMMON

An Evening Thought 4

PHILLIS WHEATLEY

His Excellency General Washington 6
On Imagination 7

GEORGE MOSES HORTON

On Liberty and Slavery 9

FRANCES E. W. HARPER

The Slave Auction 10

Let the Light Enter 11

ARMAND LANUSSE

Epigram 12

PIERRE DALCOUR

Verse Written in the Album
of Mademoiselle



GEORGE MARION MCCLELLAN

The Feet of Judas
JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR.

The Way-Side Well

The Tragedy of Pete



12
13

14
14



JOHN WESLEY HOLLOWAY

Miss Melerlee 17

WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHABDT
DUBOIS

A Litany at Atlanta 18

JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS

Paul Laurence Dunbar 21

An Indignation Dinner 22

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON

O Black and Unknown Bards 23

Fifty Years 25

The Creation 28
The Glory of the Day

Was in Her Face 30

Sence You Went Away 31

My City 32

Lift Every Voice and Sing 32

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Sympathy 33

Dawn 34

A Negro Love Song 34

When Malindy Sings 35

xi



J CONTENTS
Little Brown Baby



37
39



A Death Song

Ere Sleep Comes Down

to Soothe the Weary Eyes 39

Compensation 41

ALICE DUNBAK NELSON

Sonnet 41

WILLIAM STANLEY BRATTHWAITE

The House of Falling Leaves 42

The Watchers 42

White Magic: An Ode 43

The Arsenal of the Lord 45

T.TOT.TR PINCKNEY HILT.

The Teacher 46

Tuskegee - 46
ANGELINA W. GRIMKE

A Winter Twilight 47

For the Candle Light 47
When the Green Lies Over

the Earth 48

Tenebris 49

The -Black Finger 49

BENJAMIN BRAWLEY

My Hero 50

ANNE SPENCER

Life-Long, Poor Browning 50

Letter to My Sister 51

At the Carnival 52

Lines to a Nasturtium 53

For Jim, Easter Eve 54

EFFDE LEE NEWSOME

Morning Light 55

Arctic Tern in a Museum 56

Little Birches 56

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON

The Heart of a Woman 57

Youth 57

Remember 57

The Suppliant 58



Old Black Men

Interracial

I Closed My Shutters Fast

Last Night
Recessional
My Little Dreams
FENTON JOHNSON
Rulers

The Banjo Player
The Scailet Woman
Tired
Aunt Jane Allen

I Die

Lonely Mother
75 TJwtf A-Walking
in the Corn?

JESSIE REDMOND FAUSET
Enigma

La Vie Cest La Vie
Dead Fires
Oblivion

BINGA DISMOND



Quo
At Early Morn

JEAN TOOMER

Song of the Son
Beehive
Evening Song
Georgia Dusk

JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR.
Supplication
And W/ia* SMZ You Say?

MELVIN B. TOLSON
Dark Symphony

FRANK HORNE

On Seeing Two "Brown Boys

in a Catholic Church
Kid Stuff



58
59

59
60

60

61
61
61
62
62
63
63

64

65
65

66
67

67
68

68
69
70
70

71

72

72



76

77



CONTENTS



xtii



Toast 78
Letters Found Near a Suicide 79

MAECUS B. CHRISTIAN

The Craftsman 83
McDonogh Day in New Orleans 84

LEWIS ALEXANDER

Nocturne Varial 84

Dream Song 85

Transformation 85

STERLING A. BROWN

After Winter 86

Old Lem 87

"Foreclosure 89

Remembering Nat Turner 90

Sister Lou 92

CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY

The Mask 94

Solace 94

Joy 96

Interim 96

LANGSTON HUGHES

I, too, Sing America 97

Dream Variation 97

T/ie Weary BZwes 98

Little Green Tree Blues 99

Personal 100

Havana Dreams 100

Harlem Sweeties 101

Afro-American Fragment 102

Crow 103

Song /or a Darfc GirZ 103

Merry-Go-Round 104

Mother to Son 104

The Negro Speaks o/ Rivers 105
Let America Be America Again 106

GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT

Sonnets 109
Lines Written at the Grave

of Alexandre Dumas 110



ARNA BONTEMPS

A Black Man Talks of Reaping 110

Miracles 111

Nocturne at Bethesda 111

Southern Mansion 113

Length of Moon 114

The Return 114

Idolatry 116

CZose Your Et/es/ 116

Golgotha Is a Mountain 117

A Note of Humility 119

Tne Dai/breakers 119

DOROTHY VENA JOHNSON

Epitaph for a Bigot 120

Green Valley 120

COUNTEE CULLEN

Heritage 121

For a Poet 125

Simon the Cyrenian Speaks 125

The Wise 126

T/iat Bright Chimeric Beast 126

For a Lady I Know 128

Incident 128

Saturday's Child 128

Fruit o/ t/ie Flower 129
"Youth Sings a Song of Rosebuds 130

TAe Loss o/ Love 131

Yet Do I Marvel 132

From the Dark Tower 132

JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS

The Resurrection 133

My Angel 134

And! One Shall Live in Two 135

Muse in Late November 135

She Said ... 136

DONALD JEFFREY HAYES

Poet 137

Prescience 137



xiv CONTENTS

Haven

Appoggiatura

Benediction

FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS
Four Glimpses of Night
I Sing No New Songs
Robert Whitmore
Flowers of Darkness

ARTEL WILLIAMS HOLLOWAY
Northboun

WARING CUNEY
Conception
No Images
Finis

BurioZ o/ the Young Looe
Tfo Death Bed
Grat?e
Lame Man and the Blind Man

EDWARD SILVERA
Forgotten Dreams
On the Death of a Child

HELENS JOHNSON
Summer Matures
Fulfillment
Magalu

Remember Not
Invocation



RICHARD WRIGHT

I Haoe Seen Black Hands
Between the World and Me

CHARLES ENOCH WHEELER

Adjuration
Tumult

PAULI MURRAY

Witfiout Name

WESLEY CUR1RIGHT
Hear* of the Woods



138
138
140

141
142
143
143

144

145
145
146
146
147
148
149

150
150

150
151
152
153
153
154

154
156

158
158

159
159



DAVID WADSWORTH CANNON, JR.

Freedom in Mah Soul 160

Western Town 160

HERBERT CLARK JOHNSON

A Boys Need 161

Crossing a Creek 161

WiZZotz; Bend and Weep 161

On Calvary's Lonely Hill ' 162

BEATRICE M. MURPHY

The Letter 162

ROBERT E. HAYDEN

O Daedalus Fly Away Home 163
Homage to the Empress

of the Blues 164

Letter from the South 164

A Ballad of Remembrance 165
A Photograph of Isadora Duncan 167

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik 167

Runagate Runagate 168

Frederick Douglass 171

M. COLLINS

GifZ 172

OWEN DODSON

Six O'clock 172

Rag DoH and Summer Birds 173

Counterpoint 174

Epitaph for a Negro Woman 174

T/ie Decision 175
Poems for My Brother Kenneth 176

MARGARET WALKER

October Journey 176

MoZZt/ Means 178

We Have Been Believers 180

Harriet Tubman 181

For My People 186

For Mary McLeod Bethune 188

GWENDOLYN BROOKS

Kitchenette Building 188



Of DeWitt Williams on His

Way to Lincoln Cemetery 189

The Old-Marrieds 190

Love Note II: Flags 190

The Birth in a Narrow Room 191

Mentors 191

Piano After War 192
CATHARINE CATER

Here and Now 192

HELEN JOHNSON COLLINS

To an Avenue Sport 193

MYEON O'HIGGINS

Blues for Bessie 194

Two Lean Cats 196

Young Poet 196

Sunset Horn 197

BRUCE MCM. WRIGHT

Journey to a Parallel 200



CONTENTS xv

The African Affair 201

ALFRED A. DUCKETT

Portrait Philippines 202

Sonnet 202

M. CARL HOLMAN

Song 203

Notes for a Movie Script 203

Letter Across Doubt

and Distance 204

And on This Shore 205

NAOMI LONG WITHERSPOON

Refugee 207

RUSSELL ATKINS

Poem 206

BETTE DARCIE LATIMER

For William Edward Burghardt
DuBois on His Eightieth
Birthday 208



2. TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES



WALT WHITMAN

The Runaway Slave 213

The Wounded Person 213

The Drayman 214

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors 214

WILLIAM BLAKE

The Little Black Boy 215

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
The Runaway Slave

at Pilgrim's Point 216

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 226



EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Toussaint L'Ouverture



227



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The Slave's Dream 234

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITHER

The Farewell 236



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Stanzas on Freedom



HERMAN MELVILLE
"Formerly a Slave"

ALICE CORBIN

Echoes of Childhood

PERIENT TROTT
Negro Spiritual

VACHEL LINDSAY
The Congo



238



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

How Old Brown

Took Harpers Ferry 239

STEPHEN VINCENT BENET

John Browns Prayer 243

SELDEN RODMAN
Harpers Ferry



245
246
247
248
250



xvi CONTENTS








HART CRANE




CARL SANDBURG




Black Tambourine


254


Mammy Hums


287


JOHN GOtTLD FLETCHER




Jazz Fantasia


287


Elegy on a Nordic White




ELIZABETH BISHOP




Protestant


255


Songs for a Colored Singer


288


RTDGELY TORRENCE




IRMA WASSALL




The Bird and the Tree


257


Singing in the Dark


292


WILLIAM ELLERY TJEONARD




SELDEN RODMAN




The Lynching Bee


259


On a Picture by Pippin,




KENNETH PATCHEN




Called "The Den'


292


Nice Day for a Lynching


272


Daphne


293


MAXWELL, BODENHEIM




Norris Dam


294


Negroes


272


SIDNEY ALEXANDER




Lynched Negro


273


The Castle


294


Poem to Negroes and Whites


274


WITTER BYNNER




KAY BOYLE




Defeat


295


A Communication
to Nancy Cunard


275


WILLIAM ROSE BENET
The Strong Swimmer


295


MURIEL RUKEYSER








The Trial


280


DON WEST








My South


297


A. B. MAGIL








They Are Ours!


282


KENNETH PORTER








Street Scene-1946


299


KARL SHAPIRO








Recapitulations
The Southerner


283
284


JOSEPHINE MILES
Government Injunction


300


HERVEY ALLEN




ST. CLAIR MCKELWAY




Upstairs Downstairs


285


Boogie- Woogie Ballads


300


DU ROSE HEYWARD




SIDNEY ALEXANDER




"Porgy; Maria and Bess'


286


Lenox Avenue


304


3. THE CARIBBEAN








JAMAICA




Lizard


311


STEPHANIE ORMSBY




WALTER ADOLPHE ROBERTS




The Caribbean


309


Boyhood Etchings


311


TOM REDCAM




The Captains


312


San Gloria


309


San Francisco


313


AGNES MAXWELL-HALL




Villanelle of Washington Square


313


Jamaica Market


310


ViUanelle of the Living Pan


314



Peacocks

Vieux Carre

On a Monument to Marti

The Maroon Girl
GEORGE CAMPBELL

Litany
K. E. INGRAM

Lizard
LOUIS SIMPSON

Nine O'clock
P. M. SHERLOCK

Dinner Party, 1940
BASIL MCFARLANE

The Final Man
J. E. CLARE MCFARLANE

On National Vanity
CONSTANCE HOLLAR

The Caged Mongoose

ROGER MAIS
I, Remembering

UNA MARSON
Hunted
Nightfall

VIVIAN L. VIRTUE
The Gleaner
Atlantic Moonrise
To Claude McKay

CLAUDE MCKAY

Tne Tropics in New York

After the Winter

Heritage

Spring in New Hampshire

To O. E. A.

A Song o/ */ie Moon

Harlem Shadows

America

W/wte Houses

If We Must Die

Baptism



320



322
323

324
325

325
326
326

327
327
328
329
329
330
331
331
332
333
333



CONTENTS xvii

315 Russian Cathedral 334

316 Flame-Heart 334

316 H . jx CARBERRY

317 Nature 335
I Shall Remember 336

317 Return 338

318 BRITISH GUIANA
A. j. SEYMOUR

319 Over Guiana, Clouds 338

320 BRITISH HONDURAS

RAYMOND BARROW



There Is a Mystic Splendor 345



321 BARBADOS



346
346

347



348
349



H. A. VAUGHAN

Nocturne

The Old Convict
FRANK A. COLLYMORE

In Memoriam

TRINIDAD

HAROLD TELEMAQUE

Roots
Adina

HAITI

OSWALD DURAND

Choucoune 350

The Black Mans Son 352

If 353

ISAAC TOUSSAINT-L'OUVERTURE
Farewell 353

LOUIS MORPEAU

To Madame la Duchesse
de Bauffremont 354

IGNACE NAU
Belle-de-Nuit 355



xviii



CONTENTS



LUC GBIMABD

AmitiS Amoureuse 355

PHTT.IPPE THOBY-MARCKT.TN

Elegies 356

CHRISTIAN WERLKCGH

Poet of Farewell 358

NORMIL SYLVAIN

A Negro Sings 359

DURACINE VAVAL

The Mangoes 360

EMTLE ROXJMER

The Peasant Declares His Love 361
CHARLES F. PRESSOIR

La Mambo Dans Le Hounfort 361

Country Graveyard 363

JACQUES ROUMAIN

When the Tom-Tom Beats . . . 364
Langston Hughes 364

Guinea 365

ROUSSAN CAMUXE

NedjS 366

JEAN BRIERRE

Harlem 369

MARTINIQUE

AIME CESAIRE

Memorandum on My Martinique 370

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
TRANSLATORS
AUTHOR INDEX
FIRST LINE INDEX



FRENCH GUIANA

LEON DAMAS

Poems 371

CUBA

REGINO PEDROSO

Opinions of the New Chinese

Student 372

NICOLAS GUILLEN

Cane 374

Sightseers in a Courtyard 374

Dead Soldier 376

Wake for Papa Montero 377

Two Weeks 379

Proposition 380

Barren Stone 380

Federico 381

PLACEDO

Farewell To My Mother 383

AFRICA

AQUAH LALUAH

Nativity 384

The Serving Girl 385

The Souls of Black and White 385

389
411
415
421



1



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A.



BARS FIGHT
by Lucy Terry



August 'twas the twenty fifth

Seventeen hundred forty-six

The Indians did in ambush lay

Some very valient men to slay

The names of whom I'll not leave out

Samuel Allen like a hero f out

And though he was so brave and bold

His face no more shall we behold.

Eleazer Hawks was killed outright

Before he had time to fight

Before he did the Indians see

Was shot and killed immediately.

Oliver Amsden he was slain

Which caused his friends much grief and pain.

Samuel Amsden they found dead

Not many rods off from his head.

Adonijah Gillet we do hear

Did lose his life which was so dear.

John Saddler fled across the water

And so excaped the dreadful slaughter.

Eunice Allen see the Indians comeing

And hoped to save herself by running

And had not her petticoats stopt her

The awful creatures had not cotched her

And tommyhawked her on the head

And left her on the ground for dead.

Young Samuel Allen, Oh! lack a-day

Was taken and carried to Canada.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



AN EVENING THOUGHT

Salvation by Christ, With Penitential Cries
by Jupiter Hammon

Salvation comes by Christ alone,

The only Son of God;

Redemption now to every one,

That love his holy Word.

Dear Jesus we would fly to Thee,

And leave off every Sin,

Thy tender Mercy well agree;

Salvation from our King;

Salvation comes now from the Lord,

Our victorious King.

His holy Name be well ador'd,

Salvation surely bring.

Dear Jesus give thy Spirit now,

Thy Grace to every Nation,

That han't the Lord to whom we bow,

The Author of Salvation.

Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry,

Give us the Preparation;

Turn not away thy tender Eye;

We see thy true Salvation.

Salvation comes from God we know,

The true and only One;

It's well agreed and certain true,

He gave his only Son.

Lord hear our penitential Cry:

Salvation from above;

It is the Lord that doth supply,

With his Redeeming Love.

Dear Jesus by thy precious Blood,

The World Redemption have:

Salvation now comes from the Lord,

He being thy captive slave.

Dear Jesus let the Nations cry,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A.

And all the People say,

Salvation comes from Christ on high,

Haste on Tribunal Day.

We cry as Sinners to the Lord,

Salvation to obtain;

It is firmly fixt his holy Word,

Ye shall not cry in vain.

Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry,

And make our Lamentation:

O let our Prayers ascend on high;

We felt thy Salvation.

Lord turn our dark benighted Souls;

Give us a true Motion,

And let the Hearts of aU the World,

Make Christ their Salvation.

Ten Thousand Angels cry to Thee,

Yea louder than the Ocean.

Thou art the Lord, we plainly see;

Thou art the true Salvation.

Now is the Day, excepted Time;

The Day of Salvation;

Increase your Faith, do not repine:

Awake ye every Nation.

Lord unto whom now shall we go,

Or see a safe Abode;

Thou hast the Word Salvation too

The only Son of God.

Ho! every one that hunger hath,

Or pineth after me,

Salvation be thy leading Staff,

To set the Sinner free.

Dear Jesus unto Thee we fly;

Depart, depart from Sin,

Salvation doth at length supply,

The Glory of our King.

Come ye Blessed of the Lord,

Salvation greatly given;

O turn your Hearts, accept the Word,

Your souls are fit for Heaven.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Dear Jesus we now turn to Thee,

Salvation to obtain;

Our Hearts and Souls do meet again,

To magnify thy Name.

Come holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove,

The Object of our Care;

Salvation doth increase our Love;

Our Hearts hath felt thy fear.

Now Glory be to God on High,

Salvation high and low;

And thus the Soul on Christ rely,

To Heaven surely go.

Come Blessed Jesus, Heavenly Dove,

Accept Repentance here;

Salvation give, with tender Love;

Let us with Angels share. Finis.



HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL WASHINGTON
by Phillis Wheatley

Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia s scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!

The goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.
Muse! how propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates,
As when Eolus heaven's fair face deforms,
Enwrapp'd in tempest and a night of storms;
Astonish'd ocean feels the wild uproar,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SA.

The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;
Or thick as leaves in Autumn's golden reign,
Such, and so many, moves the warrior's train.
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I go to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honours, we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam'd for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian and implore!

One century scarce performed its destined round,
When Gallic powers Columbia s fury found;
And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
The land of freedom's heaven defended race!
Fir'd are the eyes of nations on the scales,
For in their hopes Columbia's arm prevails.
Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
While round increase the rising hills of dead.
Ah! cruel blindness to Columbia's state!
Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.

Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev'ry action let the goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, Washington! be thine.



ON IMAGINATION
by Phillis Wheatley



Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,

How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by theel

Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,

And all attest how potent is thine hand.

From Helicons refulgent heights attend
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.



8 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode?
Th* empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.

Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flowYy riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honors round,
Aiid all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:
Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sovereign ruler thou:
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high;
From Tithons bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes,
While a pure stream of light overflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A.

But I reluctant leave the pleasing views.
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea.
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.



ON LIBERTY AND SLAVERY 1
by George Moses Horton

Alas! and am I born for this,

To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,

Through hardship, toil and pain!

How long have I in bondage lain,

And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain

Deprived of liberty.

Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief

This side the silent grave-
To soothe the pain to quell the grief

And anguish of a slave?

Come, Liberty, thou cheerful sound,

Roll through my ravished ears!
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,

And drive away my fears.

Say unto foul oppression, Cease:

Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,

Now bid the vassal soar.

^rom Poems of an Exile, by George M. Horton, copyright, 1931. Reprinted by
permission of the Bobbs-Merrill Company,



TO THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,

And breathed her notes from Afric's grove,
The sound of Liberty.

Oh, Liberty! thou golden prize,

So often sought by blood
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,

The gift of nature's God!

Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,

And barbarism fly:
I scorn to see the sad disgrace

In which enslaved I lie.

Dear Liberty! upon thy breast,

I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,

Td to thy smiles retire.

Oh, blest asylum heavenly balm!

Unto thy boughs I flee
And in thy shades the storm shall calm,

With songs of Liberty!



THE SLAVE AUCTION
by Frances E. W. Harper



The sale began young girls were there,
Defenceless in their wretchedness,

Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.

And mothers stood with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;

Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants bartered them for gold.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. II

And woman, with her love and truth

For these in sable forms may dwell
Gaz'd on the husband of her youth,

With anguish none may paint or tell.

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,

The impress of their Maker's hand,
And frail and shrinking children, too,

Were gathered in that mournful band.

Ye who have laid your love to rest,

And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,

Whose lov'd are rudely torn away.

Ye may not know how desolate

Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight

Will press the life-drops from the heart.



LET THE LIGHT ENTER
by Frances E. W. Harper



"Light! more light! the shadows deepen

And my life is ebbing low,
Throw the windows widely open:

Light! more light! before I go.

"Softly let the balmy sunshine

Play around my dying bed,
E'er the dimly lighted valley

I with lonely feet must tread.

"Light! more light! for Death is weaving
Shadows 'round my waning sight,

And I fain would gaze upon him
Through a stream of earthly light."



12 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Not for greater gifts of genius;

Not for thoughts more grandly bright
All the dying poet whispers

Is a prayer for light, more light.

Heeds he not the gathered laurels,
Fading slowly from his sight;

All the poet's aspirations

Center in that prayer for light.

Gracious Saviour, when life's day-dreams
Melt and vanish from the sight,

May our dim and longing vision

Then be blessed with light, more light.



EPIGRAM 2

by Armand Lanusse

"Do you not wish to renounce the Devil?"
Asked a good priest of a woman of evil
Who had so many sins that every year
They cost her endless remorse and fear.
"I wish to renounce him forever," she said,
"But that I may lose every urge to be bad,
Before pure grace takes me in hand.
Shouldn't I show my daughter how to get a man?"'

L. H.



VERSE WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF MADEMOISELLE 8

by Pierre Dalcour

The evening star that in the vaulted skies
Sweetly sparkles, gently flashes,
To me is less lovely than a glance of your eyes
Beneath their brown lashes.

L. H.

^Translated by Langston Hughes.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 13



THE FEET OF JUDAS

by George Marion McClellan



Christ washed the feet of Judas!

The dark and evil passions of his soul,

His secret plot, and sordidness complete,

His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole,

And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!

Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him,

His bargain with the priest, and more than this,

In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim,

Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
And so ineffable his love 'twas meet,
That pity fill his great forgiving heart,
And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet,
Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!

And thus a girded servant, self -abased,

Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven

Was ever too great to wholly be effaced,

And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.

And so if we have ever felt the wrong
Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not,
What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long,
Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot:
Christ washed the feet of Judas.



U THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE WAY-SIDE WELL 4
by Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.

A Fancy halts my feet at the way-side well.

It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish.

It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile's end beckons me on.

It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile's

end keeps time with their tread?

It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile's end is food for my being.
I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it.
Ah, it is dry.
Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may

not know they are dry 'til you question their depths.
Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown.



THE TRAGEDY OF PETE 5
by Joseph N S. Cotter, Sr.

There was a man

Whose name was Pete,
And he was a buck

From his head to his feet.

He loved a dollar,

But hated a dime;
And so was poor

Nine-tenths of the time.

The Judge said "Pete,

What of your wife?"
And Pete replied

"She lost her life."

*' B From Caroling Dusk, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1927, by Harper &
Brothers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 15

"Pete/' said the Judge,

"Was it lost in a row?
Tell me quick,

And tell me how."

Pete straightened up

With a hie and a sigh,
Then looked the Judge

Full in the eye.

"O, Judge, my wife

Would never go
To a Sunday dance

Or a movie show.

"But I went, Judge,

Both day and night,
And came home broke

And also tight.

"The moon was up,

My purse was down,
And I was the bully

Of the bootleg town.

*1 was crooning a lilt

To corn and rye
For the loop in my legs

And the fight in my eye.

"I met my wife;

She was wearing a frown,
And catechising

Her Sunday gown.

"X> Pete, O Pete

She cried aloud,
'The Devil is falling

Right out of a cloud/



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

"I looked straight up

And fell flat down
And a Ford machine

Pinned my head to the ground.

"The Ford moved on,
And my wife was in it;

And I was sober,
That very minute.

"For my head was bleeding,
My heart was a-flutter;

And the moonshine within me
Was tipping the gutter.

'The Ford, it faster

And faster sped
Till it dipped and swerved

And my wife was dead.

Two bruised men lay
In a hospital ward-
One seeking vengeance,
The other the Lord.

"He said to me:

*Your wife was drunk,

You are crazy,
And my Ford is junk/

*1 raised my knife

And drove it in
At the top of his head

And the point of his chin.

"O Judge, O Judge,
If the State has a chair,

Please bind me in it
And roast me there."



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 17

There was a man

Whose name was Pete,
And he welcomed death

From his head to his feet.



MISS MELERLEE

by John Wesley HoIIoway



Hello dar, Miss Melerlee!
Oh, you're pretty sight to see!
Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face,
An' billowy form chuck full o' grace
De sweetes* gal Ah evah see,
An' Ah wush dat you would marry me!

Hello, Miss Melerlee!

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee!
You're de berry gal fo' me!
Pearly teef , an' shinin' hair,
An* silky arm so plump an' bare!
Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes,
An' de way Ah love yougoodness knows!

Hello, Miss Melerlee!

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee!
Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be!
Ah nevah seed yo' face befo'
An' lakly won't again no mo';
But yo' sweet smile will follow me
Q'ar into eternity!

Farewell, Miss Melerlee!



18 THE POETRY OF THE NGRO



A LITANY AT ATLANTA 6

Done at Atlanta,

in the Day of Death, 1906
By William Edward Burghardt DuBois

O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left
our ears an-hungered in these fearful days
Hear us, good Lord!

Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a
mockery in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven,
O God crying:

We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human
men. When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed:
curse them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they
have done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home.

Have mercy upon us, miserable sirmers!

And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who
nursed them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and
debauched their mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and
sold their crime, and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity?

Thou knowest, good God!

Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence,
and the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?
Justice, O Judge of men!

Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have
not seers seen in Heaven's halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark
amidst the black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter
forms of endless dead?

Awake, Thou that sleepest!

"From Darkwater, by W. E. Burghardt DuBois, copyright, 1920, by Harcourt,
Brace and Company, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A, 19

Thou are not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru
blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle
men, of women strong and free far from the cozenage, black hypoc-
risy and chaste prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!

Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!

From lust of body and lust of blood
Great God, deliver us!

From lust of power and lust of gold,
Great God, deliver us!

From the leagued lying of despot and of brute,
Great God, deliver us!

A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin
Murder and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack and cry
of death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when
church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the
greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance!

Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!

In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our
ears and held our leaping hands, but they did they not wag their heads
and leer and cry with bloody jaws: Cease from Crime! The word was
mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.

Turn again our captivity, O Lord!

Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble
black man who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid
him. They told him: Work and Rise. He worked. Did this man sin?
Nay, but some one told how some one said another did one whom he
had never seen nor known. Yet for that man's crime this man lieth
maimed and murdered, his wife naked to shame, his children, to
poverty and evil.

Hear us, O Heavenly Father!



Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long
shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and



20 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

pound in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-
crazed brutes who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh,
and burn it in hell forever and forever!

Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!

Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a
mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts
of Thy Throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God,
by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers,
by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth this? Tell
us the Plan; give us the Sign!

Keep not Thou silence, O God!

Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our
dumb suffering. Surely, Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, blood-
less, heartless thing?

Ah! Christ of dl the Pities!

Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou
art still the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul's soul sit some
soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.

But whisper speak call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror
to our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path.

Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and
without the liar. Whither? To death?

Amen! Welcome dark sleep!

Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup
pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clam-
oring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet
shudder lest we must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful
shape.

Selah!

In yonder East trembles a star.

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!

Thy will, O Lord, be done!
Kyrie Eleison!



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 21

Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words.
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and

little children.
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

Our voices sink in silence and in night.
Hear us, good Lord!

In night, O God of a godless landl
Amen!

In silence, O Silent God.
Selahl



PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
by James David Corrothers

He came, a youth, singing in the dawn
Of a new freedom, glowing o'er his lyre,
Refining, as with great Apollo's fire,
His people's gift of song. And thereupon,

This Negro singer, come to Helicon,

Constrained the masters, listening to admire,
And roused a race to wonder and aspire,
Gazing which way their honest voice was gone,

With ebon face uplit of glory's crest.

Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet,
Who brought the cabin's mirth, the tuneful night,

But faced the morning, beautiful with light .
To die while shadows yet fell toward the wast,
And leave his laurels at his people's feet.

Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now;
None rises, singing, from your race like you.
Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew
Fell early on the bays upon your brow,



22 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And tinged with pathos every halcyon vow
And brave endeavor. Silence o'er you threw
Flowerets of love* Or, if an envious few
Of your own people brought no garlands, how

Could malice smite him whom the gods had crowned?
If, like the meadow-lark, your flight was low,
Your flooded lyrics half the hilltops drowned;

A wide world heard you, and it loved you so,
It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang,
And o'er your happy songs its plaudits rang.



AN INDIGNATION DINNER 7
by James David Corrothers

Dey was hard times jes fo' Christmas round our neighborhood one year;
So we held a secret meetin', whah de white folks couldn't hear,
To 'scuss de situation, an' to see what could be done
Towa'd a fust-class Christmas dinneh an* a little Christmas fun.



Rufus Green, who called de meetin', ris an' said: "In dis here town,
An' throughout de land, de white folks is a'tryin' to keep us down/*
S' 'e: "Dey bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey 'buse us 'ca'se we's free;
But when dey tetch my stomach, dey's done gone too fur foh me!

"Is I right?" "You sho is, Rufus!" roared a dozen hungry throats.
"Ef you'd keep a mule a-wo'kin', don't you tamper wid his oats.
Dat's sense," continued Rufus. "But dese white folks nowadays
Has done got so close and stingy you can't live on what dey pays.

"Here 'tis Christmas-time, an', folkses, I's indignant 'nough to choke.
Whah's our Christmas dinneh comin' when we's mos' completely broke?
I can't hahdly 'fo'd a toothpick an' a glass o' water. Mad?
Say, I'm desp'ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!"

7 From Century Magazine, copyright, 1915, by the Century Company. Reprinted
by permission of Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 23

Well, dey Abused de white folks scan'lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris,
Leanin* on his cane to s'pote him, on account his rheumatis',
An* s* *e: "Chillun, whut's dat wintry wind a-sighin* th'ough de street
'Bout yo* wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus' eat

"Now, I seed a beau'ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun's fahm.
He*s a-growin* fat an' sassy, an* a~struttin* to a chahm.
Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters all de craps is fine dis year;
All we needs is a committee f oh to tote de goodies here."

Well, we lit right in an* voted dat it was a gran' idee,

An* de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin' miles to see;

An* we eat a full an' plenty, big an' little, great an' small,

Not beca*se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat's alL



O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS 8
by James Weldon Johnson

O black and unknown bards of long ago,
How came your lips to touch the sacred fire?
How, in your darkness, did you come to know
The power and beauty of the minstrels* lyre?
Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes?
Who first from out the still watch, lone and long.
Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise
Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song?

Heart of what slave poured out such melody

As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains

His spirit must have nightly floated free,

Though still about his hands he felt his chains.

Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye

Saw chariot "swing low'*? And who was he

That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh,

"Nobody knows de trouble I see"?

8 From St. Peter Relates an Incident, by James Weldon Johnson, oopyfi^lsA, 1917,
1921, and 1935, by James Weldon Johnson. Reprinted by permission af Xhe Viking
Press, Inc., New York.



24 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

What merely living clod, what captive thing,
Could up toward God through all its darkness grope,
And find within its deadened heart to sing
These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope?
How did it catch that subtle undertone,
That note in music heard not with the ears?
How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown,
Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears.

Not that great German master in his dream

Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars

At the creation, ever heard a theme

Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars

How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir

The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung

Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were

That helped make history when Time was young.

There is a wide, wide wonder in it all,

That from degraded rest and servile toil

The fiery spirit of the seer should call

These simple children of the sun and soil.

O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed,

You-you alone, of all the long, long line

Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed,

Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine.

You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings;
No chant of bloody war, no exulting paean
No arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings
You touched in chord with music empyrean.
You sang far better than you knew; the songs
That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed
Still live but more than this to you belongs:
You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 25



FIFTY YEARS 9

1863-1913
by James Weldon Johnson



On the Fiftieth Anniversary

of the Signing

of the Emancipation Proclamation

O brothers mine, today we stand
Where half a century sweeps our ken,

Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand.
Struck off our bonds and made us men.

Just fifty years a winter's day

As runs the history of a race;
Yet, as we look back o'er the way,

How distant seems our starting place!

Look farther back! Three centuries!

To where a naked, shivering score,
Snatched from their haunts across the seas.

Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.



For never let the thought arise

That we are here on sufferance bare;
Outcasts, asylumed 'neath these skies,

And aliens without part or share.

This land is ours by right of birth.

This land is ours by right of toil;
We helped to turn its virgin earth,

Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.

9 From St. Peter Relates an Incident, by James Weldon Johnson, copyright, 1917,
1921, and 1935, by James Weldon Johnson. Reprinted by permission of The Viking
Press, Inc., New York.



26 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Where once the tangled forest stood

Where flourished once rank weed and thorn-
Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood,
The cotton white, the yellow corn.

To gain these fruits that have been earned,
To hold these fields that have been won,

Our arms have strained, our backs have burned,
Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.

That Banner which is now the type

Of victory on field and flood-
Remember, its first crimson stripe

Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood.

And never yet has come the cry-
When that fair flag has been assailed

For men to do, for men to die,
That we have faltered or have failed.

We've helped to bear it, rent and torn,
Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze

Held in our hands, it has been borne
And planted far across the seas.

And never yet O haughty Land,
Let us, at least, for this be praised

Has one black, treason-guided hand
Ever against that flag been raised.

Then should we speak but servile words,
Or shall we hang our heads in shame?

Stand back of new-come foreign hordes,
And fear our heritage to claim?

No! stand erect and without fear,

And for our foes let this suffice
We've bought a rightful sonship here,

And we have more than paid the price.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 27



And yet, my brothers, well I know
The tethered f eet, the pinioned wings,

The spirit bowed beneath the blow,
The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;

The staggering force of brutish might,
That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed;

The long, vain waiting through the night
To hear some voice for justice raised.

Full well I know the hour when hope
Sinks dead, and round us everywhere

Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope
With hands uplifted in despair.

Courage! Look out, beyond, and see

The far horizon's beckoning span!
Faith in your God-known destiny!

We are a part of some great plan.

Because the tongues of Garrison
And Phillips now are cold in death,

Think you their work can be undone?
Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?

Think you that John Brown's spirit stops?

That Lovejoy was but idly slain?
Or do you think those precious drops

From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?

That for which millions prayed and sighed,
That for which tens of thousands fought,

For which so many freely died,
God cannot let it come to naught.



28 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE CREATION 10

by James Weldon Johnson

And God stepped out on space,
And he looked around and said:
I'm lonely-
Ill make me a world.

And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,

And the light broke,

And the darkness rolled up on one side,

And the light stood shining on the other,

And God said: That's good!

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands,

And God rolled the light around in His hands

Until He made the sun;

And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.

And the light that was left from making the sun

God gathered up in a shining ball

And flung against the darkness,

Spangling the night with the moon and stars.

Then down between

The darkness and the light

He hurled the world;

And God said: That's good!

*

Then God himself stepped down
And the sun was on His right hand,
And the moon was on His left;
The stars were clustered about His head,

"From God's Trombones, by James Weldon Johnson; copyright, 1927, by The
Viking Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of The Viking Press, Inc., New York.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 29

And the earth was under His feet.
And God walked, and where He trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And He spat out the seven seas-
He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed
He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,

And the little red flowers blossomed,

The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,

And the oak spread out his arms,

The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground 3

And the rivers ran down to the sea;

And God smiled again,

And the rainbow appeared,

And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand

Over the sea and over the land,

And He said: Bring forth! Bring forth!

And quicker than God could drop His hand,

Fishes and fowls

And beasts and birds

Swam the rivers and the seas,

Roamed the forests and the woods,

And split the air with their wings.

And God said: That's good!

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that He had made.
He looked on His world



30 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

With all its living things,
And God said: I'm lonely still.

Then God sat down-
On the side of a hill where He could think;
By a deep, wide river He sat down;
With His head in His hands,
God thought and thought,
Till He thought: I'll make me a man!

Up from the bed of the river

God scooped the clay;

And by the bank of the river

He kneeled Him down;

And there the great God Almighty

Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,

Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,

Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;

This Great God,

Like a mammy bending over her baby,

Kneeled down in the dust

Toiling over a lump of clay

Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen. Amen.



THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE 11
by James Weldon Johnson

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of Morning blushing in the early skies.

^From St. Peter Relates an Incident, by James Weldon Johnson, copyright, 1917,
1921, and 1935, by James Weldon Johnson. Reprinted by permission of The Viking
Press, Inc., New York.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 31

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet, melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight
Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.



SENCE YOU WENT AWAY 12
by James Weldon Johnson

Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright,
Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light,
Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right,
Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue,
Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you,
Seems lak to me I don't know what to do,
Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong,
Seems lak to me de day's jes twice as long,
Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song,
Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh,
Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry,
Seems lak to me a tear stays in my eye,
Sence you went away.

"From S*. Peter Relates an Incident, by James Weldon Johnson, copyright, 1917,
1921, and 1935, by James Weldon Johnson. Reprinted by permission of The Viking
Press, Inc., New York.



'32 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



MY CITY 13

by James Weldon Johnson

When I come down to sleep death's endless night,
The threshold of the unknown dark to cross,
What to me then will be the keenest loss,
When this bright world blurs on my fading sight?
Will it be that no more I shall see the trees
Or smell the flowers or hear the singing birds
Or watch the flashing streams or patient herds?
No, I am sure it will be none of these.

But, ah! Manhattan's sights and sounds, her smells,

Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comes

From being of her a part, her subtle spells,

Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums

O God! the stark, unutterable pity,

To be dead, and never again behold my cityl



LIFT EVERY VOICE AND SING 14
by James Weldon Johnson

Lift every voice and sing

Till earth and heaven ring,

Hing with the harmonies of Liberty;

Let our rejoicing rise

High as the listening skies,

Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,

Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun

Let us march on till victory is won.



t. Peter Relates an Incident, by James Weldon Johnson, copyright, 1917,
1921, and 1935, by James Weldon Johnson. Reprinted by permission of The Viking
Press, Inc., New York.

"Copyright, Edward B. Marks Music Corporation. Used by permission.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S,A. 33

Stony the road we trod,

Bitter the chastening rod,

Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;

Yet with a steady beat,

Have not our weary feet

Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,

We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,

Out from the gloomy past,

Till now we stand at last

Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,

God of our silent tears,

Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;

Thou who has by Thy might

Led us into the light,

Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,

Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;

Shadowed beneath Thy hand,

May we forever stand.

True to our God,

True to our native land.



SYMPATHY 15

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals

I know what the caged bird feels!

"From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright, 189$, 1899,
1905, 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.



34 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings

I know why the caged bird sings!



DAWN 16

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

An angel, robed in spotless white,
Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night.
Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone.
Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.



A NEGRO LOVE SONG 17
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Seen my lady home las' night,

Jump back, honey, jump back.
He!' huh ban' an' sque'z it tight,

Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f om huh eye,

M ' 17 From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright, 1896 1899
1905, 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.5.A. 35

An' a smile go flittin' by
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win* blow thoo de pine.

Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockingbird was singin' fine,

Jump back, honey, jump back.
An' my hea't was beatin' so,
When I reached my lady's do*,
Dat I couldn't ba' to go

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun* huh wais',

Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an' took a tase,

Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An' she answe'd, " 'Cose I do"

Jump back, honey, jump back.



WHEN MAUNDY SINGS 18
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy

Put dat music book away;
What's de use to keep on tryin'?

Ef you practise twell you're gray,
You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'

Lak de ones dat rants and rings
F'om de kitchen to de big woods

When Malindy sings.

You ain't got de nachel o'gans
Fu' to make de soun' come right,

You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's
Fu' to make it sweet an' light.

"From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright, 1896, 1899,
1905, 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,

An* I'm tellin' you fu' true,
When hit comes to raal right singing

T ain't no easy thing to do.

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,

Lookin' at de lines an' dots,
When dey ain't no one kin sence it,

An' de chune comes in, in spots;
But fu' real melojous music,

Dat jes* strikes yo' hea't and clings,
Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me

When Malindy sings.

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?

Blessed soul, tek up de cross!
Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?

Well, you don't know whut you los'.
Y ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',

Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,
Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces

When Malindy sings.

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddling

Lay his fiddle on de she'f ;
Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle,

'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.
Folks a-playin' on de banjo

Draps dey fingahs on de strings
Bless yo' soul fu'gits to move em,

When Malindy sings.

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,

"Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah
Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices,

Timid-lak a-drawin' neah;
Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"

Simply to de cross she clings,
An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'

When Malindy sings.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 37

Who dat says dat humble praises

Wif de Master nevah counts?
Heish yo* mouf, I hyeah dat music,

Ez hit rises up an' mounts
Floatin' by de hills an* valleys,

Way above dis buryin* sod,
Ez hit makes its way in glory

To de very, gates of God!

Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music

Of an edicated band;
An' hit's dearah dan de battle's

Song o' triumph in de Ian*.
It seems holier dan evenin'

When de solemn chu'ch bell rings,
Ez I sit an* ca'mly listen

While Malindy sings.

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin*, hyeah me!

Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;
Don't you hyeah de echoes callin'

F'om de valley to de hill?
Let me listen, I can hyeah it,

Th'oo de bresh of angels' wings,
Sof an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"

Ez Malindy sings.



LITTLE BROWN BABY 19
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes,
Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee.

What you been doin', suh makin' san* pies?
Look at dat bib you's ez du'ty ez me.

"From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright, 1896, 1899,
1905, 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.



38 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Look at dat mouf dat's merlasses, I bet;

Come hyeah, Maria, an* wipe off his ban's.
Bees gwine to ketch you an* eat you up yit,

Bern' so sticky an' sweet goodness lan's!

Little brown baby wif spa'klin* eyes,

Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile?
Who is it all de day nevah once tries

Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile?
Whah did you git dem teef? My, you's a scamp!

Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin?
Pappy do' know youI b'lieves you's a tramp;

Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol* straggler got inl

Let's th'ow him outen de do* in de san',

We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah*
Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man;

I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah.
Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do*,

Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat,
Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo',

Swaller him down fom his haid to his feet!

Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up close.

Go back, oY buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy.
He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se;

He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an' joy.
Come to you' pallet now go to yo' res';

Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies;
Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'

Little brown baby wif spa'klin* eyesl



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL 39



A DEATH SONG 20

by Paul Laurence Dunbar



Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass >
Whah de branch '11 go a-singin' as it pass.

An' w'en I's a-layin' low,

I kin hyeah it as it go
Singin*, "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'/'

Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool,
An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool,

Whah de little birds in spring,

Ust to come an' drink an' sing,
An' de chillen waded on dey way to school.

Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load
Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road;

Fu' I fink de las' long res*

Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes'
Ef I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's allus knowed.



ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES 21
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought
The magic gold which from the seeker flies;

Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,
And make the waking world a world of lies,

Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,
That say life's full of aches and tears and sighs,

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

^From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright, 1896, 1899,
1905, 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

How all the griefs and heartaches we have known
Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise

From some base witch's caldron, when the crone,
To work some potent spell, her magic plies.

The past which held its share of bitter pain,
Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,

Comes up, is lived and suffered o'er again,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;
What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise

Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.
What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,

And pangs of vague inexplicable pain
That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,

Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?
Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies

Tends her far course to lands of mystery?
To lands unspeakable beyond surmise,

Where shapes unknowable to being spring,
Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies

Much wearied with the spirit's journeying,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

How questioneth the soul that other soul,
The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,

But self exposes unto self, a scroll
Full writ with all life's acts unwise or wise,

In characters indelible and known;
So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,

The soul doth view its awful self alone,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 41

When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,

The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,
And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize

For kissing all our passions into calm,
Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world's cries,

Or seek to probe th' eternal mystery,
Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,

At glooms through which our visions cannot see,
When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.



COMPENSATION 22

by Paul Laurence Dunbar



Because I had loved so deeply,
Because I had loved so long,

God in His great compassion
Gave me the gift of song.

Because I have loved so vainly,
And sung with such faltering breath,

The Master, in infinite mercy,
Offers the boon of death.



SONNET

by Alice Dunbar Nelson

I had no thought of violets of late,

The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet

In wistful April days, when lovers mate

And wander through the fields in raptures sweet

The thought of violets meant florists* shops,

And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;

And garish lights, and mincing little fops

And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.

^From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright, 1896, 1899,
1905, 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.



42 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And nowunwittingly, you've made me dream
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.



THE HOUSE OF FALLING LEAVES
by William Stanley Braithwaite

The House of Falling Leaves we entered in

He and I we entered in and found it fair;

At midnight some one called him up the stair,

And closed him in the Room I could not win.

Now must I go alone out in the din

Of hurrying days: for forth he cannot fare;

I must go on with Time, and leave him there

In Autumn's house where dreams will soon grow thin.

When Time shall close the door unto the house
And open that of Winter's soon to be,
And dreams go moving through the ruined boughs-
He who went in comes out a Memory.
From his deep sleep no sound may e'er arouse,
The moaning rain, nor wind-embattled sea.



THE WATCHERS 23

by William Stanley Braithwaite

Two women on the lone wet strand
(The wind's out with a will to roam]

The waves wage war on rocks and sand,
(And a ship is long due home.)

^rom Selected Poems, by William Stanley Braithwaite, Coward-McCann, Inc.,
publishers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 43



The sea sprays in the women's eyes

(Hearts can writhe like the seas wild foam)
Lower descend the tempestuous skies,
* ( For the winds out with a will to roam. )

**O daughter, thine eyes be better than mine,"
(The waves ascend high as yonder dome)

"North or south is there never a sign?"
( And a ship is long due home. )

They watched there all the long night through-
( The winds out with a will to roam )

Wind and rain and sorrow for two,
(And heaven on the long reach home.)



WHITE MAGIC: AN ODE

by William Stanley Braithwaite



Read at the Centenary Celebration

of the Birth of John Greenleaf Whittier

at Faneuil Hall, December 17, 1907

White magic of the silences of snow!
Over the Northern fields and hills, the moon
Spreads her veil o'er the wizardry below;
Amongst the ruined tree-tops is a croon
Of the long-vanished populace of Spring;

There is a glory here

Where the lone farmhouse windows, glimmering
Across the snow-fields, warm the chilly air.
Peace is upon the valley like a dream

By Merrimac's swift stream,
Where his pure presence made the earth so fair.

Time cannot tarnish the glory of the hills:
Tides cannot wear the immaterial winds
To outworn voids where no loud echo fills
The long beach-comber which the sea unbinds;



44 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The moon shall light the sun ere these things be;

But sooner our glad hearts
Know not darkness from sunlight on the sea
Ere from the lips of Memory departs
Thought or speech unpraiseful of Whittier's life,

White magic of song and strife-
Strife for the right Song for a sake not art's.

In the rough farmhouse of his lowly birth
The spirit of poetry fired his youthful years;
No palace was more radiant on earth,
Than the rude home where simple joys and tears
Filled the boy's soul with the human chronicle

Of lives that touched the soil.
He heard about him voices and he fell
To dreams, of the dim past, 'midst his daily toil;
Romance and legend claimed his Muse's voice

Till the heroic choice
Of duty led him to the battle's broil.

Song then became a trumpet-blast; he smote
The arrogance of evil in the State;
The indignation of his music wrote
A flaming wrath in councils of debate.
Twas passion for the justice of God's word-
Man's common heritage
Fulfilled in the high name of Brotherhood.
The oracle and prophet of his age,
He led men doubtful between wrong and right

Through Song to see the light,
And smite the evil power with their rage.

He helped to seal the doom. His hope was peace
With the great and attained. Beyond his will
Fate shaped his aims to awful destinies
Of vengeful justice now valley and hill
Groaned with the roar of onset; near and far

The terrible, sad cries
Of slaughtered men pierced into sun and star;



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 45

Beyond his will the violence but the prize
Of Freedom, blood had purchased^ won to God

His praise that all men trod
Erect, and clothed in Freedom, 'neath the skies.

Let thanks be ours for this great passion in him;
And praise be our remembrance of his trust;
Blessings that no compromise could win him,
Like Ichabod, to soil his glory in the dust. '
Let ours be, too, his spirit of forgiving:

We can but master fate
By the sure knowledge of our brother's living-
Won by matching his virtues, not his hate.
Let the white radiance of his Inward Light

Be to us, step and sight
Up the steep road of life to Heaven's gate.



THE ARSENAL OF THE LORD 24
by William Stanley Braithwaite

Against this wrong of the Teutonic might
From lease-lend stores we give the Nations aid
Who stand embattled, but are unafraid;
Our wealth and labor visioned to a height
Undreamed of, bulwarked are for Freedom's right.
Thus making planes, munitions, it is said
We are the arsenalby hopes repaid
Of Democracies, to sustain their fight.
But this is not enough. O my dear Land!
Engirt your Spirit with the dreams of those
Who cleared the Wilderness with Cross in hand.
To Britain, China, Russia, and their foes
Be bounteous with the Faith within you stored,
And stand for all, Arsenal of the Lord!

w From Selected Poems, by William Stanley Braithwaite, Coward-McCann, Inc,
publishers.



46 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE TEACHER

by Leslie Pinckney Hill



Lord, who am I to teach the way
To little children day by day,
So prone myself to go astray?

I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know
How faint they flicker and how low
The candles of my knowledge glow.

I teach them POWER to will and do,

But only now to learn anew

My own great weakness through and through.

I teach them LOVE for all mankind
And all God's creatures, but I find
My love comes lagging far behind.

Lord, if their guide I still must be,

Oh, let the little children see

The teacher leaning hard on Thee.



TUSKEGEE

by Leslie Pinckney Hill



Wherefore this busy labor without rest?

Is it an idle dream to which we cling,

Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing

Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best.

By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed."

So the great engines throb, and anvils ring,

And so the thought is wedded to the thing;

But what shall be the end, and what the test?



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 47

Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see
Not many steps ahead, but this we know
If all our toilsome building is in vain,
Availing not to set our manhood free,
If envious hate roots out the seed we sow,
The South will wear eternally a stain.



A WINTER TWILIGHT
by Angelina W. Grimke



A silence slipping around like death,

Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;

One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,

Inking their crest 'gainst a sky green-gold;

One path that knows where the corn flowers were;

Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;

And over it softly leaning down,

One star that I loved ere the fields went brown



FOR THE CANDLE LIGHT
by Angelina W. Grimke



The sky was blue, so blue, that day,

And each daisy white, so white;

Oh! I knew that no more could rains fall gray,

And night again be night.

I knew! I knew! Well, if night is night,
And the gray skies grayly cry,
I have in a book, for the candle light,
A daisy, dead and dry.



48 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



WHEN THE GREEN LIES OVER THE EARTH
by Angelina W. Grimke

When the green lies over the earth, my dear,

A mantle of witching grace,

When the smile and the tear of the young child year

Dimple across its face,

And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet

With the breath of growing things,

When the wooing bird lights on restless feet

And chirrups and trills and sings

To his lady-love

In the green above,

Then oh! my dear, when the youth's in the year,
Yours is the face that I long to have near,

Yours is the face, my dear.

But the green is hiding your curls, my dear,

Your curls so shining and sweet;

And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year

Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet,

And the little birds just above your head

With their voices hushed, my dear,

For you have sung and have prayed and have pled

This many, many a year.

And the blossoms fall,

On the garden wall,
And drift like snow on the green below.

But the sharp thorn grows

On the budding rose,

And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow,
For oh! my dear, when the youth's in the year,
Yours is the face that I long to have near,
Yours is the face, my dear.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 49



TENEBRIS

by Angelina W. Grimke



There is a tree, by day,

That, at night,

Has a shadow,

A hand huge and black,

With fingers long and black.

All through the dark,
Against the white man's house,

In the little wind,
The black hand plucks and plucks

At the bricks.
The bricks are the color of blood and very small.

Is it a black hand,

Or is it a shadow?



THE BLACK FINGER
by Angelina W. Grimke



I have just seen a beautiful thing

Slim and still,
Against a gold, gold sky,

A straight cypress,

Sensitive *

Exquisite,
A black finger
Pointing upwards.

Why, beautiful, still finger are you black?
And why are you pointing upwards?



50 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

MY HERO

To Robert Gould Shaw
by Benjamin Brawley



Flushed with the hope of high desire,

He buckled on his sword,
To dare the rampart ranged with fire,

Or where the thunder roared;
Into the smoke and flame he went,

For God's great cause to die
A youth of heaven's element,

The flower of chivalry.

This was the gallant faith, I trow,

Of which the sages tell;
On such devotion long ago

The benediction fell;
And never nobler martyr burned,

Or braver hero died,
Than he who worldly honor spurned

To serve the Crucified.

And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere

May pass beyond the pale,
And wander over moor and mere

To find the Holy Grail;
But ever yet the prize forsooth

My hero holds in fee*
And he is Blameless Knight in truth,

And Galahad to me.



LIFE-LONG, POOR BROWNING
by Anne Spencer



Life-long, poor Browning never knew Virginia,
Or he'd not grieved in Florence for April sallies
Back to English gardens after Euclid's linear:
Clipt yews, Pomander Walks, and pleached alleys;



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 51

Primroses, prim indeed, in quiet ordered hedges,
Waterways, soberly, sedately enchanneled,
No thin riotous blade even among the sedges,
All the wild country-side tamely impaneled . . .

Dead, now, dear Browning, lives on in heaven,
(Heaven's Virginia when the year's at its Spring)
He's haunting the byways of wine-aired leaven
And throating the notes of the wildings on wing;

Here canopied reaches of dogwood and hazel,

Beech tree and redbud fine-laced in vines,

Fleet clapping rills by lush fern and basil,

Drain blue hills to lowlands scented with pines . . .

Think you he meets in this tender green sweetness
Shade that was Elizabeth . . . immortal completeness!



LETTER TO MY SISTER
by Anne Spencer



It is dangerous for a woman to defy the gods;
To taunt them with the tongue's thin tip,
Or strut in the weakness of mere humanity,
Or draw a line daring them to cross;
The gods own the searing lightning,
The drowning waters, tormenting fears
And anger of red sins.

Oh, but worse still if you mince timidly

Dodge this way or that, or kneel or pray,

Be kind, or sweat agony drops

Or lay your quick body over your feeble young;

If you have beauty or none, if celibate

Or vowed the gods are Juggernaut,

Passing over . . . over . . .



52 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

This you may do:

Lock your heart, then, quietly,

And lest they peer within,

Light no lamp when dark comes down

Raise no shade for sun;

Breathless must your breath come through

If you'd die and dare deny

The gods their god-like fun.



AT THE CARNIVAL
by Anne Spencer



Gay little Gkl-of-the-Diving-Tank,
I desire a name for you,
Nice, as a right glove fits;
For you who amid the malodorous
Mechanics of this unlovely thing,
Are darling of spirit and form.
I know you a glance, and what you are
Sits-by-the-fire in my heart.
My Limousine-Lady knows you, or
Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark
Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile?
Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.
The bull-necked man knows you this first time
His itching flesh sees from divine and vibrant health,
And thinks not of his avocation.
I came incuriously-
Set on no diversion save that my mind
Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds
In the presence of a blind crowd.
The color of life was gray.
Everywhere the setting seemed right
For my mood!



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJk. 53



Here the sausage and garlic booth.

Sent unholy incense skyward;

There a quivering female-thing

Gestured assignations, and lied

To call it dancing;

There, too, were games of chance

With chances for none;

But oh! the Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!

Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free

The gaze you send the crowd,

As though you know the dearth of beauty

In its sordid life.

We need you my Limousine-Lady,

The bull-necked man, and I.

Seeing you here brave and water-clean,

Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,

I am swift to feel that what makes

The plodder glad is good; and

Whatever is good is God.

The wonder is that you are here;

I have seen the queer in queer places,

But never before a heaven-fed

Naiad of the Carnival-Tank!

Little Diver, Destiny for you,

Like as for me, is shod in silence;

Years may seep into your soul

The bacilli of the usual and the expedient;

I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!



LINES TO A NASTURTIUM

A lover muses
by Anne Spencer



Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,

I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,

Into your flaming heart;
Then did I hear crisp crinkled laughter
As the furies after tore him apart?



54 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



A bird, next, small and humming,
Looked into your startled depths and fled. . . .
Surely, some dread sight, and dafter

Than human eyes as mine can see,
Set the stricken air waves drumming

In his flight.

Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty,

I cannot see, I cannot hear your fluty

Voice lure your loving swain,

But I know one other to whom you are in beauty

Born in vain;

Hair like the setting sun,

Her eyes a rising star,

Motions gracious as reeds by Babylon, bar

All your competing;

Hands like, how like, brown lilies sweet,

Cloth of gold were fair enough to touch her feet, .

Ah, how the senses flood at my repeating,

As once in her fire-lit heart I felt the furies

Beating, beating.



FOR JIM, EASTER EVE
by Anne Spencer



If ever a garden was Gethsemane,
with old tombs set high against
the crumpled olive tree and lichen,
this, my garden, has been to me.
For such as I none other is so sweet:
Lacking old tombs, here stands my grief,
and certainly its ancient tree.

Peace is here and in every season
a quiet beauty.
The sky falling about me
evenly to the compass . . .



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 55

What is sorrow but tenderness now

in this earth-close frame of land and sky

falling constantly into horizons

of east and west, north and south;

what is pain but happiness here

amid these green and wordless patterns,

indefinite texture of blade and leaf:

Beauty of an old, old tree,
last comfort in Gethsemane.



MORNING LIGHT

The Dew-Drier
by Effie Lee Newsome

In Africa little black boys,

"human brooms," are sent before the explorers

into jungle grasses that tower many feet

to tread down a path

and meet sometimes

the lurking leopard or hyena.

They are called Dew-Driers.

Brother to the firefly

For as the firefly lights the night,

So lights he the morning

Bathed in the dank dews as he goes forth

Through heavy menace and mystery

Of half -waking tropic dawn,

Behold a little black boy,

A naked black boy,

Sweeping aside with his slight frame

Night's pregnant tears,

And making a morning path to the light

For the tropic traveler!



56 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



ARCTIC TERN IN A MUSEUM
by Effie Lee Newsome



I see you in the silver
Of moons that shine in the morning,
Swung in an argent west,
Before dim autumn dawns.
I see your slim, long wings,
Stayed speed and boundless power
And miles and miles and miles,
From arctic to antarctic,
From antarctic to arctic
On through the leagueless skies.
And while you swing, still,
In the museum's habitat,
You bring the bleak heart of tundras.
Your pallid, still plumage
In silver and white
To me seems but one message-
One single symbol-
Flight.



LITTLE BIRCHES

by Effie Lee Newsome



The little birches haunt the hills
In silent, silver masses,
Their violet velvet shadow robes
Beside them on the grasses.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 57



THE HEART OF A WOMAN
by Georgia Douglas Johnson

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn,
As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,
Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam
In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.

The heart of a woman falls back with the night,
And enters some alien cage in its plight,
And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars,
While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.



YOUTH

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

The dew is on the grasses, dear,

The blush is on the rose,
And swift across our dial-youth,

A shifting shadow goes.

The primrose moments, lush with bliss,

Exhale and fade away,
Life may renew the Autumn time,

But nevermore the May!



REMEMBER

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

When love's brief dream is done
Pass on. Nor hope to see again
The burnished glow of yesterday
Gone with its setting sun.



58 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Know this, the little while of love
Is fleeting as a cloud,
As lissom as a zephyr's breath,
As fickle as a crowd.

Its gleaming rainbow flames the sky-
En thrallsthen fades from sight:
Love for a day, an hour and then-
Remember through the night.



THE SUPPLIANT

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

Long have I beat with timid hands upon lif e's leaden door,
Praying the patient, futile prayer my fathers prayed before,
Yet I remain without the close, unheeded and unheard,
And never to my listening ear is borne the waited word.

Soft o'er the threshold of the years there comes this counsel cool:
The strong demand, contend, prevail; the beggar is a fool!



OLD BLACK MEN

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

They have dreamed as young men dream

Of glory, love and power;

They have hoped as youth will hope

Of life's sun-minted hour.



They have seen as others saw
Their bubbles burst in air,
And they have learned to live it down
As though they did not care.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 59



INTERRACIAL

by Georgia Douglas Johnson



Let's build bridges here and there

Or sometimes, just a spiral stair

That we may come somewhat abreast

And sense what cannot be exprest,

And by these measures can be found

A meeting place a common ground

Nearer the reaches of the heart

Where truth revealed, stands clear, apart;

With understanding come to know

What laughing lips will never show:

How tears and torturing distress

May masquerade as happiness:

Then you will know when my heart's aching

And I when yours is slowly breaking.

Commune The altars will reveal . . .

We then shall be impulsed to kneel

And send a prayer upon its way

For those who wear the thorns today.

Oh, let's build bridges everywhere
And span the gulf of challenge there.



I CLOSED MY SHUTTERS FAST LAST NIGHT
by Georgia Douglas Johnson

I closed my shutters fast last night,

Reluctantly and slow,

So pleading was the purple sky

With all the lights hung low;

I left my lagging heart outside

Within the dark alone,

I heard it singing through the gloom

A wordless, anguished tone.



60 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Upon my sleepless couch I lay
Until the tranquil morn
Came through the silver silences
To bring my heart forlorn,
Restoring it with calm caress
Unto its sheltered bower.
While whispering: "Await, await
Your golden, perfect hour."



RECESSIONAL

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away;
Or yet a flower that has blown and shattered in a day;
For passion sleeps alas and keeps no vigil with the years
And wakens to no conjuring of orisons or tears.

Consider me a melody that served its simple turn,
Or but the residue of fire that settles in the urn,
For love defies pure reasoning and undeterred flows
Within, without, the vassal heart its reasoning who knows?



MY LITTLE DREAMS

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

I'm folding up my little dreams
Within my heart tonight,

And praying I may soon forget
The torture of their sight.

For time's deft fingers scroll my brow
With fell relentless art

I'm folding up my little dreams
Tonight, within my heart.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 61



RULERS

by Fenton Johnson

It is said that many a king in troubled Europe would sell his crown
for a day of happiness.

I have seen a monarch who held tightly the jewel of happiness*

On Lombard Street in Philadelphia, as evening dropped to earth, I
gazed upon a laborer duskier than a sky devoid of moon. He was
seated on a throne of flour bags, waving his hand imperiously as
two small boys played on their guitars the ragtime tunes of the day.

God's blessing on the monarch who rules on Lombard Street in Phil-
adelphia.



THE BANJO PLAYER
by Fenton Johnson

There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.

I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of
the cabin and the field. At the Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome
as the violets in March;

there is always food and drink for me there, and the dimes of those
who love honest music. Behind the railroad tracks the little chil-
dren clap their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.

But I fear that I am a failure.

Last night a woman called me a troubadour.
What is a troubadour?



THE SCARLET WOMAN
by Fenton Johnson

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.
My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died
two days after his insurance expired.



62 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

I had nothing, so I had to go to work.

All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that en-
chanted the men of both races.

Starvation danced with me.

So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with
tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I
bowed my head to Vice.

Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.

Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.



TIRED

by Fenton Johnson

I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's civili-
zation.

Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane.
I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of

gin, shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night

on one of Mike's barrels.
You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn

to dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit.
You will spend your days forgetting you married me and ybur nights

hunting the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the

Last Chance Saloon.
Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many.

It is better to die than to grow up and find that you are colored.
Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars

marked my destiny.
I am tired of civilization.



AUNT JANE ALLEN
by Fenton Johnson

State Street is lonely today. Aunt Jane Allen has driven her chariot to
Heaven.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 63

I remember how she hobbled along, a little woman, parched of skin,

brown as the leather of a satchel and with eyes that had scanned

eighty years of life.
Have those who bore her dust to the last resting place buried with her

the basket of aprons she went up and down State Street trying to

sell?
Have those who bore her dust to the last resting place buried with her

the gentle worn Son that she gave to each of the seed of Ethiopia?



WHEN I DIE

by Fenton Johnson



When I die my song shall be
Crooning of the summer breeze;
When I die. my shroud shall be
Leaves plucked from the maple trees;
On a couch as green as moss
And a bed as soft as down,
I shall sleep and dream my dream
Of a poet's laurel crown.

When I die my star shall drop
Singing like a nightingale;
When I die my soul shall rise
Where the lyre-strings never fail;
In the rose my blood shall lie,
In the violet the smile,
And the moonbeams thousand strong
Past my grave each night shall file.



THE LONELY MOTHER
by Fenton Johnson



Oh, my mother's moaning by the river,
My poor mother's moaning by the river,
For her son who walks the earth in sorrow.



64 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Long my mother's moaned beside the river,
And her tears have filled an angel's pitcher:
"Lord of Heaven, bring to me my honey,
Bring to me the darling of my bosom,
For a lonely mother by the river."

Cease, O mother, moaning by the river;
Cease, good mother, moaning by the river.
I have seen the star of Michael shining,
Michael shining at the Gates of Morning.
Row, O mighty angel, down the twilight,
Row until I find a lonely woman,
Swaying long beneath a tree of cypress,
Swaying for her son who walks in sorrow.



WHO IS THAT A-WALK1NG IN THE CORN?
by Fenton Johnson



Who is that a-walking in the corn?
I have looked to East and looked to West
But nowhere could I find Him who walks
Master's cornfield in the morning.

Who is that a-walking in the corn?
Is it Joshua, the son of Nun?
Or King David come to fight the giant
Near the cornfield in the morning?

Who is that a-walking in the corn?
Is it Peter jangling Heaven's keys?
Or old Gabriel come to blow his horn
Near the cornfield in the morning?

Who is that a-walking in the corn?
I have looked to East and looked to West
But nowhere could I find Him who walks
Master's cornfield in the morning.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 65



ENIGMA

by Jessie Redmond Fausef



There is no peace with you,

Nor any rest!

Your presence is a torture to the brain.

Your words are barbed arrows to the breast,

And one but greets

To wish you sped again.

Frustrate you make desire

And action vain.

There is no peace with you . . .

No peace . . .

Nor any rest.

Yet in your absence

Longing springs anew,

And hopefulness besets the baffled brain.

"If only you were you and yet not you!"

If you such joy could give as you give pain!

Then what an unguent for the burning breast!

And for the harassed heart

What rapture true!

"If only you were you and yet not youl"

There is no peace with you

Nor ever any rest!



LA VIE C'EST LA VIE
by Jessie Redmond Fauset



On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park,
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees* bark.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take my place;
To see the love-light in your eyes,
The love-glow on your face!

And there's a man whose lightest word
Can set my chilly blood afire;
Fulfillment of his least behest
Defines my life's desire.

But he will none of me, nor I
Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said
The world is full of jests like these
I wish that I were dead.



DEAD FIRES

by Jessie Redmond Fauset

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,
Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.

Better the wound forever seeking balm
Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,

The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,

Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath
Than passion's death!



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL 67



OBLIVION

by Jessie Redmond Pause*

From the French of
Massillon Coicou (Haiti)

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie

In some deserted grave I cannot tell you why,

But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot,
Unknown to every one, by every one forgot.

There lying I should taste with my dead breath
The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death;

And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate,
The tribute paid by passers-by to tombs of state.

To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears
That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears;

There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless
Oblivion the shroud and envelope of happiness.



STATUS QUO
by Binga Dismond

Let Bourbons fight for status quo

And battle to maintain jim crow

A mere short span they can decide

With whom we eat; with whom we ride;

With whom we pass the hours by;

With whom we inarch; with whom we die.

But they stay not time's endless rust

When they and we will end in dust,

And all in final chemistry

Become as one immutably

And shall remain a status quo

Without a vestige of jim crow.



68 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

AT EARLY MORN
by Binga Dismond



From the French
of Catulle Mendes

At early morn the telephone;

She asked that I should come alone.

I obeyed.

An hour came and passed along;
She asked if I would play a song?

I played.

When shadows slowly came at eve,

She trembling, asked that I should leave.

I stayed.



SONG OF THE SON 25
by Jean Toomer

Pour O pour that parting soul in song,
O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,
Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,
And let the valley carry it along.
And let the valley carry it along.

O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,
So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,
Now just before an epoch's sun declines
Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,
Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.

^rom Cane, by Jean Toomer. Reprinted by permission of Liveright Publishing
Corp.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A.

In time, for though the sun is setting on

A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;

Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet

To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,

Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.

O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,
Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,
Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare
One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes
An everlasting song, a singing tree,
Caroling softly souls of slavery,
What they were, and what they are to me,
Caroling softly souls of slavery.



BEEHIVE 26

by Jean Toomer

Within this black hive to-night

There swarm a million bees;

Bees passing in and out the moon,

Bees escaping out the moon,

Bees returning through the moon,

Silver bees intently buzzing,

Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees

Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb,

And I, a drone,

Lying on my back,

Lipping honey,

Getting drunk with silver honey,

Wish that I might fly out past the moon

And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower.

^From Cane, by Jean Toomer. Reprinted by permission of Liveright Publishing
Corp.



70 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



EVENING SONG 27
by Jean Taomcr

Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,

Lakes and moon and fires,

Cloine tires,

Holding her lips apart.

Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon,

Miracle made vesper-keeps,

Cloine sleeps,

And IH be sleeping soon.

Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters where the moon-waves start,

Radiant, resplendently she gleams,

Cloine dreams,

Lips pressed against my heart.



GEORGIA DUSK 28
by Jean Toomer

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,

Passively darkens for night's barbecue,

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,

An orgy for some genius of the South

With blood-shot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.

The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,
And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,



Cane, by Jean Toomer. Reprinted by permission of Liveright Publishing
Corp.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.5.A. 71

Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
Their early promise of a bumper crop.

Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile
Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low
Where only chips and stumps are left to show

The solid proof of former domicile.

Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,

Race memories of king and caravan,

High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.

Their voices rise . . . the pine trees are guitars,
Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain . . .
Their voices rise . . . the chorus of the cane

Is caroling a vesper to the stars . . .

O singers, resinous and soft your songs

Above the sacred whisper of the pines,

Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.



SUPPLICATION

by Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.



I am so tired and weary,
So tired of the endless fight,

So weary of waiting the dawn
And finding endless night.

That I ask but rest and quiet
Rest for the days that are gone,

And quiet for the little space
That I must journey on.



72 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY?
by Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.



Brother, come!

And let us go unto our God.

And when we stand before Him

I shall say

"Lord, I do not hate,

I am hated.

I scourge no one,

I am scourged,

I covet no lands,

My lands are coveted.

I mock no peoples,

My people are mocked."

And, brother, what shall you say?



DARK SYMPHONY
by Melvm B. Tolson

I Allegro Moderate



Black Crispus Attucks taught

Us how to die

Before white Patrick Henry's bugle breath
Uttered the vertical

Transmitting cry:
"Yea, give me liberty or give me death."

Waifs of the auction block,

Men black and strong
The juggernauts of despotism withstood,
Loin-girt with faith that worms

Equate the wrong
And dust is purged to create brotherhood.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 73

No Banquets ghost can rise

Against us now,

Aver we hobnailed Man beneath the brute,
Squeezed down the thorns of greed

On Labor's brow,
Garroted lands and carted off the loot.



II Lento Grave



The centuries-old pathos in our voices
Saddens the great white world,
And the wizardry of our dusky rhythms
Conjures up shadow-shapes of ante-bellum years:

Black slaves singing One More River to Cross

In the torture tombs of slave-ships,

Black slaves singing Steal Away to Jesus

In jungle swamps,

Black slaves singing The Crucifixion

In slave-pens at midnight,

Black slaves singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

In cabins of death,

Black slaves singing Go Down, Moses

In the canebrakes of the Southern Pharaohs.



Ill Andante Sostenuto



They tell us to forget
The Golgotha we tread . . .
We who are scourged with hate,
A price upon our head.
They who have shackled us
Require of us a song,
They who have wasted us
Bid us condone the wrong.

They tell us to forget
Democracy is spurned.



74 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

They tell us to forget
The Bill of Rights is burned.
Three hundred years we slaved,
We slave and suffer yet:
Though flesh and bone rebel,
They tell us to forget!

Oh, how can we forget
Our human rights denied?
Oh, how can we forget
Our manhood crucified?
When Justice is profaned
And plea with curse is met,
When Freedom's gates are barred,
Oh, how can we forget?



IV Tempo Prime

The New Negro strides upon the continent

In seven-league boots . . .

The New Negro

Who sprang from the vigor-stout loins

Of Nat Turner, gallows-martyr for Freedom,

Of Joseph Cinquez, Black Moses of the Amistad Mutiny,

Of Frederick Douglass, oracle of the Catholic Man,

Of Sojourner Truth, eye and ear of Lincoln's legions,

Of Harriet Tubrnan, Saint Bernard of the Underground Railroad.

The New Negro

Breaks the icons of his detractors,

Wipes out the conspiracy of silence,

Speaks to his America:

"My history-moulding ancestors

Planted the first crops of wheat on these shores,

Built ships to conquer the seven seas,

Erected the Cotton Empire,

Flung railroads across a hemisphere,

Disemboweled the earth's iron and coal,

Tunneled the mountains and bridged rivers,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 75

Harvested the grain and hewed forests,
Sentineled the Thirteen Colonies,
Unfurled Old Glory at the North Pole,
Fought a hundred battles for the Republic.**

The New Negro:

His giant hands fling murals upon high chambers,

His drama teaches a world to laugh and weep,

His voice thunders the Brotherhood of Labor,

His science creates seven wonders,

His Republic of Letters challenges the Negro-baiters.

The New Negro,

Hard-muscled, Fascist-hating, Democracy-ensouled,

Strides in seven-league boots

Along the Highway of Today

Toward the Promised Land of Tomorrow!



V Larghetto



None in the Land can say

To us black men Today:

You send the tractors on their bloody path,

And create Okies for The Grapes of Wrath.

You breed the slum that breeds a Native Son

To damn the good earth Pilgrim Fathers won.

None in the Land can say

To us black men Today:

You dupe the poor with rags-to-riches tales,

And leave the workers empty dinner pails.

You stuff the ballot box, and honest men

Are muzzled by your demagogic din.

None in the Land can say

To us black men Today:

You smash stock markets with your coined blitzkriegs,

And make a hundred million guinea pigs.

You counterfeit our Christianity,

And bring contempt upon Democracy.



76 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



None in the Land can say

To us black men Today:

You prowl when citizens are fast asleep,

And hatch Fifth Column plots to blast the deep

Foundations of the State and leave the Land

A vast Sahara with a Fascist brand.



VI Tempo di Marcia



Out of abysses of Illiteracy,
Through labyrinths of Lies,
Across waste lands of Disease . . .
We advance!

Out of dead-ends of Poverty,
Through wildernesses of Superstition,
Across barricades of Jim Crowism . .
We advance!

With the Peoples of the World . . .
We advance!



ON SEEING TWO BROWN BOYS IN A CATHOLIC CHURCH
by Frank Home

It is fitting that you be here,
Little brown boys
With Christ-like eyes
And curling hair.

Look you on yonder crucifix

Where He hangs nailed and pierced

With head hung low

And eyes all blind with blood that drips

From a thorny crown . . .

Look you well,

You shall know this thing.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 77

Judas' kiss shall burn your cheek
And you will be denied
By your Peter

And Gethsemane . . .

You shall know full well. . . .

Gethsemane . . .

You, too, will suffer under Pontius Pilate
And feel the rugged cut of rough-hewn cross
Upon your surging shoulder

They will spit in your face

And laugh ...

They will nail you up twixt thieves

And gamble for your garments.

And in this you will exceed God
For on this earth
You shall know Hell

O little brown boys
With Christ-like eyes
And curling hair,
It is fitting that you be here.



KID STUFF

by Frank Home

December, 1942



The wise guys
tell me

that Christmas
is Kid Stuff . . .
Maybe they've got
something there



78 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Two thousand years ago

tihree wise guys

chased a star

across a continent

to bring

frankincense and myrrh

to a Kid

born in a manger

with an idea in his head . .

And as the bombs

crash

all over the world

today

the real wise guys

know

that we've all

got to go chasing stars

again

in the hope

that we can get back

some of that

Kid Stuff

born two thousand years age



TOAST

by Frank Home



Here's to your eyes

for the things I see ,

drowned in them.

Here's to your lips

Two livid streaks of flame.

Here's to your heart

May it ever be full

of the love of loving. . . .



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 79

Here's to your body

a lithesome hill-top tree

swaying

to a spring's morning breath, . . .

Here's to your soul

as yet

unborn. . . ,



LETTERS FOUND NEAR A SUICIDE
by Frank Home



To all of you



My little stone

Sinks quickly

Into the bosom of this deep, dark pool

Of oblivion . . .

I have troubled its breast but little

Yet those far shores

That knew me not

Will feel the fleeting, furtive kiss

Of my tiny concentric ripples . . .



To Mother



I came

In the blinding sweep

Of ecstatic pain,

Igo

In the throbbing pulse

Of aching space

In the eons between

I piled upon you

Pain on pain

Ache on ache

And yet as I go

I shall know



80



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



To Catalina



To Telie



That you will grieve
And want me back .



Love thy piano, Oh girl,

It will give you back

Note for note

The harmonies of your soul.

It will sing back to you

The high songs of your heart.

It will give

As well as take . . ,



You have made my voice

A rippling laugh

But rny heart

A crying thing . . .

Tis better thus:

A fleeting kiss

And then,

The dark . . .



To "Chick"



Oh Achilles of the moleskins

And the gridiron

Do not wonder

Nor doubt that this is I

That lies so calmly here

This is the same exultant beast

That so joyously

Ran the ball with you

In those far-flung days of abandon.

You remember how recklessly



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 8T

We revelled in the heat and the dust

And the swirl of conflict?

You remember they called us

The Terrible Two?

And you remember

After we had battered our heads

And our bodies

Against the stonewall of their defense,

You remember the signal I would call

And how you would look at me

In faith and admiration

And say "Let's go," . . .

How the lines would clash

And strain,

And how I would slip through

Fighting and squirming

Over the line

To victory.

You remember, Chick? . . .

When you gaze at me here

Let that same light

Of faith and admiration

Shine in your eyes

For I have battered the stark stonewall

Before me , * .

I have kept faith with you

And now

I have called my signal,

Found my opening

And slipped through

Fighting and squirming

Over the line

To victory. . . .



To Wanda



To you, so far away
So cold and aloof,



82 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

To you, who knew me so well,

This is my last Grand Gesture

This is my last Great Effect

And as I go winging

Through the black doors of eternity

Is that thin sound I hear

Your applause? , . .



To James



Do you remember

How you won

That last race . . . ?

How you flung your body

At the start . . .

How your spikes

Ripped the cinders

In the stretch . . .

How you catapulted

Through the tape . . .

Do you remember . . , ?

Don't you think

I lurched with you

Out of those starting holes . . . ?

Don't you think

My sinews tightened

At those first

Few strides . . .

And when you flew into the stretch

Was not all my thrill

Of a thousand races

In your blood . . . ?

At your final drive

Through the finish line

Did not my shout

TeU of the

Triumphant ecstasy

Of victory . . . ?



THE CRAFTSMAN
by Marcus B. Christian



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A, 83

Live

As I have taught you
To run, Boy-
It's a short dash
Dig your starting holes
Deep and firm
Lurch out of them
Into the straightaway
With all the power
That is in you
Look straight ahead
To the finish line
Think only of the goal
Run straight
Run high
Run hard
Save nothing
And finish

With an ecstatic burst
That carries you
Hurtling
Through the tape
To victory. . . .



I ply with all the cunning of my art
This little thing, and with consummate care
I fashion it so that when I depart,
Those who come after me shall find it fair
And beautiful. It must be free of flaws-
Pointing no labprings of weary hands;
And there must be no flouting of the laws
Of beautyas the artist understands.



34 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Through passion, yearnings infinite yet dumb
I lift you from the depths of my own mind
And gild you with my soul's white heat to plumb
The souls of future men. I leave behind
This thing that in return this solace gives:
"He who creates true beauty ever lives."



McDONOGH DAY IN NEW ORLEANS
by Marcus B. Christian

The cotton blouse you wear, your mother said,
After a day of toil, "I guess 111 buy it";
For ribbons on your head and blouse she paid
Two-bits a yard as if you would deny it!

And nights, after a day of kitchen toil,
She stitched your re-made skirt of serge once blue-
Weary of eye, beneath a lamp of oil:
McDonogh would be proud of her and you.

Next, came white "creepers" and white stockings, too
They almost asked her blood when they were sold;
Like some dark princess, to the school go you,
With blue larkspur and yellow marigold;
But few would know or even guess this fact:
How dear comes beauty when a skin is black.



NOCTURNE VARIAL
by Lewis Alexander



I came as a shadow,
I stand now a light;
The depth of my darkness
Transfigures your night.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.&A, 85



My soul is a nocturne
Each note is a star;
The light will not blind you
So look where you are.

The radiance is soothing.
There's warmth in the light.
I came as a shadow,
To dazzle your night!



DREAM SONG
by Lewis Alexander



Walk with the sun,

Dance at high noon;

And dream when night falls black;

But when the stars

Vie with the moon,

Then call the lost dream back.



TRANSFORMATION
by Lewis Alexander



I return the bitterness,
Which you gave to me;
When I wanted loveliness
Tantalant and free.

I return the bitterness
It is washed by tears;
Now it is a loveliness
Garnished through the years.

I return it loveliness,
Having made it so;
For I wore the bitterness
From it long ago.



&5 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

AFTER WINTER 29

by Sterling A. Brown

He snuggles his fingers

In the blacker loam

The lean months are done with,

The fat to come.

His eyes are set
On a brushwood-fire
But his heart is soaring
Higher and higher.

Though he stands ragged
An old scarecrow,
. This is the way
His swift thoughts go,

"Butter beans jo" Clara
Sugar com fo' Grace
An 9 jo de little feller
Runnin space.

"Radishes and lettuce
Eggplants and beets
Turnips fo 9 de winter
An candied sweets.

"Homespun tobacco
Apples in debin
Fo' smokin an' fo 9 cider
When de folks draps in"

He thinks with the winter
His troubles are gone;
Ten acres unplanted
To raise dreams on.

^From Southern Road, by Sterling A. Brown, copyright, 1932, by Harcourt, Brace
and Company, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A 87

The lean months are done with,
The fat to come.
His hopes, winter wanderers,
Hasten home.

"Butterbeans fo* Clara
Sugar corn fo* Grace
An jo 9 de Uttle fetter
Runnin space. . /*



OLD LEM 80

by Sterling A. Brown

I talked to old Lem
And old Lem said:

'They weigh the cotton
They store the corn

We only good enough
To work the rows;
They run the commissary
They keep the books

We gotta be grateful
For being cheated;
Whippersnapper clerks
Call us out of our name
We got to say mister
To spindling boys
They make our figgers
Turn somersets
We buck in the middle
Say, Thankyuh, sah.'

They don't come by ones
They dont come by twos
But they come by tens.

*By permission of author.



-88 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

"They got the judges
They got the lawyers
They got the jury-rolls
They got the law

They dont come by ones
They got the sheriffs
They got the deputies

They dont come by twos
They got the shotguns
They got the rope

We git the justice
In the end

And they come by tens.

"Their fists stay closed
Their eyes look straight
Our hands stay open
Our eyes must fall

They dont come by ones
They got the manhood
They got the courage

They dont come by twos
We got to slink around,
Hangtailed hounds.
They bum us when we dogs
They burn us when we men

They come by tens. . . .

"I had a buddy
Six foot of man
Muscled up perfect
Game to the heart

They dont come by ones
Outworked and outfought
Any man or two men

They don't come by twos
He spoke out of turn
At the commissary
They gave him a day



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 89

To git out the county.
He didn't take it.
He said 'Come and get me/
They came and got him.

And they came by tens.
He stayed in the county-
He lays there dead.

They dorit come by ones
They don't come by twos
But they come by tens'"



FORECLOSURE 31

by Sterling A. Brown

Father Missouri takes his own.
These are the fields he loaned them,
Out of hearts' 'fullness; gratuitously;
Here are the banks he built up for his children-
Here are the fields; rich, fertile silt.

Father Missouri, in his dotage
Whimsical and drunkenly turbulent,
Cuts away the banks; steals away the loam;
Washes the ground from under wire fences,
Leaves fenceposts grotesquely dangling in the air;
And with doddering steps approaches the shanties.

Father Missouri; far too old to be so evil.

Uncle Dan, seeing his garden lopped away,
Seeing his manured earth topple slowly in the stream,
Seeing his cows knee-deep in yellow water,
His pig-sties flooded, his flower beds drowned,
Seeing his white leghorns swept down the stream

^From Southern Road, by Sterling A. Brown, copyright, 1932, by Harcourt, Brace
and Company, Inc.



90 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Curses Father Missouri, impotently shakes
His fist at the forecloser, the treacherous skinflint;
Who takes what was loaned so very long ago,
And leaves puddles in his parlor, and useless lakes
In his fine pasture land.
Sees years of work turned to nothing-
Curses, and shouts in his hoarse old voice,
"Ain't got no right to act dat way at alT
And the old river rolls on, slowly to the gulf.



REMEMBERING NAT TURNER 32
by Sterling A. Brown

We saw a bloody sunset over Courtland, once Jerusalem,

As we followed the trail that old Nat took

When he came out of Cross Keys down upon Jerusalem,

In his angry stab for freedom a hundred years ago.

The land was quiet, and the mist was rising,

Out of the woods and the Nottaway swamp,

Over Southampton the still night fell,

As we rode down to Cross Keys where the march began.

When we got to Cross Keys, they could tell us little of him,
The Negroes had only the faintest recollections:

"I ain't been here so long, I come from up roun' Newsome;

Yassah, a town a few miles up de road,

The old folks who coulda told you is all dead an' gone.

I heard something, sometime; I doan jis remember what.

Tears lak I heard that name somewheres or other.

So he fought to be free. Well. You doan say."

An old white woman recalled exactly
How Nat crept down the steps, axe in his hand,
After murdering a woman and child in bed,
"Right in this house at the head of these stairs."
(In a house built long after Nat was dead. )

^By permission of author.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 91

She pointed to a brick store where Nat was captured,
(Nat was taken in a swamp, three miles away)
With his men around him, shooting from the windows
(She was thinking of Harper's Ferry and old John Brown.)
She cackled as she told how they riddled Nat with bullets
(Nat was tried and hanged at Courtland, ten miles away]
She wanted to know why folks would come miles
Just to ask about an old nigger fool.

"Ain't no slavery no more, things is going all right,

Pervided thar's a good goober market this year.

We had a sign post here with printing on it,

But it rotted in the hole and thar it lays;

And the nigger tenants split the marker for kindling.

Things is all right, naow, ain't no trouble with the niggers.

Why they make this big to-do over Nat?"

As we drove from Cross Keys back to Courtiand,
Along the way that Nat came down from Jerusalem,
A watery moon was high in the cloud-filled heavens.
The same moon he dreaded a hundred years ago.
The tree, they hanged Nat on is long gone to ashes,
The trees he dodged behind have rotted in the swamps.

The bus for Miami and the trucks boomed by,
And touring cars, their heavy tires snarling on the pavement.
Frogs piped in the marshes, and a hound bayed long,
And yellow lights glowed from the cabin windows.

As we came back the way that Nat led his army,

Down from Cross Keys, down to Jerusalem,

We wondered if his troubled spirit still roamed the Nottaway,

Or if it fled with the cock-crow at daylight,

Or lay at peace with the bones in Jerusalem,

Its restlessness stifled by Southampton clay.

We remembered the poster rotted through and falling,
The marker split for kindling a kitchen fire.



92 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



SISTER LOU 83

by Sterling A. Brown

Honey

When de man
Calls out de las* train
You're gonna ride,
Tell him howdy.

Gather up yo' basket
An' yo' knittin' an' yo' things,
An' go on up an' visit
Wid frien' Jesus f o' a spell.

Show Marf a

How to make yo' greengrape jellies,

An' give po* Lazarus

A passel of them Golden Biscuits.

Scald some meal

Fo' some rightdown good spoonbread

Fo' HI box-plunkin' David.

An' sit aroun*

An' tell them Hebrew Chillen

All yo' stories. . . .

Honey

Don't be feared of them pearly gates,

Don't go 'round to de back,

No mo' dataway

Not evah no mo\

"From Southern Road, by Sterling A. Brown, copyright, 1932, by Harcourt, Brace
and Company, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJC 93

Let Michael tote yo' burden

An' yo' pocketbook an' evah thing

'Cept yo' Bible,

While Gabriel blows somp'n

Solemn but loudsome

On dat horn of his'n.

Honey

Go Straight on to de Big House,

An' speak to yo' God

Widout no fear an' tremblin'.

Then sit down

An' pass de time of day awhile.

Give a good talkin' to

To yo* favorite 'postle Peter,

An' rub the po' head

Of mixed-up Judas,

An' joke awhile wid Jonah.

Then, when you gits de chance,
Always rememberin' yo' raisin',
Let 'em know youse tired
Jest a mite tired.

Jesus will find yo' bed fo' you

Won't no servant evah bother wid yo' room.

Jesus will lead you

To a room wid windows

Openin' on cherry trees an' plum trees

Bloomin' everlastin'.

An' dat will be yours
Fo' keeps.

Den take yo' time. . . .
Honey, take yo' bressed time.



94 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE MASK 34

by Clarissa Scott Delany



So detached and cool she is
No motion e'er betrays
The secret life within her soul,
The anguish of her days.

She seems to look upon the world
With cold ironic eyes,
To spurn emotion's fevered sway,
To scoff at tears and sighs.

But once a woman with a child
Passed by her on the street,
And once she heard from casual lips
A man's name, bitter-sweet.

Such baffled yearning in her eyes,
Such pain upon her face!
I turned aside until the mask
Was slipped once more in place.



SOLACE 35

by Clarissa Scott Delany



My window opens out into the trees

And in that small space

Of branches and of sky

I see the seasons pass

Behold the tender green

Give way to darker heavier leaves.

The glory of the autumn comes



^By permission of Justice H. T. Delany.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 95

When steeped in mellow sunlight

The fragile, golden leaves

Against a clear blue sky

Linger in the magic of the afternoon

And then reluctantly break off

And filter down to pave

A street with gold.

Then bare, gray branches

Lift themselves against the

Cold December sky

Sometimes weaving a web

Across the rose and dusk of late sunset

Sometimes against a frail new moon

And one bright star riding

A sky of that dark, living blue

Which comes before the heaviness

Of night descends, or the stars

Have powdered the heavens.

Winds beat against these trees;

The cold, but gentle rain of spring

Touches them lightly

The summer torrents strive

To lash them into a fury

And seek to break them

But they stand.

My life is fevered

And a restlessness at times

An agony again a vague

And baffling discontent

Possesses me.

I am thankful for my bit of sky

And trees, and for the shifting

Pageant of the seasons.

Such beauty lays upon the heart

A quiet.

Such eternal change and permanence

Take meaning from all turmoil

And leave serenity

Which knows no pain.



96 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



JOY 56

by Clarissa Scott Dclany



Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail,

Like the roistering wind

That laughs through stalwart pines.

It floods me like the sun

On rain-drenched trees

That flash with silver and green.

I abandon myself to joy

I laugh I sing.

Too long have I walked a desolate way,

Too long stumbled down a maze

Bewildered.



INTERIM 37

by Clarissa Scott Delany



The night was made for rest and sleep,
For winds that softly sigh;
It was not made for grief and tears;
So then why do I cry?

The wind that blows through leafy trees
Is soft and warm and sweet;
For me the night is a gracious cloak
To hide my soul's defeat.

Just one dark hour of shaken depths,
Of bitter black despair
Another day will find me brave,
And not afraid to dare.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A, 97



1, TOO, SING AMERICA 88
by Langston Hughes



I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

111 sit at the table

When company comes.

Nobody'll dare

Say to me,

"Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

Besides,

They'll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed

I, too, am America.



DREAM VARIATION 39
by Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done,

^From The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1926, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



9fi THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Then rest at cool evening

Beneath a tall tree

While night comes on gently,

Dark like me
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! whirl! whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening. . . .
A tall, slim tree. . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.



THE WEARY BLUES 40
by Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

He did a lazy sway. . . .

He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.

O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.

O Blues!

^From The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1926, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 99

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan*

"Ain't got nobody in all this world,

Ain't got nobody but ma self.

I's gwine to quit ma frownin*

And put ma troubles on the shelf."
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more

"I got the Weary Blues

And I can't be satisfied.

Got the Weary Blues

And can't be satisfied

I ain't happy no mo*

And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.



LITTLE GREEN TREE BLUES 41
by Langston Hughes

Looks like to me

My good-time days done past.

Yes, it looks like

My good-time days done past.

There's nothin* in this world

I reckon's due to last.

I used to play

And I played so hard.

I used to play,

I played so dog-gone hard.

Now old age is got me,

Dealt me my bad-luck card.

"From One Way Ticket, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1949, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



100 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

I looked down the road
And I see a little tree.
Little piece down the road
I see a little tree.
Them cool green leaves
Is waitin' to shelter me.

Oh, little tree!



PERSONAL 42

by Langston Hughes



In an envelope marked:

Personal

God addressed me a letter.
In an envelope marked:

Personal
I have given my answer.



HAVANA DREAMS 43
by Langston Hughes

The dream is a cocktail at Sloppy Joe's
( Maybe nobody knows. )

The dream is the road to Batabano.
( But nobody knows if that is so. )

Perhaps the dream is only her face-
Perhaps it's a fan of silver lace
Or maybe the dream's a Vedado rose
(Quien sdbe? Who really knows?)

^From Fields of Wonder, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1947, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL T01



HARLEM SWEETIES 44
by Langston Hughes

Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?
Cast your gims
On this sepia thrill:
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat.
Peach-skinned girlie,
Coffee and cream,
Chocolate darling
Out of a dream.
Walnut tinted
Or cocoa brown,
Pomegranate-lipped
Pride of the town.
Rich cream-colored
To plum-tinted black,
Feminine sweetness
In Harlem's no lack.
Glow of the quince
To blush of the rose.
Persimmon bronze
To cinnamon toes.
Blackberry cordial,
Virginia Dare wine
All those sweet colors
Flavor Harlem of mine!
Walnut or cocoa,
Let me repeat:
Caramel, brown sugar,
A chocolate treat.

"From Shakespeare in Harlem, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1942, by Alfred
A. Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf , Inc.



102 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Molasses taffy,
Coffee and cream,
Licorice, clove, cinnamon
To a honey-brown dream.
Ginger, wine-gold,
Persimmon, blackberry,
All through the spectrum
Harlem girls vary-
So if you want to know beauty's
Rainbow-sweet thrill,
Stroll down luscious,
Delicious, fine Sugar Hill.



AFRO-AMERICAN FRAGMENT"
by Lcmgston Hughes

So long,
So far away
Is Africa.

Not even memories alive
Save those that history books create,
Save those that songs
Beat back into the blood--
Beat out of blood with words sad-sung
In strange un-Negro tongue
So long,
So far away
Is Africa.

Subdued and time-lost
Are the drums and yet
Through some vast mist of race
There comes this song
I do not understand,
This song of atavistic land,

"Originally published in The Crisis, Vol. 37, No. 7, July 1930 Reprinted by per-
mission of author.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A, 103

Of bitter yearnings lost
Without a place-
So long,
So far away
Is Africa's
Dark face.



CROSS 46

by Langston Hughes



My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well.

My old man died in a fine big house,
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm gonna die,
Being neither white nor black?



SONG FOR A DARK GIRL* T
by Langston Hughes

Way Down South in Dixie

(Break the heart of me)
They hung my dark young lover

To a cross roads tree.

**From The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1926, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A, Knopf, Inc.

47 From Fine Clothes to the Jew, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1927, by Alfred
A. Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



104 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Way Down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)

I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer.

Way Down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)

Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.



MERRY-GO-ROUND 48

Colored Child at Carnival
by Langston Hughes



Where is the Jim Crow section
On this merry-go-round,
Mister, cause I want to ride?
Down South where I come from
White and colored
Can't sit side by side.
Down South on the train
There's a Jim Crow car.
On the bus we're put in the back-
But there ain't no back
To a merry-go-round!
Where's the horse
For a kid that's black?



MOTHER TO SON 49
by Langston Hughes

Well, son, 111 tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

"From Shakespeare in Harlem, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1942, by Alfred
A. Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

^From The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1926, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A, 105

It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor-
Bare.

But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin* comers,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now
For Tse still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.



THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS 50
by Langston Hughes

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human
blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to

New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the

sunset.

""From The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes, copyright, 1926, by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



106 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

IVe known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.



My soul has grown deep like the rivers.



LET AMERICA BE AMERICA AGAIN 51
by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used tc be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me. )

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me. )

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say who are you that mumbles in the dark?

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

^Originally published in part in Esquire, July 1936. Reprinted by permission of
author.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL 107

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,

I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.

I am the red man driven from the land,

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek

And finding only the same old stupid plan

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.



I am the young man, full of strength and hope,

Tangled in that ancient endless chain

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the landl

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying needl

Of work the men! Of take the pay!

Of owning everything for one's own greed!



I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, worried, hungry, mean-
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet todayO, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.



Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In that Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."



IOS THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The free?

A dream-
Still beckoning to me!

O, let America be America again

The land that never has been yet

And yet must be

The land where every man is free.

The land that's mine

The poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,

America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath-
America will be!
An ever-living seed,
Its dream
Lies deep in the heart of me.

We, the people, must redeem
Our land, the mines, the plants, the rivers,
The mountains and the endless plain-
All, all the stretch of these great green states
And make America again!



NEGRO K>ETS OF THE U.$J*u T09



SONNETS

by Gwendolyn B. Bennett-



He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black

A lover come from legends long ago

With silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow,

And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back

In a carven sheath of Tamarack.

He came with footsteps beautifully slow,

And spoke in voice meticulously low.

He came and Romance followed in his track. . . .

I did not ask his name I thought him Love;

I did not care to see his hidden face.

All life seemed born in my intaken breath;

All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove.

He bent to kiss and raised his visor's lace . . .

All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death.



Some things are very dear to me
Such things as flowers bathed by rain
Or patterns traced upon the sea
Or crocuses where snow has lain . .
The iridescence of a gem,
The moon's cool opalescent light,
Azaleas and the scent of them,
And honeysuckles in the night.
And many sounds are also dear-
Like winds that sing among the trees
Or crickets calling from the weir
Or Negroes humming melodies.
But dearer far than all surmise
Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes.



110 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
by Gwendolyn B. Bennett

Cemeteries are places for departed souls

And bones interred,

Or hearts with shattered loves.

A woman with lips made warm for laughter

Would find grey stones and roving spirits

Too chill for living, moving pulses . . .

And thou, great spirit, woul4st shiver in thy granite shroud

Should idle rnirth or empty talk

Disturb thy tranquil sleeping.

A cemetery is a place for shattered loves
And broken hearts. . , .
Bowed before the crystal chalice of thy soul,
I find the multi-colored fragrance of thy mind
Has lost itself in Death's transparency.

Oh, stir the lucid waters of thy sleep
And coin for me a tale
Of happy loves and gems and joyous limbs
And hearts where love is sweet!

A cemetery is a place for broken hearts
And silent thought . . .
And silence never moves,
Nor speaks nor sings.



A BLACK MAN TALKS OF REAPING
by Arna Bontemps

I have sown beside all waters in my day.
I planted deep, within my heart the fear
That wind or fowl would take the grain away.
I planted safe against this stark, lean year.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A, 111

I scattered seed enough to plant the land
In rows from Canada to Mexico
But for my reaping only what the hand
Can hold at once is all that I can show.

Yet what I sowed and what the orchard yields
My brother's sons are gathering stalk and root,
Small wonder then my children glean in fields
They have not sown, and feed on bitter fruit.



CLES

na Bontemps



Doubt no longer miracles,
This spring day makes it plain
A man may crumble into dust
And straightway live again

A jug of water in the sun
Will easy turn to wine
If love is stopping at the well
And love's brown arms entwine.

And you who think him only man,
I tell you faithfully

That I have seen Christ clothed in rain
Walking on the sea.



"URNE AT BETHESDA
na Bontemps

I thought I saw an angel flying low,
I thought I saw the flicker of a wing
Above the mulberry trees; but not again.
Bethesda sleeps. This ancient pool that healed
A host of bearded Jews does not awake.



112 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

This pool that once the angels troubled does not move
No angel stirs it now, no Saviour comes
With healing in His hands to raise the sick
And bid the lame man leap upon the ground.

The golden days are gone. Why do we wait

So long upon the marble steps, blood

Falling from our open wounds? and why

Do our black faces search the empty sky?

Is there something we have forgotten? some precious thing

We have lost, wandering in strange lands?

There was a day, I remember now,

I beat my breast and cried, **Wash me God,

Wash me with a wave of wind upon

The barley; O quiet One, draw near, draw near!

Walk upon the hills with lovely feet

And in the waterfall stand and speak.

"Dip white hands in the lily pool and mourn

Upon the harps still hanging in the trees

Near Babylon along the river's edge,

But oh, remember me, I pray, before

The summer goes and rose leaves lose their red."

The old terror takes my heart, the fear
Of quiet waters and of faint twilights.
There will be better days when I am gone
And healing pools where I cannot be healed.
Fragrant stars will gleam forever and ever
Above the place where I lie desolate.

Yet I hope, still I long to live.
And if there can be returning after death
I shall come back. But it will not be here;
If you want me you must search for me
Beneath the palms of Africa. Or if
I am not there then you may call to me
Across the shining dunes, perhaps I shall
Be following a desert caravan.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 113

I may pass through centuries of death

With quiet eyes, but 111 remember still

A jungle tree with burning scarlet birds.

There is something I have forgotten, some precious thing.

I shall be seeking ornaments of ivory,

I shall be dying for a jungle fruit.

You do not hear, Bethesda.
O still green water in a stagnant pool!
Love abandoned you and me alike.
There was a day you held a rich full moon
Upon your heart and listened to the words
Of men now dead and saw the angels fly.
There is a simple story on your face;
Years have wrinkled you. I know, Bethesda!
You are sad. It is the same with me.



SOUTHERN MANSION
by Arna Bontemps

Poplars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.

There is a sound of music echoing

Through the open door

And in the field there is

Another sound tinkling in the cotton:

Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.

The years go back with an iron clank,

A hand is on the gate,

A dry leaf trembles on the wall.

Ghosts are walking.

They have broken roses down

And poplars stand there still as death.



114 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



LENGTH OF MOON
by Arna Bonfemps



Then the golden hour

Will tick its last

And the flame will go down in the flower.

A briefer length of moon

Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune.

Then we may think of this, yet
There will be something forgotten
And something we should forget.

It will be like all things we know:
The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go.

It will be quiet then and we may stay
As long at the picket gate
But there will be less to say.



THE RETURN

by Arna Bontemps



Once more, listening to the wind and rain,

Once more, you and I, and above the hurting sound

Of these comes back the throbbing of remembered rain,

Treasured rain falling on dark ground.

Once more, huddling birds upon the leaves

And summer trembling on a withered vine.

And once more, returning out of pain,

The friendly ghost that was your love and mine.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 115
II

Darkness brings the jungle to our room:

The throb of rain is the throb of muffled drums.

Darkness hangs our room with pendulums

Of vine and in the gathering gloom

Our walls recede into a denseness of

Surrounding trees. This is a night of love

Retained from those lost nights our fathers slept

In huts; this is a night that must not die.

Let us keep the dance of rain our fathers kept

And tread our dreams beneath the jungle sky.



Ill



And now the downpour ceases.

Let us go back once more upon the glimmering leaves

And as the throbbing of the drums increases

Shake the grass and dripping boughs of trees.

A dry wind stirs the palm; the old tree grieves.

Time has charged the years: the old days have returned.

Let us dance by metal waters burned

With gold of moon, let us dance

With naked feet beneath the young spice trees.

What was that light, that radiance

On your face? something I saw when first

You passed beneath the jungle tapestries?

A moment we pause to quench our thirst
Kneeling at the water's edge, the gleam
Upon your face is plain: you have wanted this.
Let us go back and search the tangled dream
And as the muffled drum-beats throb and miss
Remember again how early darkness comes
To dreams and silence to the drums.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



IV



Let us go back into the dusk again,

Slow and sad-like following the track

Of blowing leaves and cool white rain

Into the old gray dream, let us go back.

Our walls close about us we He and listen

To the noise of the street, the storm and the driven birds.

A question shapes your lips, your eyes glisten

Retaining tears, but there are no more words.



IDOLATRY

by Arna Bontemps

You have been good to me, I give you this:

The arms of lovers empty as our own,

Marble lips sustaining one long kiss

And the hard sound of hammers breaking stone.

For I will build a chapel in the place
Where our love died and I will journey there
To make a sign and kneel before your face
And set an old bell tolling on the air.



CLOSE YOUR EYES!
by Arna Bontemps

Go through the gates with closed eyes.
Stand erect and let your black face front the west.
Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies;
A woodman on the hill must have his rest.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 117



Go where leaves are lying brown and wet.

Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you,

And every face you ever loved forget.

Close your eyes; walk bravely through.



GOLGOTHA IS A MOUNTAIN
by Arna Bontemps

Golgotha is a mountain, a purple mound
Almost out of sight.

One night they hanged two thieves there,
And another man.

Some women wept heavily that night;
Their tears are flowing still. They have made a river;
Once it covered me.

Then the people went away and left Golgotha
Deserted.

Oh, I've seen many mountains:

Pale purple mountains melting in the evening mists and blurring on the
borders of the sky.

I climbed old Shasta and chilled my hands in its summer snows.

I rested in the shadow of Popocatepetl and it whispered to me of daring

prowess.

I looked upon the Pyrenees and felt the zest of warm exotic nights.
I slept at the foot of Fujiyama and dreamed of legend and of death.
And I've seen other mountains rising from the wistful moors like the

breasts of a slender maiden.
Who knows the mystery of mountains!
Some of them are awful, others are just lonely.



Italy has its Rome and California has San Francisco,
All covered with mountains-
Some think these mountains grew
Like ant hills
Or sand dunes.



118 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



That might be so

I wonder what started them all!

Babylon is a mountain

And so is Nineveh,

With grass growing on them;

Palaces and hanging gardens started them.

I wonder what is under the hills

In Mexico

And Japan!

There are mountains in Africa too.

Treasure is buried there:

Gold and precious stones

And moulded glory.

Lush grass is growing there

Sinking before the wind.

Black men are bowing.

Naked in that grass

Digging with their fingers.

I am one of them:

Those mountains should be ours.

It would be great

To touch the pieces of glory with our hands.

These mute unhappy hills,

Bowed down with broken backs,

Speak often one to another:

"A day is as a year/* they cry,

"And a thousand years as one day/*

We watched the caravan

That bore our queen to the courts of Solomon;

And when the first slave traders came

We bowed our heads.

"Oh, Brothers, it is not long!

Dust shall yet devour the stones

But we shall be here when they are gone."

Mountains are rising all around me.

Some are so small they are not seen;

Others are large.

All of them get big in time and people forget

What started them at first.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 119

Oh the world is covered with mountains!
Beneath each one there is something buried:
Some pile of wreckage that started it there.
Mountains are lonely and some are awful.



One day I will crumble.

They'll cover my heap with dirt and that will make a mountain.

I think it will be Golgotha.



A NOTE OF HUMILITY
by Arna Bontemps

When all our hopes are sown on stony ground,
And we have yielded up the thought of gain,
Long after our last songs have lost their sound,
We may come back, we may come back again.

When thorns have choked the last green thing we loved,
And we have said all that there is to say,
When love that moved us once leaves us unmoved,
Then men like us may come to have a day.

For it will be with us as with the bee,
The meager ant, the sea-gull and the loon;
We may come back to triumph mournfully
An hour or two, but it will not be soon.



THE DAYBREAKERS
by Arna Bontemps



We are not come to wage a strife
With swords upon this hill;



120 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

It is not wise to waste the life

Against a stubborn will.
Yet would we die as some have done:
Beating a way for the rising sun.



EPITAPH FOR A BIGOT
by Dorothy Vena Johnson

Life to the bigot is a whip
That lashes creed and laity;
Here lies the one who lost his grip
And cringed to Death a refugee.



GREEN VALLEY

by Dorothy Vena Johnson



I stood in a meadow,
And all I could see

Was the green valley
Surrounding me

Then the setting sun
Burned a ghastly red:

Blood of young men
Too soon dead.

A tawny lizard

Crawled near my feet:
I visioned women

Alone, deplete.

And now and then
A fledgling cried,

Like destitute folk
On the wayside.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 121

When I beheld

The tallest tree,
My soul expanded

Inside of me.

I wished, as I viewed

The greenest pit,
To bury ugliness

In it.

The hills were rich

With buds impearled.
The valley seemed

To engulf the world.

I stood in the meadow,

And all I could see
Was that green valley

Surrounding me.



HERITAGE 52

For Harold Jackman
by Countee Cullen

What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal black
Women from whose loins I sprang
When the birds of Eden sang?
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who all day long
Want no sound except the song

ra From Color, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers.



122 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Sung by wild barbaric birds

Goading massive jungle herds,

Juggernauts of flesh that pass

Trampling tall defiant grass

Where young forest lovers lie,

Plighting troth beneath the sky,

So I lie, who always hear.

Though I cram against my ear

Both my thumbs, and keep them there,

Great drums throbbing through the air.

So I lie, whose fount of pride,

Dear distress, and joy allied,

Is my somber flesh and skin,

With the dark blood dammed within

Like great pulsing tides of wine

That, I fear, must burst the fine

Channels of the chafing net

Where they surge and foam and fret.

Africa? A book one thumbs
Listlessly, till slumber comes.
Unremembered are her bats
Circling through the night, her cats
Crouching in the river reeds,
Stalking gentle flesh that feeds
By the river brink; no more
Does the bugle-throated roar
Cry that monarch claws have leapt
From the scabbards where they slept.
Silver snakes that once a year
Doff the lovely coats you wear,
Seek no covert in your fear
Lest a mortal eye should see;
What's your nakedness to me?
Here no leprous flowers rear
Fierce corollas in the air;
Here no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping mingled rain and sweat,
Tread the savage measures of



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 123

Jungle boys and girls in love.
What is last year's snow to me,
Last year's anything? The tree
Budding yearly must forget
How its past arose or set-
Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even what shy bird with mute
Wonder at her travail there,
Meekly labored in its hair.
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?

So I He, who find no peace
Night or day, no slight release
From the unremittent beat
Made by cruel padded feet
Walking through my body's street.
Up and down they go, and back.
Treading out a jungle track.
So I lie, who never quite
Safely sleep from rain at night
I can never rest at all
When the rain begins to fall;
Like a soul gone mad with pain
I must match its weird refrain;
Ever must I twist and squirm,
Writhing like a baited worm,
While its primal measures drip
Through my body, crying, "Strip!
Doff this new exuberance.
Come and dance the Lover's Dance!"
In an old remembered way
Rain works on me night and day.

Quaint, outlandish heathen gods
Black men fashion out of rods,
Clay, and brittle bits of stone,



124 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

In a likeness like their own,
My conversion came high-priced;
I belong to Jesus Christ,
Preacher of Humility;
Heathen gods are naught to me.

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

So I make an idle boast;

Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,

Lamb of God, although I speak

With my mouth thus, in my heart

Do I play a double part.

Ever at Thy glowing altar

Must my heart grow sick and falter,

Wishing He I served were black,

Thinking then it would not lack

Precedent of pain to guide it,

Let who would or might deride it;

Surely then this flesh would know

Yours had borne a kindred woe.

Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,

Daring even to give You

Dark despairing features where,

Crowned with dark rebellious hair,

Patience wavers just so much as

Mortal grief compels, while touches

Quick and hot, of anger, rise

To smitten cheek and weary eyes.

Lord, forgive me if my need

Sometimes shapes a human creed.

All day long and all night through,

One thing only must I do:

Quench my pride and cool my blood,

Lest I perish in the -flood,

Lest a hidden ember set

Timber that I thought was wet

Burning like the dryest flax,

Melting like the merest wax,

Lest the grave restore its dead.



NEGRO POETS OF THE OSJL 125



Not yet has my heart or head
In the least way realized
They and I are civilized.



FOR A POET 58
by Countee Cullcn



I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.



SIMON THE CYRENIAN SPEAKS 54
by Countee Cullen

He never spoke a word to me,
And yet He called my name;
He never gave a sign to me,
And yet I knew and came.

At first I said, "I will not bear
His cross upon my back;
He only seeks to place it there
Because my skin is black/'

But He was dying for a dream,
And He was very meek,
And in His eyes there shone a gleam
Men journey far to seek.

w ' M From Color, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers.



T2d THE POETRY OF THE KEGRO



It was Himself my pity bought;

I did for Christ alone

What all of Rome could not have wrought

With bruise of lash or stone.



THE WISE 55

by Countee Culfen



Dead men are wisest, for they know
How far the roots of flowers go,
How long a seed must rot to grow.

Dead men alone bear frost and rain
On throbless heart and heafless brain,
And feel no stir of joy or pain.

Dead men alone are satiate;

They sleep and dream and have no weight,

To curb their rest, of love or hate.

Strange, men should flee their company,
Or think me strange who long to be
Wrapped in their cool immunity.



THAT BRIGHT CHIMERIC BEAST 5 *
by Countee Cullen

That bright chimeric beast
Conceived yet never born,
Save in the poet's breast,
The white-flanked unicorn,

^From Color, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers.
"From The Black Christ, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1929, by Harper &
Brothers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U^A. 127



Never may be shaken
From his solitude;
Never may be taken
In any earthly wood.

That bird forever feathered,
Of its new self the sire,
After aeons weathered,
Reincarnate by fire,
Falcon may not nor eagle
Swerve from his eyrie,
Nor any crumb inveigle
Down to an earthly tree.

That fish of the dread regime
Invented to become
The fable and the dream
Of the Lord's aquarium,
Leviathan, the jointed
Harpoon was never wrought
By which the Lord's anointed
Will suffer to be caught.

Bird of the deathless breast,

Fish of the frantic fin,

That bright chimeric beast

Flashing the argent skin,

If beasts like these you'd harry,

Plumb then the poet's dream;

Make it your aviary,

Make it your wood and stream.

There only shall the swish
Be heard of the regal fish;
There like a golden knife
Dart the feet of the unicorn,
And there, death brought to life,
The dead bird be reborn.



128 THE porner op THE NEGRO



FOR A LADY 1 KNOW 57
by Countee Cullen



She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores,
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.



INCIDENT 58

by Countee Cullen



Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.



SATURDAY'S CHILD 59
by Countee Cullen



Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;

I cut my teeth as the black racoon

For implements of battle.

"WFrom Color, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers.



NEGRO K>ETS OF THE U.SJk. 129

Some are swaddled in silk and down,
And heralded by a star;
They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown
On a night that was black as tar.

For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame Poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me.

For I was born on Saturday

"Bad time for planting a seed,"
Was all my father had to say,
And, "One mouth more to feed."

Death cut the strings that gave me life,
And handed me to Sorrow,
The only kind of middle wife
My folks could beg or borrow.



FRUIT OF THE FLOWER 60
by Countee Cullen

My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.

My mother's life is puritan,
No hint of cavalier,
A pool so calm you're sure it can
Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father's eyes can boast
How full his life has been; .
There haunts them yet the languid ghost
Of some still sacred sin.

"From Color, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers*



130 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



And though my mother chants of God,

And of the mystic river,

I've seen a bit of checkered sod

Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischance

A son of his is fain

To do a naked tribal dance

Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil's art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud,
Extract of that same root;
Why marvel at the hectic blood
That flushes this wild fruit?



YOUTH SINGS A SONG OF ROSEBUDS 61
by Countee Cullen

Since men grow diffident at last,
And care no whit at all,
If spring be come, or the fall be past,
Or how the cool rains fall,

I come to no flower but I pluck,

I raise no cup but I sip,

For a mouth is the best of sweets to suck;

The oldest wine's on the lip.

If I grow old in a year or two,

And come to the querulous song

Of "Alack and aday" and "This was true,

And that, when I was young,"

*From Copper Sun, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1927, by Harper & Brothers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.&A. 131

I must have sweets to remember by,
Some blossom saved from the mire,
Some death-rebellious ember I
Can fan into a fire.



THE LOSS OF LOVE 62
by Countee CuIIen



All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.

Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write her name
Or draw her face the way she looked
That legendary night she came.

The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Each day I hear the ominous thud
That says another rent is there
For winds to pierce and storms to flood.

My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round-
I let it rot upon the bough;
I eat what falls upon the ground.

The heavy cows go laboring

In agony with clotted teats;

My hands are slack; my blood is cold;

I marvel that my heart still beats.

I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worseT



^y permission of Mrs. Ida M. Cullen.



132 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



YET DO I MARVEL' 8
by Counfee CuIIen



I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,

And did He stoop to quibble could tell why

The little buried mole continues blind,

Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,

Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus

Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare

If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus

To struggle up a never-ending stair.

Inscrutable His ways are, and immune

To catechism by a mind too strewn

With petty cares to slightly understand

What awful brain compels His awful hand.

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:

To make a poet black, and bid him sing!



FROM THE DARK TOWER 04
by Countee CuIIen

We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
White stars is no less lovely being dark,

"From Color, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers.

"From Copper Sun, by Countee Cullen, copyright, 1927, by Harper & Brothers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U^A. 133

And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.



THE RESURRECTION

by Jonathan Henderson Brooks



His friends went off and left Him dead
In Joseph's subterranean bed,
Embalmed with myrrh and sweet aloes,
And wrapped in snow-white burial clothes.

Then shrewd men came and set a seal
Upon His grave, lest thieves should steal
His lif eless form away, and claim
For Him an undeserving fame.

"There is no use," the soldiers said,
"Of standing sentries by the dead/'
Wherefore, they drew their cloaks around
Themselves, and fell upon the ground,
And slept like dead men, all night through,
In the pale moonlight and chilling dew.

A muffled whiff of sudden breath
Ruffled the passive air of death.

He woke, and raised Himself in bed;

Recalled how He was crucified;
Touched both hands' fingers to His head,

And lightly felt His fresh-healed side.

Then with a deep, triumphant sigh,
He coolly put His grave-clothes by-
Folded the sweet, white winding sheet,
The toweling, the linen bands,
The napkin, all with careful hands
And left the borrowed chamber neat.



134 THE POETIY OF THE NEGRO



His steps were like the breaking day:
So soft across the watch He stole,
He did not wake a single soul.

Nor spill one dewdrop by the way.

Now Calvary was loveliness:

Lilies that flowered thereupon

Pulled off the white moon's pallid dress,
And put the morning's vesture on.

"Why seek the living among the dead?
He is not here," the angel said.

The early winds took up the words,

And bore them to the lilting birds,

The leafing trees, and everything

That breathed the living breath of spring.



MY ANGR

by Jonathan Henderson Brooks



That night my angel stooped and strained

To lift me from the mud.

He could not lift my heaviness.

My angel sweated blood.

He said: You are the heaviest grief

In heaven since the flood.

All night my angel stooped and strained,

Loath to abandon me:

The heaviest load since Lucifer

Shook heaven's regency.

All night he interceded for

My black necessity.

He rose. And two wings hid his feet
And two wings veiled his face,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U^A. 135

And two wings took him, weary wings,
To angels' resting place.
He flew away. He left with me
Despair and my disgrace.



AND ONE SHALL LIVE IN TWO
by Jonathan Henderson Brooks



Though he hung dumb upon her wall

And was so very still and small

A miniature, a counterpart,

Yet did she press him to her heart

On countless, little loving trips,

And six times pressed him to her lips!

As surely as she kissed him six,

As sure as sand and water mix,

Sure as canaries sweetly sing,

And lilies come when comes the spring,

The two have hopes for days of bliss

When four warm lips shall meet in kiss;

Four eyes shall blend to see as one,

Four hands shall do what two have done,

Two sorrow-drops will be one tear

And one shall live in two each year.



MUSE IN LATE NOVEMBER
by Jonathan Henderson Brooks



I greet you, son, with joy and winter rue:
For you the fatted calf, the while I bind
Sackcloth against my heart for siring you
At sundown and the twilight. Child, you find
A sire sore tired of striving with the winds;
Climbing Mount Nebo with laborious breath
To view the land of promise through blurred lens,
Knowing he can not enter, feeling death.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And, as old Israel called his dozen sons

And placed his withered hands upon each head

Ere he was silent with the skeletons

In Mamre of the cold, cave-chambered dead,

So would I bless you with a dreamer's will:

The dream that baffles me, may you fulfill.



SHE SAID . . .

by Jonathan Henderson Brooks

Remembering Corporal Arthur Long, Negro,
the first soldier from Alcorn County, Mississippi,
reported kitted in action in the invasion of Nor-
mandy.

She said, "Not only music; brave men marching
Under the stripes and stars and sun's shining:
War is sudden news. Your son was killed
The tenth of June in France. Letter follows.

"Oh, he was bold to hasten peace," she said.
"And he was brave. And he desired tomorrow.
He was too young to be compelled from sunlight,
And moonlight; from the light of stars forever."

She would ask questions, morbid on her mind:
The fatal bullet found him; did he scream?
Lie on the beach and call unhurrying Death?
Lord, was he waiting long? How long he fought
In France, four days or one? Who saw him fall?
Cared that he fell in sunshine, lay in rain,
Or perished in the night? And what star cared
Above his battleground in Normandy?

"Now I know why Mary of Galilee,
One morning, rose and went into the Garden.
And I know why she tarried and was sad.
Mary, it is the same with me," she said.



NEGRO POETS OF THE O&A. 137



POET

by Donald Jeffrey Hayes



No rock along the road but knows
The inquisition of his toes;
No journey's end but what can say:
He paused and rested here a day!
No joy is there that you may meet
But what will say: His kiss was sweet!
No sorrow but will sob to you:
He knew me intimately too. ... I



PRESCIENCE

by Donald Jeffrey Hayes



I grieve to think of you alone

That first night watch when I am gone:

How darkness will assault your breath

And mind with frightening thoughts of death;

How inescapable the stress
Of that strange new emptiness;

How dawn such as youVe never seen
Will streak its gray and yellow-green;

How shadows in a drifting pall
Will shift across this friendly wall!

I grieve that I shall not be there
To talk with you in your despair

To reassure you in a glance
Mastery of the circumstance,



13B THE K>ETRY OF THE NEGRO



Speaking a language coded to
The key that I have given you;

Whispering low some silly word

That but our rooms and we have heard

Nomenclature which should confound
The horror of the underground!

I'd sit a little while and speak
With my lips moving on your cheek

To help you face the awful dread

Of watching by your newly dead . . . !

Oh, that somehow I might contrive
My first night dead to be alive ... I



HAVEN

by Donald Jeffrey Hayes



I'll build a house of arrogance
A most peculiar inn
With only room for vanquished folk
With proud and tilted chin! . . .



APPOGGIATURA

by Donald Jeffrey Hayes



It was water I was trying to think of all the time
Seeing the way you moved about the house. . . .
It was water, still and grey or dusty blue
Where late at night the wind and a half -grown moon
Could make a crazy quilt of silver ripples



NEGRO POETS OF THE US.A. 139

And it little mattered what you were about;

Whether painting in your rainbow-soiled smock

Or sitting by the window with the sunlight in your bafr

That boiled like a golden cloud about your head

Or whether you sat in the shadows

Absorbed in the serious business

Of making strange white patterns with your fingers

Whether it was any of these things

The emotion was always the same with me

And all the time it was water I was trying to recall,

Water, silent, breathless, restless,

Slowly rising, slowly falling, imperceptibly. . . .

It was the memory of water and the scent of air

Blown from the sea

That bothered me!

When you laughed, and that was so rare a festival,
I wanted to think of gulls dipping-
Grey wings, white-faced, into a rising wind
Dipping. . . .
Do you remember the day
You held a pale white flower to the sun
That I might see how the yellow rays
Played through the petals?
As I remember now
The flower was beautiful
And the sunrays playing through
And your slim fingers
And your tilting chin
But then:

There was only the indistinguishable sound of water silence;
The inaudible swish of one wave breaking. . . .

And now that you have moved on into the past;

You and your slim fingers

And your boiling hair,

Now that you have moved on into the past,

And I have time to stroll back through the corridors of memory,



14O THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



It is like meeting an old friend at dawn

To find carved here deep in my mellowing mind

These words:

"Sea-Woman slim-fingered-water-thing , . .*



BENEDICTION

by Donald Jeffrey Hayes



Not with my hands
But with my heart I bless you:
May peace forever dwell
Within your breast!

May Truth's white light
Move with you and possess you
And may your thoughts and words
Wear her bright crest!

May Time move down
Its endless path of beauty
Conscious of you
And better for your being!

Spring after Spring
Array itself in splendor
Seeking the favor
Of your sentient seeing!

May hills lean toward you
Hills and windswept mountains
And trees be happy
That have seen you pass

Your eyes dark kinsmen
To the stars above you
Your feet remembered
By the blades of grass. . . . !



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL 141



FOUR GLIMPSES OF NIGHT
by Frank Marshall Davis



II



III



Eagerly

Like a woman hurrying to her lover

Night comes to the room of the world

And lies, yielding and content

Against the cool round face

Of the moon.



Night is a curious child, wandering

Between earth and sky, creeping

In windows and doors, daubing

The entire neighborhood

With purple paint.

Day

Is an apologetic mother

Cloth in hand

Following after.



Peddling

From door to door

Night sells

Black bags of peppermint stars

Heaping cones of vanilla moon

Until

His wares are gone

Then shuffles homeward

Jingling the gray coins

Of daybreak.



142 THE POrTRY OF THE NEGRO
IV



Night's brittle song, sliver-thin
Shatters into a billion fragments
Of quiet shadows
At the blaring jazz
Of a morning sun.



I SING NO NEW SONGS
by Frank Marshall Davis

Once I cried for new songs to sing ... a black rose ... a brown sky
. . . the moon for my buttonhole , . . pink dreams for the table

Later I learned life is a servant girl . . . dusting the same pieces yes-
terday, today, tomorrow ... a never ending one two three one
two three one two three

The dreams of Milton were the dreams of Lindsay . . . drinking corn
liquor, wearing a derby, dancing a foxtrot ... a saxophone for a
harp

Ideas rise with new mornings but never die . . . only names, places,
people change . . . you are born, love, fight, tire and stop being
. . . Caesar died with a knife in his guts . . . Jim Colosimo from
revolver bullets

So I shall take aged things . . . bearded dreams ... a silver dollar
moon worn thin from the spending . . . model a new dress for this
one . . . get that one a new hat . . * teach the other to forget the
minuet . . . then I shall send them into the street

And if passersby stop and say "Who is that? I never saw this pretty girl
before" or if they .say ... "Is that old woman still alive? I thought
she died years ago" ... if they speak these words, I shall neither
smile nor swear . . . those who walked before me, those who
come after me, may make better clothes, teach a more graceful
step . . . but the dreams of Homer neither grow nor wilt. . , .



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. T43



ROBERT WH1TMORE
by Frank Marshall Davis



Having attained success in business

possessing three cars

one wife and two mistresses

a home and furniture

talked of by the town

and thrice ruler of the local Elks

Robert Whitmore

died of apoplexy

when a stranger from Georgia

mistook him

for a former Macon waiter.



FLOWERS OF DARKNESS
by Frank Marshall Davis



Slowly the night blooms, unfurling

Flowers of darkness, covering

The trellised sky, becoming

A bouquet of blackness

Unending

Touched with sprigs

Of pale and budding stars

Soft the night smell
Among April trees
Soft and richly rare
Yet commonplace
Perfume on a cosmic scale

I turn to you Mandy Lou
I see the flowering night
Cameo condensed
Into the lone black rose
Of your face



144 TOE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The young woman-smell

Of your poppy body

Rises to my brain as opium

Yet silently motionless

I sit with twitching fingers

Yea, even reverently

Sit I

With you and the blossoming night

For what flower, plucked,

Lingers long?



NORTHBOUN'

by Ariel Williams Hoiloway

O' de wurl' ain't flat,
An' de wurl' ain't roun',
H'it's one long strip
Hangin' up an' down
Jes' Souf an' Norf ;
Jes' Norf an' Souf.

Talkin' Tbout sailin' 'round de wurF
Huh! I'd be so dizzy my head 'ud twurL
If dis heah earf wuz jes' a ball
You no the people all 'ud fall.

O' de wurF ain't flat,
An' de wurl' ain't roun*,
H'it's one long strip
Hangin' up an' down
Jes' Souf an' Norf;
Jes' Norf an' Souf.

Talkin' TDOut the City wbut Saint John saw-
Chile you oughta go to Saginaw;
A nigger's chance is "finest kind,"
An' pretty gals ain't hard to find.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL 145

Huh! de wuiT ain't flat,
An' de wurF ain't roun*,
Jes* one long strip
Hangin* up an* down.
Since Norf is up,
An* Souf is down,
An' Hebben is up,
I'm upward boun*.



CONCEPTION
by Waring Cuney



Jesus' mother never had no man.
God came to her one day an* said,
"Mary, chile, kiss ma hanY'



NO IMAGES
by Waring Cuney



She does not know

Her beauty,

She thinks her brown body

Has no glory.

If she could dance

Naked,

Under palm trees

And see her image in the river

She would know.

But there are no palm trees

On the street,

And dish water gives back no images.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



FINIS

by Waring Cuney



Now that our love has drifted

To a quiet close,

Leaving the empty ache

That always follows when beauty goes;

Now that you and I,

Who stood tip-toe on earth

To touch our fingers to the sky,

Have turned away

To allow our little love to die

Go, dear, seek again the magic touch.

But if you are wise,

As I shall be wise,

You will not again

Love over much.



BURIAL OF THE YOUNG LOVE
by Waring Cuney



Weep not,

You who love her.



Place your flowers
Above her
And go your way
Only I shall stay.



After you have gone
With grief in your hearts,
I will remove the flowers
You laid above her.
Yes, I who love her.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U,SJC



Do not weep,
Friends and lovers.

(Oh, the scent of flowers in the air!
Oh, the beauty of her body there!)

Gently now lay your flowers down.

When the last mourner has gone

And I have torn

Each flower;

When the last mourner has gone

And I have tossed

Broken stems and flower heads

To the winds ... ah! ...

I will gather withered leaves . . .

I will scatter withered leaves there.

Friends and lovers,
Do not weep.

Gently lay your flowers down . . .
Gently, now, lay your flowers down.



THE DEATH BED
by Waring Cuney



All the time they were praying
He watched the shadow of a tree
Flicker on the wall.

There is no need of prayer

He said,

No need at all.

The kin-folk thought it strange

That he should ask them from a dying bed.

But they left all in a row



148 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And it seemed to ease him
To see them go.

There were some who kept on praying

In a room across the hall,

And some who listened to the breeze

That made the shadows waver

On the wall.

He tried his nerve
On a song he knew
And made an empty note
That might have come,
From a bird's harsh throat.

And all the time it worried him
That they were in there praying,
And all the time he wondered
What it was they could be saying.



GRAVE

by Waring Cuney

When I am in my grave

And none are there

Save those who like myself

Must sleep,

I shall wake at times

To weep.

I shall wake at times

To weep,

For I need have no fears

There

That someone see

My tears

I need have no fears*



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJL 149



LAME MAN AND THE BLIND MAN
by Waring Cuney



Lame man said to the blind man,
"Hope you're doing well."
Blind man said to the lame man,
"Can't you see me catching hell?"

Blind man said to the lame man,
"How's things with you?"
Lame man leading the blind man,
"I'm catching hell, too."

Blind man playing his old guitar.
"Somebody gimme a dime-
Tired o' singing the blues
For nothing all the time!"

Lame man said to the blind man,
"Can't I sing some bass?"
Blind man said to the lame man,
"Open up your face!"

Lame man and the blind man
Sang a too-sad song:
"Tain't right to be so far down!
It's wrong! Sure is wrong!"

Blind man said to the lame man,
"Do I feel rain or snow?"
Lame man said to the blind man,
"Rain! Let's go!"



150 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

FORGOTTEN DREAMS
by Edward Silvera



The soft gray hands of sleep

Toiled all night long

To spin a beautiful garment

Of dreams;

At dawn

The little task was done.

Awakening,

The garb so deftly spun

Was only a heap

Of ravelled thread

A vague remembrance

In my head.



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD
by Edward Silvera



You came like the dawn
With no voice

To proclaim your calm birth
Save the song of the lark;
And when shadows foretold
That the quick day was done,
Your little white shroud
Had already been spun,
So you stole away in the dark.



SUMMER MATURES
by Helene Johnson



Summer matures. Brilliant Scorpion
Appears. The Pelican's thick pouch
Hangs heavily with perch and slugs.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.SJk, 15!

The brilliant-bellied newt flashes

Its crimson crest in the white water.

In the lush meadow, by the river,

The yellow-freckled toad laughs

With a toothless gurgle at the white-necked stork

Standing asleep on one red reedy leg.

And here Pan dreams of slim stalks clean for piping,

And of a nightingale gone mad with freedom.

Come. I shall weave a bed of reeds

And willow limbs and pale nightflowers.

I shall strip the roses of their petals,

And the white down from the swan's neck.

Come. Night is here. The air is drunk

With wild grape and sweet clover.

And by the sacred fount of Aganippe

Euterpe sings of love. Ah, the woodland creatures,

The doves in pairs, the wild sow and her shoats,

The stag searching the forest for a mate.

Know more of love than you, my callous Phaon.

The young moon is a curved white scimitar

Pierced thru the swooning night.

Sweet Phaon. With Sappho sleep like the stars at dawn.

This night was born for love, my Phaon.

Come



FULFILLMENT

by Helene Johnson



To climb a hill that hungers for the sky,
To dig my hands wrist-deep in pregnant earth,

To watch a young bird, veering, learn to fly,
To give a still, stark poem shining birth.

To hear the rain drool, dimpling, down the drain
And splash with a wet giggle in the street,

To ramble in the twilight after supper,

And to count the pretty faces that you meet.



152 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

To ride to town on trolleys, crowded, teeming

With joy and hurry and laughter and push and sweat-
Squeezed next a patent-leathered Negro dreaming
Of a wrinkled river and a minnow net.

To buy a paper from a breathless boy,

And read of kings and queens in foreign lands,

Hyperbole of romance and adventure,
All for a penny the color of my hand.

To lean against a strong tree's bosom, sentient
And hushed before the silent prayer it breathes

To melt the still snow with my seething body
And kiss the warm earth tremulous underneath.

Ah, life, to let your stabbing beauty pierce me
And wound me like we did the studded Christ,

To grapple with you, loving you too fiercely,
And to die bleeding consummate with Life.



MAGALU

by Helena Johnson

Summer comes.

The ziczac hovers

'Round the greedy-mouthed crocodile.

A vulture bears away a foolish jackal.

The flamingo is a dash of pink

Against dark green mangroves,

Her slender legs rivalling her slim neck.

The laughing lake gurgles delicious music in its throat

And lulls to sleep the lazy lizard,

A nebulous being on a sun-scorched rock.

In such a place,

In this pulsing, riotous gasp of color,

I met Magalu, dark as a tree at night,

Eager-lipped, listening to a man with a white collar

And a small black book with a cross on it.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S*A. 153

Oh Magalu, come! Take my hand and I will read you poetry.

Chromatic words,

Seraphic symphonies,

Fill up your throat with laughter and your heart with song.

Do not let him lure you from your laughing waters,

Lulling lakes, lissome winds.

Would you sell the colors of your sunset and the fragrance

Of your flowers, and the passionate wonder of your forest

For a creed that will not let you dance?



REMEMBER NOT
by Helene Johnson

Remember not the promises we made

In this same garden many moons ago.

You must forget them. I would have it so.

Old vows are like old flowers as they fade

And vaguely vanish in a feeble death.

There is no reason why your hands should clutch

At pretty yesterdays. There is not much

Of beauty in me now. And though my breath

Is quick, my body sentient, my heart

Attuned to romance as before, you must

Not, through mistaken chivalry, pretend

To love me still. There is no mortal art

Can overcome Time's deep, corroding rust.

Let Love's beginning expiate Love's end.



INVOCATION

by Helene Johnson



Let me be buried in the rain

In a deep, dripping wood,

Under the warm wet breast of Earth

Where once a gnarled tree stood.



154 THE POETRY OF THE MEGRO



And paint a picture on my tomb

With dirt and a piece of bough

Of a girl and a boy beneath a round, ripe moon

Eating of love with an eager spoon

And vowing an eager vow.

And do not keep my plot mowed smooth

And clean as a spinster's bed,

But let the weed, the flower, the tree,

Riotous, rampant, wild and free,

Grow high above my head.



1HE ROAD

by Helene Johnson



Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze,

A leaping clay hill lost among the trees,

The bleeding note of rapture-streaming thrush

And stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song.

Ah, little road, brown as my race is brown,

Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride,

Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down.

Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry!



1 HAVE SEEN BLACK HANDS 60
by Richard Wright

I am black and I have seen black hands, millions and millions of them
Out of millions of bundles of wool and flannel tiny black fingers have

reached restlessly and hungrily for life.

Reached out for the black nipples at the black breasts of black mothers,
And they've held red, green, blue, yellow, orange, white, and purple

toys in the childish grips of possession,
And chocolate drops, peppermint sticks, lollypops, wineballs, ice cream

cones, and sugared cookies in fingers sticky and gummy,
And theyVe held balls and bats and gloves and marbles and jack-knives

and sling-shots and spinning tops in the thrill of sport and play

""Reprinted by permission of Paul R. Reynolds & Son.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 155

And pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters and sometimes on

New Year's, Easter, Lincoln's Birthday, May Day, a brand new

green dollar bill,
They've held pens and rulers and maps and tablets and books in palms

spotted and smeared with ink,
And they've held dice and cards and half -pint flasks and cue sticks and

cigars and cigarettes in the pride of new maturity . . ,



I am black and I have seen black hands, millions and millions of them
They were tired and awkward and calloused and grimy and covered

with hangnails,
And they were caught in the fast-moving belts of machines and snagged

and smashed and crushed,
And they jerked up and down at the throbbing machines massing

taller and taller the heaps of gold in the banks of bosses,
And they piled higher and higher the steel, iron, the lumber, wheat,

rye, the oats, corn, the cotton, the wool, the oil, the coal, the meat,

the fruit, the glass, and the stone until there was too much to be

used,
And they grabbed guns and slung them on their shoulders and marched

and groped in trenches and fought and killed and conquered

nations who were customers for the goods black hands had made.
And again black hands stacked goods higher and higher until there was

too much to be used,
And then the black hands held trembling at the factory gates the

dreaded lay-off slip,
And the black hands hung idle and swung empty and grew soft and

got weak and bony from unemployment and starvation,
And they grew nervous and sweaty, and opened and shut in anguish

and doubt and hesitation and irresolution . . .

Ill

I am black and I have seen black hands, millions and millions of them
Reaching hesitantly out of days of slow death for the goods they had

made, but the bosses warned that the goods were private and did

not belong to them,



156 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And the black hands struck desperately out in defence of life and there
was blood, but the enraged bosses decreed that this too was wrong,

And the black hands felt the cold steel bars of the prison they had
made, in despair tested their strength and found that they could
neither bend nor break them,

And the black hands fought and scratched and held back but a thou-
sand white hands took them and tied them,

And the black hands lifted palms in mute and futile supplication to the
sodden faces of mobs wild in the revelries of sadism,

And the black hands strained and clawed and struggled in vain at the
noose that tightened about the black throat,

And the black hands waved and beat fearfully at the tall flames that
cooked and charred the black flesh . . .



IV

I am black and I have seen black hands

Raised in fists of revolt, side by side with the white fists of white

workers,

And some day and it is only this which sustains me
Some day there shall be millions and millions of them,
On some red day in a burst of fists on a new horizon!



BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME 68
by Richard Wright

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled suddenly upon the

thing,

Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly oaks and elms.
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting themselves between

the world and me. . . .

There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly upon a
cushion of ashes.

There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt finger accus-
ingly at the sky.

"Reprinted by permission of Paul R. Reynolds & Son.



NEGRO POETS OF THE USJ^ 157

There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and a scorched

coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat, and a pair of

trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches, butt-ends

of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a drained gin-flask, and a

whore's lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the lingering

smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow surprise into the

eye sockets of a stony skulL . . .
And while I stood my mind was frozen with a cold pity for the life that

was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by icy walls

of fear

The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the grass and fum-
bled the leaves in the trees; the woods poured forth the hungry

yelping of hounds; the darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and

the witnesses rose and lived:

The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into my flesh.
The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth; cigars and cigarettes

glowed, the whore smeared the lipstick red upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that my life be

burned. . . .

And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth into my throat

till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my black wet

body slipped and rolled in their hands as they bound me to the

sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from me in limp

patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into my raw flesh,

and I moaned in my agony.

Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling

my limbs.



158 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot sides of
death.

Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in yellow sur-
prise at the sun. . . .



ADJURATION

by Charles Enoch Wheeler

Let the knowing speak

Let the oppressed tell of their sorrows,

Of their salt and boundless grief.

Since even the wise and the brave

Must wonder, and the creeping mists

Of doubt, creep along the trough

Of pursuing woe . . .

To curl among the crevices

Of the most cannily armored brain.

Let those who can endure their doubts

Speak for the comfort of the weary

Who weep to know.



TUMULT

by Charles Enoch Wheeler

Until your laughter
Dusk was good, and quiet.
Until your laughter went up
A rocket against the dark,
That broke in spatter of flame.
There will never be peace again.
The heart remembers too well,
A rocket sang upward and broke
Against the dark, dripping fire
. . . And the heart is in tumult.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 159



WITHOUT NAME 67
by Pauli Murray



Call it neither love nor spring madness,
Nor chance encounter nor quest ended.
Observe it casually as pussy-willows
Or push-cart pansies on a city street.
Let this seed growing in us
Granite-strong with persistent root
Be without name, or call it the first
Warm wind that caressed your cheek
And traded unshared kisses between us.
Call it the elemental earth
Bursting the clasp of too-long winter
And trembling for the plough-blade.

Let our blood chant it

And our flesh sing anthems to its arrival,

But our lips shall be silent, uncommitted.



HEART OF THE WOODS
by Wesley Curtright

Deep in the woods well go,

Hand in hand

Let the woods close about us,

Let the world outside be lost

And let us find that Secret City

Lost so long ago

In the Heart of the Woods.

^By permission of The Saturday Review of Literature and the author.



160 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



FREEDOM IN MAH SOUL

by David Wadsworth Cannon, Jr.



Fo'ty acres jes' fo* mel
And freedom in mah soul!
Great pines lickin' up de sky,
Hickories too and oaks so high,
And freedom in mah soul!

I can see it jes* as plain
As if it all was done now.
Fo'ty acres, mule an' plow-
Cabin big enuf fo' foah,
Garden 'f o* mah own front do',
And freedom in mah soul!

Den we gotta dig a well
Deep, so she'll be plenty cool,
Next we're goin' to raise a church,
And den, we'll build a school.
Lawd, if dis ain't jes* too grand,
Led us straight to de promised land,
Freedom in mah soul.



WESTERN TOWN

by David Wadsworth Cannon, Jr.



Dry Gap a dingy general store.

A sign said, "Population Seven."

I found a universe for two:

One sun, one moon, and called it heaven.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 161



A BOY'S NEED 68

by Herbert Clark Johnson



A boy should have an open fireplace
To sit beside, a place to warm his feet
And have the peace of firelight on his face.

A boy should know the songs that wood worms sing
In burning logs in winter time, as well
As those of robins on the boughs in spring.

Aside from these, a hearth, like a meadow's stream,
Has a strange old way of making boys sit down
And dream of being men and boys should dream.



CROSSING A CREEK
by Herbert Clark Johnson



He who has rolled his pants up to his knee
And walked a lowland creek from bank to bank
Has mixed his pulse with that of land and sea.
And though, in after days, he cross his streams
By bridge or log, he'll always feel its beat
Against his body, even in his dreams.



WILLOW BEND AND WEEP 69
by Herbert Clark Johnson

Bend willow, willow bend down deep
And dip your branches into cold
Brown river water and then weep,
Weep, willow, for my land-sick soul.

^From Poems from Flat Creek, by Herbert Clark Johnson; originally published
in Yankee, April 1941.

'"From Poems from Flat Creek, by Herbert Clark Johnson; originally published
in Opportunity: A Journal of Negro Life, November 1940.



162 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Let river tears wash out land grief,
Let river water wash wounds made
By too much toil without relief
While you, willow, stood in the shade.

Willow, you owe this much to me,
I spared the ax for many years,
Your roots are in my land, now, tree
Bend down and weep. I have not tears.



ON CALVARY'S LONELY HILL
by Herbert Clark Johnson



Let's not be slow in knowing
That these cold drops of rain
Have not the power to cleanse
The sinner's crimson stain.

For each sweet stolen hour
There'll be a bitter one
On some high lonely hill
Before the cleansing's done.



THE LETTER 70

by Beatrice M. Murphy



sion.



Please excuse this letter;
I know we said we're through
But there's something very precious
Of mine you took with you
And I must have it back,

70 From Love Is a Terrible Thing, by Beatrice M. Murphy. Reprinted by permis-



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 163



I'm sure that you will find it
If you search among your pack
Way down in the innermost part.

Please wrap it carefully
Before you mail
You see, it is my heart.



O DAEDALUS FLY AWAY HOME
by Robert E. Hayden



Drifting scent of the Georgia pines,
coonskin drum and jubilee banjo:

pretty Malinda, dance with me.

Night is juba, night is conjo,

pretty Malinda, dance with me. . . .

Night is an African juju man

weaving a wish and a weariness together

to make two wings.

O fly away home, fly away
Do you remember Africa?

O cleave the air, fly away home
I knew all the stars of Africa.

Spread my wings and cleave the air

My gran, he flew back to Africa,

just spread his arms and flew away home. . , .

Drifting night in the windy pines,
night is a laughing, night is a longing:

duskrose Malinda, come to me. . . .



164 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Night is a mourning juju man

weaving a wish and a weariness together

to make two wings.

O fly away home, fly away



HOMAGE TO THE EMPRESS OF THE BLUES
by Robert E. Hayden

Because somewhere there was a man in a candystripe silk shirt
gracile and dangerous as a jaguar and because some woman moaned
for him in sixty watt gloom and mourned him Faithless Love
Twotiming Love Oh Love Oh Careless Aggravating Love,

She came out on the stage in yards of pearls, emerging like
a favorite scenic view, flashed her golden teeth, and sang.

Because somewhere the lathes began to show from underneath

torn hurdygurdy lithographs of dollfaced heaven,

because there were those who feared alaruming fists of snow upon

the door and those who feared the riotsquad of statistics,

She came out on the stage in ostrich feathers, beaded satin,
and shone that smile on us and didn't need the lights and sang.



LETTER FROM THE SOUTH
by Robert E. Hayden

This is no dreamworld, no nightmare country, no landscape
by Tanguy, Ernst, or Fini.

No. But as charged with the presence of a sleeping,
an easily-aroused terror,

as specialized, as selective, as trademarked in its neurosis,

as beaked, as hideous-feathered, as gothic.

If you have seen a battered jukebox light up in the primitive
colors that mean sex, joy, abandon,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 1<S5

if you have watched it wake into garishness and, lo, heard it

begin a waxen funeral music,
you will understand how the heart is harried here, is never

at home here, continues a stranger.

No terrain of delirium tremens. No. But wherever I turn, wherever,

there are divisions and amputations
and masks that leer and lour and grin and evade and dissemble

and try to be human faces.
Wherever I turn, wherever I turn, I see the deformed and the injured,

distortions of double-exposure,
pathetic processions hobbling, faltering on stumps of feet, on

burnt-matchstick legs, getting nowhere.

If you have read, and shuddered upon the reading, of England's
plague-year, when the infected,

made vicious by their fear, breathed upon the untainted,

hoping to avenge themselves, then surely

you will understand this pity, this revulsion, this angry compassion
the heart here experiences.

This is no f everchart territory, no shifting cinematic acre

of the mad, certainly,
but as tentacular, as non sequitur, as phosphorescent

with imageries of guilt;
as savage in its threats of death by claustrophobia, death by

castration, death by division. Death.



A BALLAD OF REMEMBRANCE
by Robert E. Hayden

Quadroon mermaids, Afro angels, saints

blackgilt balanced upon the switchblades of that air

and sang. Tight streets unfolding to the eye

like fans of corrosion and elegiac lace

crackled with their singing: Shadow of time. Shadow of blood.



166 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Shadow, echoed the zulu king, dangling

from a cluster of balloons. Blood,

whined the gunmetal priestess, floating

out from the courtyard where dead men sat at dice.

What will you have? she inquired, the sallow vendeuse
of prepared tarnishes and jokes of nacre and ormolu.
What but those gleamings, oldrose graces,
manners like scented gloves? Contrived ghosts
rapped to metronome clack of lavalieres.

Contrived illuminations riding a threat

of river, masked Negroes wearing chameleon

satins gaudy now as an undertaker's dream

of disaster, lighted the crazy flopping dance

of my heart, dance of love and hate among joys, rejections.

Accommodate, muttered the zulu king, throned

like a copper toad in a glaucous poison jewel.

Love, chimed the saints and the angels and the mermaids.

Hate, shrieked the gunmetal priestess

from her spiked bellcollar curved like a fleur-de-lys:

As well have a talon as a finger, a muzzle
as a mouth. As well have a hollow as a heart.
And she pinwheeled away in coruscations
of laughter, scattering those others before her.

But my heart continued its dance now among
metaphorical doors, decors of illusion,
coffeecups floating poised hysterias;
now among mazurka dolls offering
deaths-heads of peppermint roses and real violets.

Then you arrived, meditative, ironic,

richly human. And your presence was shore where my heart

rested, released, from the hoodoo of that dance,

where I spoke with my human voice again and saw

the minotaurs of edict dwindle feckless, foolish.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 167

And this is not only, therefore, a ballad

of remembrance for the down-South arcane city

with death in its jaws like gold teeth and archaic

cusswords; not only a token

for Bernice and Grady, for Mentor, for George and Oscar,

held in the schizoid fists of that city like flowers,

but also, Mark Van Doren,

a poem of remembrance, a gift, a souvenir for you.



A PHOTOGRAPH OF ISADORA DUNCAN
by Robert E. Hayden

How like the consummation and despair
of a medium's gifts she seems,
how like a revenant, receding yet
approaching, whose message is the holiness
of art, whose valedictory word is : Live.

Uncouth skull and crossbones rattle wrangle
but cannot clamor down
what weeps and sings in these translucid fixed
and fluent gestures: fusion of the soul's
the body's splendor into most godly fire.



EINE KLEINE NACHTMUS1K
by Robert E. Hayden



The siren cries that ran like mad and naked screaming women
with hair ablaze all over Europe, that like ventriloquists
made steel and stone speak out in the wild idiom of the damned,
oh now they have ceased but have created a groaning aftersilence.

And the mended ferris wheel turns to a tune again
in nevermore Alt Wien and poltergeists in imperials



168 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

and eau de cologne go up and up on the f erris wheel la la

in contagious dark where only the dead are relaxed and warm.

II

Anton the student hunches in a frigid room and reads and hears
the clawfoot sarabande, the knucklebone passacaglia coming close:
he has put on the requisite ancestral blue,
and his hair would glister festive as opals if the girandole

Had its way. A single prism is left to exclaim
at the dear iota of warmth and light a burntdown candle
salvages. Anton aching reads re-reads the dimming lines,
warms thumb and finger at the candleshine and turns the page.

Ill

Now as the ferris wheel revolves to extrovert neomusic
and soldiers pay with cigarettes and candybars
for rides for rides with the famished girls whose colloquies
with death have taught them how to play at being whores:

Now as skin-and-bones Europe hurts all over from the swastika's
hexentanz: oh think of Anton, Anton brittle, Anton crystalline;
think what the winter moon, the leper beauty of a Gothic tale, must see:
the ice-azure likeness of a young man reading, carved most craftily,



RUNAGATE RUNAGATE
by Robert E. Hayden



And it's fare you well, fare you well,
I'm on my way to Canaan, fare you well.

O freedom mythic North



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 169

like some rock-crystal far-off Bible city

Runs falls rises stumbles on

from darkness into darkness and the darkness

thicketed with shapes of fear and the hounds behind

and the hunters behind and the night cold and the night long

and the river to cross and blackness ahead keep on

and doubt ahead when shall I reach that somewhere

that tomorrow and if they find me if they overtake me

die fighting keep on never turn back

Runagate nigger Runagate

Many thousands rise and go,
many thousands done crossed over.

Some go weeping and some rejoicing,
some in coffins and some in carriages,
some in silk, most in shackles.

Rise and go or fare you well
Blind and halt and tired and lonely,
hunched and straight and proud and humble.

Come along, brother, or fare you well

No more auction-block for me,
no more driver's lash for me.

Rise and go

Runagate Runagate

If you catch a Sambo disguised as a dandy,
if you catch a Mandy mincing like a lady,
notify subscriber and claim reward;

but it's only fair to warn you:

They will run underground when you try to catch them,
plunge into quicksands, whirlpools, mazes,



170 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

they will turn to scorpions when you try to catch them,
salamanders, nettles; they will turn to fire.

And before 111 be a slave
111 be buried in my grave.

North Star and bonanza gold
I'm bound for the freedom, freedom-bound
and oh Susanna don't you cry for me
Runagate



II



And it is now she comes,

summoned by their need:

Harriet Tubman,

whipscarred woman of earth, risen out of bondage,
risen from their anguish and their power
for to be a calling, for to be a shining.

Mean to be free.

Emerges from unnatural shadow,
accomplice of that host whose crime
is the opening of a door, the lighting of a lamp,
the whispering of a name;

Is strategist of stars and ghostly silences.

Walks that panthergloom of trauma and decay

with pistol and disguises,

equal to all the gothic role requires:

Hairbreadth escape by iceblock, hidden stair,
hand-to-hand encounters with the hooded stalkers,
despair and panic and betrayal.

Mean to be free.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 171

Wanted: the negress Harriet Tubman,

alias The General, alias Conductor, alias Moses:

stealer of slaves, in league

with the bigots Alcott and Emerson, Hussey and Haviland,

with the traitors Garrison, Still, Thoreau,

the troublemakers Loguen, Douglass, Coffin, old John Brown:

Reward

Godgazing Ezekiel, oh tell me do you see
mailed Jehovah coming to deliver me?

Dead or Alive
Come ride this train. Mean to be free.



FREDERICK DOUGLASS
by Robert E. Hayden

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty,

this beautiful

and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as the earth; when it belongs at last to our children,
when it is truly instinct, brainmatter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man

shall be remembered oh, not with statues* rhetoric,

not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the needful beautiful thing.



172 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



CREOLE GIRL

by Leslie M. Collins



When you dance,

Do you think of Spain,

Purple skirts and clipping castanets,

Creole Girl?

When you laugh,
Do you think of France,
Golden wine and mincing minuets,
Creole Girl?

When you sing,

Do you think of young America,
Grey guns and battling bayonets,
Creole Girl?

When you cry,

Do you think of Africa,

Blue nights and casual canzonets,

Creole Girl?



SIX O'CLOCK
by Owen Dodson



I have a river in my mind

Where I have drowned myself

So many times I feel sharp flesh

Of water underneath

My eyelids; and between my toes

The minnows smuggle time

And heard it where all shells begin

To grow what children on the shore

Will beg to listen to.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 173



Horizon, water, land

For me at six o'clock:

A scarlet time of sky

That drinks your rim, horizon;

Turns your blue to blood,

Oh sea; absorbs your green,

Oh land: in scarlet time

I'll see the wave,

The quicksand arm ascend

To master and control

All teeth, death-growing hair,

(Goodbye) Each cell that loves.

(Goodbye my dear goodbye)



RAG DOLL AND SUMMER BIRDS

For Frank Harriott
by Owen Dodson

II

The snow cannot melt too soon for the birds left behind.

The crumbs fall in the crevices of snow

And the birds taste winter in their throats,

Wonder where the warm seasons went.

Their wings do not know the directions

The other flocks are gone, the signs are 'covered with winter.

There are no signals . . . Directionless . . . Lost . . . Alone

Why are the flowers on the trees so white?
Why are these flowers so cold?

Smoke is in the chimneys where warmth is,
The sky is low and dark and level in the barns,
The intricate cobwebs are thinner than branches:
They are not singing places, not resting places,
Hay has not the smell of their nests,
Their songs turn to ice in the air.



174 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



The dark stiff little compact spots you see on these white fields are not
shadows.



COUNTERPOINT
by Owen Dodson

Terror does not belong to open day

Picnics on the beach, all along

The unmined water children play,

A merry-go-round begins a jingle song,

Horses churn up and down the peppermint poles,

Children reach for the brassy ring,

Children laugh while the platform rolls

Faster and faster while the horses sing:

merry-ro, merry-o,
this is the way your lives should go:
up and down and all around
listening to this merry sound.

Terror does not belong to open day

merry-ro, merry-ha,
snatch this ring and plant a star;
grow a field of magic light,
reap it on a winter night.

Terror does not belong to open day



EPITAPH FOR A NEGRO WOMAN
by Owen Dodson

How cool beneath this stone the soft moss lies,
How smooth and long the silken threads have kept
Without the taste of slender rain or stars,
How tranquilly the outer coats have slept.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 175

Alone with only wind, with only ice,
The moss is growing, clinging to the stone;
And seeing only what the darkness shows,
It thrives without the moon, it thrives alone.



THE DECISION
by Owen Dodson



Who are these among you
Homesick for home, longing for peace
The summer going and the war going
And all the sharp promises of peace?

Watch from your foxholes
For fire on distant mountains,
Fire flags lit with peace
Waving on the mountains.

There are other journeys

You must make after your journey home,

Other journeys you must make alone

Into the countries of the heart

To sit with silence and decide alone

If your final home will be
Where brother knows brother,
Chews meat, breaks bread
Together with his brother;

Or where a man will trample again

His neighbor, shake no hands,

Scorn fellowship, light fires

Of dark bones and flesh to warm his hands.

Who are these among you
Longing for peace among all men,
Longing for each homesick heart
To make a pilgrimage among all men?



176 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

POEMS FOR MY BROTHER KENNETH
by Owen Dodson



VII



Sleep late with your dream.
The morning has a scar
To mark on the horizon
With death of the morning star.

The color of blood will appear
And wash the morning sky,
Aluminum birds flying with fear
Will scream to your waking,
Will send you to die;

Sleep late with your dream.
Pretend that the morning is far,
Deep in the horizon country,
Unconcerned with the morning star.



OCTOBER JOURNEY 71
by Margaret Walker

Traveller take heed for journeys undertaken in the dark of the year.

Go in the bright blaze of Autumn's equinox.

Carry protection against ravages of a sun-robber, a vandal, and a thief.

Cross no bright expanse of water in the full of the moon.

Choose no dangerous summer nights;

no heady tempting hours of spring;

October journeys are safest, brightest, and best.

I want to tell you what hills are like in October

when colors gush down mountainsides

and little streams are freighted with a caravan of leaves.



For My People, by Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission of Yale
University Press.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 177

I want to tell you how they blush and turn in fiery shame and joy,

how their love burns with flames consuming and terrible

until we wake one morning and woods are like a smoldering plain

a glowing caldron full of jewelled fire:

the emerald earth a dragon's eye

the poplars drenched with yellow light

and dogwoods blazing bloody red.

Travelling southward earth changes from gray rock to green velvet.

Earth changes to red clay

with green grass growing brightly

with saffron skies of evening setting dully

with muddy rivers moving sluggishly.

in the early spring when the peach tree blooms

wearing a veil like a lavender haze

and the pear and plum in their bridal hair

gently snow their petals on earth's grassy bosom below

then the soughing breeze is soothing

and the world seems bathed in tenderness,

but in October

blossoms have long since fallen.

A few red apples hang on leafless boughs;

wind whips bushes briskly.

And where a blue stream sings cautiously

a barren land feeds hungrily.

An evil moon bleeds drops of death.

The earth burns brown.

Grass shrivels and dries to a yellowish mass.

Earth wears a dun-colored dress

like an old woman wooing the sun to be her lover,

be her sweetheart and her husband bound in one.

Farmers heap hay in stacks and bind corn in shocks

against the biting breath of frost.

The train wheels hum, "I am going home, I am going home,
I am moving toward the South."



178 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Soon cypress swamps and muskrat marshes

and black fields touched with cotton will appear.

I dream again of my childhood land

of a neighbor's yard with a redbud tree

the smell of pine for turpentine

an Easter dress, a Christmas eve

and winding roads from the top of a hill.

A music sings within my flesh

I feel the pulse within my throat

my heart fills up with hungry fear

while hills and flatlands stark and staring

before my dark eyes sad and haunting

appear and disappear.

Then when I touch this land again

the promise of a sun-lit hour dies.

The greenness of an apple seems

to dry and rot before my eyes.

The sullen winter rains

are tears of grief I cannot shed.

The windless days are static lives.

The clock runs down

timeless and still.

The days and nights turn hours to years

and water in a gutter marks the circle of another world

hating, resentful, and afraid

stagnant, and green, and full of slimy things.



MOLLY MEANS 72
by Margaret Walker

Old Molly Means was a hag and a witch;
Chile of the devil, the dark, and sitch.
Her heavy hair hung thick in ropes
And her blazing eyes was black as pitch.

'"From For My People, by Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission of Yale
University Press.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 179



Imp at three and wench at leben

She counted her husbands to the number seben.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
There goes the ghost of Molly Means.

Some say she was born with a veil on her face
So she could look through unnatchal space
Through the future and through the past
And charm a body or an evil place
And every man could well despise
The evil look in her coal black eyes.
Old Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Dark is the ghost of Molly Means.

And when the tale begun to spread

Of evil and of holy dread:

Her black-hand arts and her evil powers

How she cast her spells and called the dead,

The younguns was afraid at night

And the farmers feared their crops would blight.
Old Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Cold is the ghost of Molly Means.

Then one dark day she put a spell'
On a young gal-bride just come to dwell
In the lane just down from Molly's shack
And when her husband come riding back
His wife was barking like a dog
And on all fours like a common hog.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Where is the ghost of Molly Means?

The neighbors come and they went away
And said .she'd die before break of day
But her husband held her in his arms
And swore he'd break the wicked charms;
He'd search all up and down the land
And turn the spell on Molly's hand.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Sharp is the ghost of Molly Means.



180 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



So he rode all day and he rode all night
And at the dawn he come in sight
Of a man who said he could move the spell
And cause the awful thing to dwell
On Molly Means, to bark and bleed
Till she died at the hands of her evil deed.
Old Molly, Molly, Molly Means
This is the ghost of Molly Means.

Sometimes at night through the shadowy trees

She rides along on a winter breeze.

You can hear her holler and whine and cry.

Her voice is thin and her moan is high,

And her cackling laugh or her barking cold

Bring terror to the young and old.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Lean is the ghost of Molly Means.



WE HAVE BEEN BELIEVERS 78
by Margaret Walker

We have been believers believing in the black gods of an old land,
believing in the secrets of the seeress and the magic of the charmers
and the power of the devil's evil ones.

And in the white gods of a new land we have been believers believing
in the mercy of our masters and the beauty of our brothers, be-
lieving in the conjure of the humble and the faithful and the pure.

Neither the slavers' whip nor the lynchers' rope nor the bayonet could
kill our black belief. In our hunger we beheld the welcome table
and in our nakedness the glory of a long white robe. We have been
believers in the new Jerusalem.



For My People, by Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission of Yale
University Press.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 181

We have been believers feeding greedy grinning gods, like a Moloch
demanding our sons and our daughters, our strength and our wills
and our spirits of pain. We have been believers, silent and stolid
and stubborn and strong.

We have been believers yielding substance for the world. With our
hands have we fed a people and out of our strength have they
wrung the necessities of a nation. Our song has filled the twilight
and our hope has heralded the dawn.

Now we stand ready for the touch of one fiery iron, for the cleansing
breath of many molten truths, that the eyes of the blind may see
and the ears of the deaf may hear and the tongues of the people
be filled with living fire.

Where are our gods that they leave us asleep? Surely the priests and
the preachers and the powers will hear. Surely now that our hands
are empty and our hearts too full to pray they will understand.
Surely the sires of the people will send us a sign.

We have been believers believing in our burdens and our demigods too
long. Now the needy no longer weep and pray; the long-suffering
arise, and our fists bleed against the bars with a strange insistency.



HARRIET TUBMANP 4
by Margaret Walker

Dark is the face of Harriet,
Darker still her fate
Deep in the dark of southern wilds
Deep in the slavers' hate.

Fiery the eye of Harriet,
Fiery, dark, and wild;
Bitter, bleak, and hopeless
Is the bonded child.

74 From For My People, by Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission o Yale
University Press.



182 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Stand in the fields, Harriet,
Stand alone and still
Stand before the overseer
Mad enough to kill.

This is slavery, Harriet,
Bend beneath the lash;
This is Maryland, Harriet,
Bow to poor white trash.

You're a field hand, Harriet,
Working the corn;
You're a grubber with the hoe
And a slave child born.

You're just sixteen, Harriet,
And never had a beau;
Your mother's dead long time ago,
Your daddy you don't know.

This piece of iron's not hard enough
To kill you with a blow,
This piece of iron can't hurt you,
Just let you slaves all know.

I'm still the overseer,
Old marsterll believe my tale;
I know that he will keep me,
From going to the jail.

Get up, bleeding Harriet,

I didn't hit you hard;

Get up, bleeding Harriet,

And grease your head with lard.

Get up, sullen Harriet,
Get up and bind your head.
Remember this is Maryland
And I can beat you dead.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 183

How far is the road to Canada?
How far do I have to go?
How far is the road from Maryland
And the hatred that I know?

I stabbed that overseer;
I took his rusty knife;
I killed that overseer;
I took his lowdown life.

For three long years I waited,
Three years I kept my hate,
Three years before I killed him,
Three years I had to wait.

Done shook the dust of Maryland
Clean off my weary feet;
I'm on my way to Canada
And Freedom's golden street.

I'm bound to git to Canada

Before another week;

I come through swamps and mountains,

I waded many a creek.

Now tell my brothers yonder
That Harriet is free;
Yes, tell my brothers yonder
No more auction block for me.



Come down from the mountain, Harriet,
Come down to the valley at night,
Come down to your weeping people
And be their guiding light.

Sing Deep Dark River of Jordan,
Don't you want to cross over today?
Sing Deep Wide River of Jordan,
Don't you want to walk Freedom's way?



184 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



I stole down in the night time,
I come back in the day,
I stole back to my Maryland
To guide the slaves away.

I met old marster yonder
A-coming down the road,
And right past me in Maryland
My old marster strode.

I passed beside my marster
And covered up my head;
My marster didn't know me
I guess he heard I'm dead.

I wonder if he thought about
That overseer's dead;
I wonder if he figured out
He ought to know this head?

You better run, brave Harriet,
There's ransom on your head;
You better run, Miss Harriet,
They want you live or dead.

Been down in valleys yonder
And searching round the stills,
They got the posse after you,
A-riding through the hills.

They got the blood hounds smelling,
They got their guns cocked too;
You better run, bold Harriet,
The white man's after you.

They got ten thousand dollars
Put on your coal-black head;
They'll give ten thousand dollars;
They're mad because you fled.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 185

I wager they'll be riding

A long, long time for you.

Yes, Lord, they'll look a long time

Till Judgment Day is due.

* * * *

I'm Harriet Tubman, people,
I'm Harriet the slave,
I'm Harriet, free woman,
And I'm free within my grave.

Come along, children, with Harriet
Come along, children, come along
Uncle Sam is rich enough
To give you all a farm.

I killed the overseer.
I fooled old marster's eyes,
I found my way to Canada
With hundreds more besides.

Come along to Harper's Ferry
Come along, to brave John Brown
Come along with Harriet, children,
Come along ten million strong.

I met the mighty John Brown,
I know Fred Douglass too
Enlisted Abolitionists
Beneath the Union blue.

I heard the mighty trumpet
That sent the land to war;
I mourned for Mister Lincoln
And saw his f uneral car.

Come along with Harriet, children,
Come along to Canada.
Come down to the river, children,
And follow the northern star.



186 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Fm Harriet Tubman, people,
I'm Harriet, the slave,
I'm Harriet, free woman,
And I'm free beyond my grave.

Come along to freedom, children,
Come along ten million strong;
Come along with Harriet, children,
Come along ten million strong.



FOR MY PEOPLE 15
by Margaret Walker

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs repeatedly: their
dirges and their ditties and their blues and jubilees, praying their
prayers nightly to an unknown god, bending their knees humbly
to an unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the gone years and
the now years and the maybe years, washing ironing cooking
scrubbing sewing mending hoeing plowing digging planting prun-
ing patching dragging along never gaining never reaping never
knowing and never understanding;

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama backyards
playing baptizing and preaching and doctor and jail and soldier
and school and mama and cooking and playhouse and concert and
store and hair and Miss Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn to know
the reasons why and the answers to and the people who and the
places where and the days when, in memory of the bitter hours
when we discovered we were black and poor and small and dif-
ferent and nobody cared and nobody wondered and nobody under-
stood;

75 From For My People, by Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission of Ya)e
University Press.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 187

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to be man and
woman, to laugh and dance and sing and play and drink their wine
and religion and success, to marry their playmates and bear chil-
dren and then die of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox Avenue in
New York and Rampart Street in New Orleans, lost disinherited
dispossessed and happy people filling the cabarets and taverns and
other people's pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and land
and money and something something all our own;

For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time being lazy,
sleeping when hungry, shouting when burdened, drinking when
hopeless, tied and shackled and tangled among ourselves by the
unseen creatures who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people blundering and groping and floundering in the dark of
churches and schools and clubs and societies, associations and
councils and committees and conventions, distressed and disturbed
and deceived and devoured by money-hungry glory-craving
leeches, preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty,
by false prophet and holy believer;

For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way from
confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding, trying to fashion
a world that will hold all the people, all the faces, all the adams
and eves and their countless generations;

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a bloody peace
be written in the sky. Let a second generation full of courage issue
forth; let a people loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty
full of healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing in
our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs be written, let the
dirges disappear. Let a race of men now rise and take control.



188 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



FOR MARY McLEOD BETHUNE
by Margaret Walker



Great Amazon of God behold your bread
washed home again from many distant seas.
The cup of life you lift contains no less,
no bitterness to mock you. In its stead
this sparkling chalice many souls has fed,
and broken hearted people on their knees
lift up their eyes and suddenly they seize
on living faith, and they are comforted.

Believing in the people who are free,

who walk uplifted in an honest way,

you look at last upon another day

that you have fought with God and men to see.

Great Amazon of God behold your bread.

We walk with you and we are comforted.



KITCHENETTE BUILDING 76
by Gwendolyn Brooks

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,

Grayed in, and gray. "Dream" makes a giddy sound, not strong

Like "rent," "feeding a wife," "satisfying a man/'

But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday's garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?

w Frorn A Street in Bronzeville, by Gwendolyn Brooks, copyright, 1945, by Gwen-
dolyn Brooks Blakely. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Brothers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 189

We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.



OF DE Win WILLIAMS ON HIS WAY TO LINCOLN CEMETERY 77
by Gwendolyn Brooks

He was born in Alabama.
He was bred in Illinois.
He was nothing but a
Plain black boy.

Swing low swing low sweet sweet chariot.
Nothing but a plain black boy.

Drive him past the Pool Hall.
Drive him past the Show.
Blind within his casket,
But maybe he will know.

Down through Forty-seventh Street:
Underneath the L,
And Northwest Corner, Prairie,
That he loved so well.

Don't forget the Dance Halls-
Warwick and Savoy,
Where he picked his women, where
He drank his liquid joy.

Born in Alabama.
Bred in Illinois.
He was nothing but a
Plain black boy.

Swing low swing low sweet sweet chariot.
Nothing but a plain black boy.

"From A Street in Bronzeville, by Gwendolyn Brooks, copyright, 1945, by Gwen-
dolyn Brooks Blakely. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Brothers.



190 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE OLD-MARRIEDS 78
by Gwendolyn Brooks

But in the crowding darkness not a word did they say.

Though the pretty-coated birds had piped so lightly all the day.

And he had seen the lovers in the little side-streets.

And she had heard the morning stories clogged with sweets.

It was quite a time for loving. It was midnight. It was May.

But in the crowding darkness not a word did they say.



LOVE NOTE 79

II: FLAGS

by Gwendolyn Brooks

Still, it is dear defiance now to carry

Fair flags of you above my indignation,

Top, with a pretty glory and a merry

Softness, the scattered pound of my cold passion.

I pull you down my foxhole. Do you mind?

You burn in bits of saucy color then.

I let you flutter out against the pained

Volleys. Against my power crumpled and wan.

You, and the yellow pert exuberance

Of dandelion days, unmocking sun;

The blowing of clear wind in your gay hair;

Love changeful in you (like a music, or

Like a sweet mournfulness, or like a dance,

Or like the tender struggle of a fan ) .

78 ' 79 From A Street in Bronzeville, by Gwendolyn Brooks, copyright, 1945, by
Gwendolyn Brooks Blakely. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Brothers.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 191



THE BIRTH IN A NARROW ROOM 80
by Gwendolyn Brooks

Weeps out of Kansas country something new.
Blurred and stupendous. Wanted and unplanned.

Winks. Twines, and weakly winks
Upon the milk-glass fruit bowl, iron pot,
The bashful china child tipping forever
Yellow apron and spilling pretty cherries.

Now, weeks and years will go before she thinks

"How pinchy is my room! how can I breathe!

I am not anything and I have got

Not anything, or anything to do!"

But prances nevertheless with gods and fairies

Blithely about the pump and then beneath

The elms and grapevines, then in darling endeavor

By privy foyer, where the screenings stand

And where the bugs buzz by in private cars

Across old peach cans and old jelly jars.



MENTORS 81

by Gwendolyn Brooks

For I am rightful fellow of their band.

My best allegiances are to the dead.

I swear to keep the dead upon my mind,

Disdain for all time to be overglad.

Among spring flowers, under summer trees,

By chilling autumn waters, in the frosts

Of supercilious winter all my days

Til have as mentors those reproving ghosts.

Reprinted by special permission from the author.

81 From A Street in Bronzeville, by Gwendolyn Brooks, copyright, 1945, by Gwen-
dolyn Brooks Blakely. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Brothers.



192 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



And at that cry, at that remotest whisper,
I'll stop my casual business. Leave the banquet
Or leave the ball reluctant to unclasp her
Who may be fragrant as the flower she wears,
Make gallant bows and dim excuses, then quit
Light for the midnight that is mine and theirs.



PIANO AFTER WAR 82
by Gwendolyn Brooks



On a snug evening I shall watch her fingers,
Cleverly ringed, declining to clever pink,
Beg glory from the willing keys. Old hungers
Will break their coffins, rise to eat and thank.
And music, warily, like the golden rose
That sometimes after sunset warms the west,
Will warm that room, persuasively suffuse
That room and me, rejuvenate a past.
But suddenly, across my climbing fever
Of proud delight a multiplying cry.
A cry of bitter dead men who will never
Attend a gentle maker of musical joy.
Then my thawed eye will go again to ice.
And stone will shove the softness from my face.



HERE AND NOW 88
by Catharine Cater

If here and now be but a timely span
Between today's unhappiness, tomorrow's
Joys, what if today s abundant sorrows
Never end, tomorrow never comes, what then?

^From A Street in Bronzeville, by Gwendolyn Brooks, copyright, 1945, by Gwen~
dolyn Brooks Blakely. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Brothers.
^From Phylon, with special permission of the author.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 193



If youth, impatient of the disrespect
Accorded it, yearns to be old,
Age chafes beneath the manifold
Losses of its prime and mourns neglect;

So let it be for here and now, my dear,
Not for the when of an eternity;
No gazer in the crystal ball can see
The future* as we see the now and here.



TO AN AVENUE SPORT
by Helen Johnson Collins



Here lies the street of the three balls

the BUY, TRADE, SELL

your new suit that cost too much,

the loaded dice that overplayed their luck,

the cow-hide grip that should have left the town

with you that night when hell

played boogie-woogie at a card game.

Here lies . . . but what do you care now

for shining switchblades, roadsters,

and flashy women always tuning in

on some man's heart, picking his bankroll

to chicken bones and lashing him

with whips of harpy-laughter?

The stakes were high in your crazy race of life,

and you were in the lead . . . pompous, grand . .

until a knife

pierced you out of jealousy

and you fell

scattering your winning hand!



194 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



BLUES FOR BESSIE 84
by Myron O'Higgins



Bessie Smith, the greatest of the early blues singers,

died violently after an auto accident

while on a theatrical tour of the South in 1937.

The newspapers reported that she bled to death

when the only hospital in the vicinity

refused her emergency medical attention

because she was a Negro woman.



Let de peoples know (unnh)

what dey did in dat Southern Town
Let de peoples know

what dey did in dat Southern Town
Well, dey lef po' Bessie dyin'

wid de blood (Lawd) a-streamin* down



Bessie lef Chicago

in a bran' new Cadillac;

didn' take no suitcase

but she wore her mournin' black (unnh)
Bessie, Bessie,

she wore her mournin* black
She went ridin' down to Dixie (Lawd)

an' dey shipped her body back

Lawd, wasn't it a turrTble

when dat rain come down
Yes, wasn't it a turr'ble

when de rain come down
An' ol* Death caught po' Bessie

down in 'at Jim Crow town

"From Portfolio, Paris, France,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 195

Well, de thunder rolled

an' de lightnin' broke de sky
Lawd, de thunder rolled

an* de lightnin' broke de sky
An' you could hear po' Bessie moanin',

"Gret Gawd, please doan lemme die!"

She holler, "Lawd, please hep me!",

but He never heerd a word she say
Holler, "Please, somebody hep me!",

but dey never heerd a word she say
Frien', when yo' luck run out in Dixi^

well, it doan do no good to pray

Well, dey give po' Bessie

to de undertaker man;

oF Death an' Jim Crow ( Lawd )

done de job, hand in han*
Well, Bessie, Bessie,

she won't sing de blues no mo'
Cause dey let her go down bloody (Lawd)

trav'lin' from door to do'

Bessie lef Chicago

in a bran' new Cad'lac Eight
Yes, Bessie lef Chicago

in a gret big Cad'lac Eight
But dey shipped po' Bessie back (Lawd)

on dat lonesome midnight freight

Lawd, let de peoples know

what dey did in dat Southern Town
Yes, let de peoples know

what dey did in dat Southern Town
Well, dey lef po' Bessie dyin*

wid de blood (Lawd) a-streamin' down



196 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



TWO LEAN CATS .
by Myron O'Higgins



I remember Wednesday was the day
the rain came down in ragged jets
and made a grave along my street . .

And Friday was the day that brought
impatient winds to swell the
blood-stained garments on my line

But that day in between

comes back with two lean cats

who run in checkered terror

through a poolroom door

and bolting from a scream

a keen knife marks with sudden red

the gaming green

... a purple billiard ball

explodes the color scheme.



YOUNG POET 86

by Myron O'Higgins

Somebody,

Cut his hair

And send him out to play.

Someone,

While there is time,

Call him down from his high place.

^From The Lion and the Archer. Counterpoise Series, No. 1. Special permission
of the author.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 197

Tell him, (

Before terror marks his face,
He will belong to the hunted.

Say

He will be betrayed,

Or high on some fruited hill

Die naked with thieves.

Go to him

While fire is in his flesh:

Take him whole

And kiss his young mouth into wisdom

And healing.



SUNSET HORN 87
by Myron O'Higgins

"Enduring peace is the only monument civilization can raise
to the millions who have perished in its cause"



Block the cannon; let no trumpets sound!
Our power is manifest in other glory;
Our flesh in this contested slope of ground.

In thin silences we lie, pale strangers to the corn-gold morning,
Repeating what the fathers told . . . the promised legacy of tall sons;
The hushed sibilants of peace; and the far tomorrow on the hills.

O we went quickly or a little longer
And for a space saw caste and categories, creeds and race
Evaporate into the, flue of common circumstance.
We sought transcendent meaning for our struggle,
"From Motive. With special permission of the author.



198 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And in that rocking hour, each minute, each narrow second

Fell upon us like a rain of knives.

We grappled here an instant, then singly, or in twos or tens, or by be-
wildered hundreds,

Were pulverized . . . Reduced . . . Wiped out-
Made uniform and equal!

And let us tell you this:

Death is indiscriminate . . . and easier . . . than sorrow, fear, or
fallen pride.

There is no road back. We rest in ultimates;

In calmness come abrupt by bomb, or bullet, or abbreviated dream;

With conflicts spent.

This stark convergent truth continues,

Linking us through slim unseen dimensions we to you, we to you . . .



II

While you cry Victory! or Surrender!
Turn these figures in the head,
Clean impersonal round numbers,
Ordered inventory of the dead.

Regard these slender nines and ones;

These trailing threes and fives; these fours and sevens, bent and angular;

Delicately drawn, divided into ranks by commas,

Staggered down the page in regimented squads and columns:

These are our mute effigies, trim and shining,

Passing in review . . .

O, Drummer, obediently we come,
Down through the assassin's street,
The company of death in splendid array! . . .

But leave us to the terrible fields.

Yours is the pomp of brasses, the counterfeit peace, the dynasty of

lies . . .

We are but dabs of flesh blown to the cliffs,

Or ragged stumps of legs that moved too slowly toward the brush.
And our song: we joined no swelling harmony of voices.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A* 199

Those final incoherent sounds we made;

Those startled oaths that bubbled through the blood bogged in our

throats;

That last falsetto cry of terror;
Were a jagged threnody, swallowed whole and drowned in cacophonic

floods.
This was our sunset horn . . .

Let these be added with the spoils for quick division!
Set these down in sharp italics on the page
For scholars' documents!



777

Raise no vain monuments; bury us down!

Our power is manifest in other glory;

Our flesh in this contested slope of ground.

There is no more but these, a legacy, a grim prediction . . .

Let the scent and sounds of death go limp

And flounder in the valleys and the streets.

And for those crafty onesthose who speak our names in brief profes-
sional remembrance

To garner votes and profits, or practice quick extortion-
Let other music find their ears.

And give them for a souvenir this clown's disguise

Of swastikas and Roman standards, of scythes and suns and dollar
signs . . .

One day the rest of you will know the meaning of annihilation.

And the hills will rock with voltage;

And the forests burn like a flaming broom;

And the stars explode and drop like cinders on the land.

And these steel cities where no love is

You shall see them fall and vanish in a thunder of erupting suns!

O you shall know; and in that day, traveler, O in that day
When the tongues confound, and breath is total in the horn,
Your judas eyes, seeking truth at last, will search for us
And borrow ransom from this bowel of violence!



200 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

JOURNEY TO A PARALLEL

Summer- 1 947
by Bruce McM. Wright

I remember distinctly the tired tumult of my urges

and the sun shining, and the dust, and the clouds,

and'how I turned my rifle down;

I remember the cow stinking in the street

and a woman sweeping dung,

and Prague and Pilsen just forty kilometers:

I recall that songs were sung,

attention stood, allegiance re-asserted,

and I saw two cplonels cry.

There was a first night of awkward peace

with pillows

trimmed in bohmisch lace, lettered schlafe wohl, .

and hugged into humanity:

I trembled, and felt quite old.

How distant is any day,
How many hurts away?

And there were Prague and Pilsen,
and I,

having dug holes in history,
stretched out alive
on the Continent with Paris-
just some wars and worlds removed
from Miss Up John's geography and P.S. 89,
and all the things she never taught me.
I remember, though, that Sheffield made
fine cutlery,

and coal was made at Newcastle,
and dry-docks at Southampton:
I should have known that France had beaches,
that Normandy must be noted for this, or that,
plus D-Day, plus one, plus two, plus et cetera,
and divers things from Carentan to Mons.



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 201

I should have known of Omaha
And Utah-
American Indian hinterlands
as French as Bar-le-Duc;
But Miss Upjohn was a virgin,
then a spinster;

she shied away from Flesh and French facts,
she disapproved of certain acts:
Between us there can be no bond,
Now that I can teach Upjohn.



THE AFRICAN AFFAIR
by Bruce McM. Wright



Black is what the prisons are,
The stagnant vortex of the hours
Swept into totality,
Creeping in the perjured heart,
Bitter in the vulgar rhyme,
Bitter on the walls;



Black is where the devils dance

With time within

The creviced wall. Time pirouettes ,

A crippled orbit in a trance,

And crawls below, beneath the flesh

Where darkness flows;



Black is where the deserts burn,
The Niger and Sasandra flow,
From where the Middle Passage went
Within the Continent of Night
From Cameroons to Carisbrooke
And places conscience cannot go;



202 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Black is where thatched temples burn
Incense to carved ebon-wood;
Where traders shaped my father's pain,
His person and his place,
Among dead statues in a frieze,
In the spectrum of his race.



PORTRAIT PHILIPPINES
by Alfred A. Duckctt



The Philippines were drenched in sun.
The maidens, gold and brown.
But children cried with hunger
When the angry sun went down.

Children laughed and sang and danced
all the livelong day.
At night they begged for garbage
the soldiers cast away.



SONNET

by Alfred A. Duckett



Where are we to go when this is done?
Will we slip into old, accustomed ways,
finding remembered notches, one by one?
Thrashing a hapless way through quickening haze?

Who is to know us when the end has come?
Old friends and families, but could we be
strange to the sight and stricken dumb
at visions of some pulsing memory?

Who will love us for what we used to be
who now are what we are, bitter or cold?



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 203



Who is to nurse us with swift subtlety
back to the warm and feeling human fold?

Where are we to go when this is through?
We are the war-born. What are we to do?



SONG

by M. Carl Holman



Dressed up in my melancholy
With no place to go,
Sick as sin of inwardness
And sick of being so

I walked out on the avenue,
Eager to give my hand
To any with the health to heal
Or heart to understand.

I had not walked a city block
And met with more than ten
Before I read the testament
Stark behind each grin:

Beneath the hat brims haunting me,
More faithful than a mirror,
The figuration of my grief,
The image of my error.



NOTES FOR A MOVIE SCRIPT
by M. Carl Holman

Fade in the sound of summer music,

Picture a hand plunging through her hair,

Next his socked feet and her scuffed dance slippers

Close, as they kiss on the rug-stripped stair.



204 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Catch now the taxi from the station,
Capture her shoulders' sudden sag;
Switch to him silent in the barracks
While the room roars at the corporal's gag.

Let the drums dwindle in the distance,
Pile the green sea above the land;
While she prepares a single breakfast,
Reading the v-mail in her hand.

Ride a cold moonbeam to the pillbox,
Sidle the camera to his feet
Sprawled just outside in the gummy grasses,
Swollen like nightmare and not neat.

Now doorbell nudges the lazy morning:

She stills the sweeper for a while,

Twitches her dress, swings the screendoor open,

Cutwith no music on her smile.



LETTER ACROSS DOUBT AND DISTANCE
by M. Carl Hoi man

I dreamed all my fortitude screamed

And fled down the strict corridor,

Entered in greedy and unashamed

At the seductive door;

Or your eyes winked from the tabloid,

Your silence raised a wraith

Which lured me nearer that void

Where fact prepares its ambuscade for faith.

Carved keen in the spring-green bark
Your long absence does not congeal,
No cement sutures the cruel crack
Where the hot sap weeps still



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 205

And will furrow and blister this sand

Though vanes claim weather is north

Until your gifted hand

Heals the shocked tissues and late buds flame forth:

O girl waking now where the swirl

Of gulls scatters across white hulls

And the wind hurtling the marshy field

Spurs the green bay into hills,

All my pain falls at your power,

Slacks and comes softly to rest.

Calmed, as that gray church tower

Checks the wild pigeons taking them to breast.



AND ON THIS SHORE
by M. Carl Holman



Alarm and time clock still intrude too early,
Sun on the lawns at morning is the same,
Across the cups we yawn at private murders,
Accustomed causes leave us gay or glum.

( I feel the streaming wind in my eyes,

the highway swimming under the floor,

music flung comically over the hills,

Remember your profile, your pilot's body at ease,

the absolute absence of boredom, the absence of fear)

The swingshift workers are snoring at noon,
The armywife's offspring dumb in his crib,
The private, patron of blackmarket still,
Sleeps long past reveille stark on his slab.

( The chimes were musing far beyond soft hills,
I brushed an ant from your arm,
The leaves lifted, shifted like breathing to pour
Light on your lids, seemed then no end of time)



206 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The streets re-wind to spools of home,
Dials usher in the bland newscaster,
From the mail box's narrow room
Lunges the cobra of disaster.

(Kissed and were happy at the door,
showered, pretending this would last,
Stones down dead wells, the calendar
counts summers that are lost, are lost)



II



Is it yourself he loves

Or the way you arranged your hair?

The book which taught you to listen while he talked?

The cute dance steps and that night on the Navy pier?

Did he see yours or another's face when he waked?

On what does this shadow feed

And shall it not fade?

Is it yourself she loves

Or the easy-come money you breezily spend?

The 4-F, convertible, "A" coupons, dark market Scotch?

Would she stick if she found she could interest your friend:

When the man on her dresser returns will you prove his match?

On what does this shadow feed

And shall it not fade?

Is it yourself they love

Or the victories panted with vibrant voice?

(Mellow for brave boys sleeping their last long sleep)

Will sponsor and fan abide when bulletins burst in your face,

Raw stumps and barricades explode through the map?

On what does this shadow feed,

And shall it not fade?

Is it yourself they love,

You brief-cased and lens-familiar,



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 207

Invoking spring from the smoke of our heaviest winter?
Their mouths adore but fangs may lurk for anger;
Watching night wither do you not sometimes wonder
On what does this shadow feed
And shall it not fade?



REFUGEE

by Naomi Long Witherspoon

Say, bud, ya got a cigarette?
Yeah, man, dot's ALL I got!
Go 'way! I ain't got even that.
A cigarette's a lot.

I had a home, a wife and kid,
And I was ridin' high.
Along came white Jim from the hill
And said I had to die.

He toF da law his po' white wife
Had suffered by my gang.
When Manny came to tip me off,
He said: Skip town or hang!

I lef my wife, my little kid,
And Nineteen Cherry Street,
And in da moonless Georgia night
I moved my weary feet.

When I remember Cherry Street
It hurts me to da bone.
But hell! I'm here up North alive,
Although I am alone.

Ain't got no job, no fine blue suit,
No new ten-gallon hat.
I only got one cigarette
You might as well take that.



2O8 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



POEM

by Russell Atkins

Upstood upstaffed passing sinuously away over an airy arch

Streaming where all the lustres

Streaming sinuously shone

bright where more sky
Upstood upstaffed the sumptuously ready

flags full

(the shaded soothed and blowing softly

the underlings smoothly

with horses wavering with winds gently

and smooth the men and manners soft

tangling with manly manners thick

gathering the steeds) that

forthwith

up up

Christophe

appearing in the imminent

and the passion overjoying the hour

unfolded flaming for
Highly the imperial sign

shone in his huge glory!



FOR WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DUBOIS

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
by Bette Darcie Latimer

He does not lounge with the old men
on their thrones in the sun. . . ,



I have awakened from the unknowing to the knowing
hoping to see the fathomless. . . .



NEGRO POETS OF THE U.S.A. 209

But I saw the old men
on their thrones in the sun,
with aged eyes
and dust in their beards.

Mixed with the shadows,
veiled and unthroned,
the brown one smiles.

I meet them at the turnpike,

but they point signward,

waving the crutches of empty years.

The brown one, smiling, led me on
with wisdom as a sturdy cane.
"The masterpiece is there," he said
and the dread beauty of living
crushed us into reverence.



2



TRIBUTARY POEMS
BY NON-NEGROES



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE 1

From Song of Myself
by Walt Whitman

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,

And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd

feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some

coarse clean clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd North,
I had him sit next me at table. . . .



THE WOUNDED PERSON 2
From Song of Myself
by Walt Whitman

The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing,

cover'd with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous

buckshot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.

I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,

Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,

I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of

my skin,

I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-

stocks.



Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. Reprinted by permission of Double-
day & Company, Inc.



214 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Agonies are one of my changes of garments.

I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the
wounded person.



THE DRAYMAN 3

From Song of Myself
by Walt Whitman

The Negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,

The Negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and tall
he stands pois'd on one leg on the stringpiece,

His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his
hip-band.

His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of. his hat
away from his forehead,

The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of his
polish'd and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there,

I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as for-
ward sluing,

To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,

Absorbing all to myself and for this song.



ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS*

From Drum-Taps
by Walt Whitman

Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human,

With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet?

Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?

s '*From Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. Reprinted by permission of Double-
day & Company, Inc.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 215

(Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines,
Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me,
As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.)

Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder d,
A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught,
Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.

No further does she say, but lingering all the day,

Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye;

And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by.

What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human?

Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green?

Are the things so strange and marvelous you see or have seen?



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY
by William Blake

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun, there God does live,
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.



216 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



"For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,
Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice/ "

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;

And thus I say to little English boy:

When I from black, and he from white cloud free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

(1789)



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE AT PILGRIM'S POINT
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning



I stand on the mark, beside the shore,

Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee;

Where exile turned to ancestor,
And God was thanked for liberty.

I have run through the night my skin is as dark-
I bend my knee down on this mark

I look on the sky and the sea.



II



O, pilgrim-souls, I speak to you:
I see you come out proud and slow

From the land of the spirits, pale as dew,
And round me and round me ye go.

O, pilgrims, I have gasped and run
All night long from the whips of one

Who in your names works sin and woe!



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 217
III

And thus I thought that I would come

And kneel here where ye knelt before,
And feel your souls around me hum

In undertone to the ocean's roar;
And lift my black face, my black hand,

Here in your names, to curse this land
Ye blessed in Freedom's heretofore.



IV



VI



I am black, I am black,

And yet God made me, they say:
But if He did so smiling back

He must have cast his work away
Under the feet of His white creatures

With a look of scorn, that the dusky features
Might be trodden again to clay.



And yet He has made dark things

To be glad and merry as light;
There's a little dark bird sits and sings;

There's a dark stream ripples out of sight;
And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass,

And the sweetest stars are made to pass
O'er the face of the darkest night.



But we who are dark, we are dark!
Ah God, we have no stars!



218 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

About our souls, in care and cark ?

Our blackness shuts like prison-bars!
The poor souls crouch so far behind,

That never a comfort can they find,
By reaching through the prison bars.



VII



VIII



And still God's sunshine and His frost
They make us hot, they make us cold,

As if we were not black and lost;
And the beasts and birds in wood and fold,

Do fear us and take us for very men;
Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of the glen

Look into my eyes and be bold?



I am black, I am black,

And once I laughed in girlish glee;
For one of my colour stood in the track

Where the drivers drove, and looked at me;
And tender and full was the look he gave!

A Slave looked so at another Slave,
I look at the sky and the sea.



And from that hour our spirits grew

As free as if unsold, unbought;
We were strong enough, since we were two,

To conquer die world, we thought.
The drivers drove us day by day:

We did not mind; we went one way,
And no better a freedom sought.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES



In the sunny ground between the canes,

He said "I love you" as he passed
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with the rains,

I heard how he vowed it fast,
While other trembled, he sat in the hut

And carved me a bowl of the cocoa-nut
Through the roar of the hurricanes.



XI



I sang his name instead of a song;

Over and over I sang his name.
Upward and downward I drew it along

My notes, the same, the same!
I sang it low, that the slave-girls near

Might never guess, from aught they could hear,
It was only a name a name.



XII



I look on the sky and the sea!

We were two to love, and two to pray,-
Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee,

Though nothing didst Thou say,
Coldly Thou sat'st behind the sun,

And now I cry, who am but one,
Thou wilt not speak to-dayl



XIII



We were black, we were black,
We had no claim to love and bliss



220 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

What marvel, if each went to wrack?

They wrung my cold hands out of his
They dragged him where, I crawled to touch

His blood's mark in the dust not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls, though plain as THIS!



XIV



Wrong, followed by a deeper wrong!

Mere griefs too good for such as I;
So the white men brought the shame ere long

To strangle the sob of my agony.
They would not leave me for my dull

Wet eyes! it was too merciful
To let me weep pure tears, and die.



I am black, I am black!

I wore a child upon my breast,
An amulet that hung too slack,

And, in my unrest, could not rest!
Thus we went moaning, child and mother,

One to another, one to another.
Until all ended for the best.



XVI



For hark! I will tell you low-low

I am black, you see;
And the babe, that lay on my bosom so,

Was far too white too white for me,
As white as the ladies who scorned to pray

Beside me at the church but yesterday,
Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 221

XVII

My own, own child I could not bear

To look in his face, it was so white;
I covered him up with a kerchief there;

I covered his face in close and tight!
And he moaned and struggled as well as might be,

For the white child wanted his liberty,
Ha, ha! he wanted the master-right.



XVIII



He moaned and beat with his head and feet

His little feet that never grew!
He struck them out as it was meet

Against my heart to break it through.
I might have sung and made him mild,

But I dared not sing to the white faced child
The only song I knew.



XIX



I pulled the kerchief very close;

He could not see the sun, I swear,
More then, alive, than now he does

From between the roots of the mango where?
I know where close! a child and mother

Do wrong to look at one another
When one is black and one is fair.



XX



Even in that single glance I had
Of my child's face, I tell you all,



222 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

I saw a look that made me mad,
The masters look, that used to fall

On my soul like his lash, or worse,
And so, to save it from my curse,

I twisted it round in my shawl.



XXI



And he moaned and trembled from foot to head,

He shivered from head to f oot,
Till after a time, he lay, instead,

Too suddenly still and mute;
And I felt, beside, a creeping cold,

I dared to lift up just a fold,
As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit



XXII



But my fruit! ha, ha! there, had been

(I laugh to think on't at this hour!)
Your fine white angels, who have been

Nearest the secret of God's power
And plucked my fruit to make them wine,

And sucked the soul of that child of mine,
As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower.



XXIII



Ha, ha! the trick of the angels whitel
They freed the white child's spirit so;

I said not a word but day and night
I carried the body to and fro;

And it lay on my heart like a stone as chill;
The sun may shine out as much as he will,

I am cold, though it happened a month ago.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 223
XXIV

From the white man's house and the black man's hut,

I carried the little body on;
The forest's arms did around us shut,

And silence through the trees did run!
They asked no questions as I went,

They stood too high for astonishment,
They could see God sit on his throne.



XXV



My little body, kerchief -fast,

I bore it on through the forest on
And when I felt it was tired at last,

I scooped a hole beneath the moon.
Through the forest-tops the angels far,

With a white sharp finger in every star
Did point and mock at what was done.



XXVI



Yet when it all was done aright,

Earth twixt me and my baby strewed,

All, changed to black earth, nothing white
A dark child in the darkensued

Some comfort, and my heart grew young;
I sate down smiling there, and sung

The song I learnt in my maidenhood.



XXVII



And thus we two were reconciled,

The white child and black mother, thus;



224 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

For, as I sang it, soft and wild,
The same song, more melodious,

Rose from the grave whereon I sat!
It was the dead child singing that,

To join the souls of both of us.



XXVIII

I look on the sea and the sky!

Where the pilgrims' ships first anchored lay,
The great sun rideth gloriously!

But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away
Through the first faint streaks of the morn!

My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day.



XXIX



Ah! in their stead their hunter sons!

Ah, ah! they are on me! they form in a ring!
Keep off I brave you all at once,

I throw off your eyes like snakes that sting!
You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think;

Did you ever stand still in your triumph, and shrink
From the stroke of her wounded wing?



XXX



(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!)
I wish you, who stand there, five abreast,

Each, for his own wife's joy and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest,

As mine in the mangoes! Yes, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,

And sing the song she likes the best.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 225



XXXI



I am not mad, I am black!

I see you staring in my face,
I know you staring, shrinking back,

Ye are born of the Washington-race!
And this land is the Free America,

And this mark on my wrist, -(I prove what I say)
Ropes tied me up here to the flogging place.



XXXII



You think I shrieked then? not a sound!

I hung as a gourd hangs in the sun;
I only cursed them all around

As softly as I might have done
My very own child. From these sands

Up to the mountains, lift your hands,
O slaves, and end what I begun.



XXXIII



Whips, curses! these must answer those!

For in this Union, ye have set
Two kinds of men in adverse rows,

Each loathing each! and all forget
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair;

While he sees gaping everywhere
Our countless wounds that pay no debt.



XXXIV



Our wounds are different your white men
Are, after all, not gods indeed.



226 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Nor able to make Christs again

Do good with bleeding. We who bleed,
(Stand off!} we help not in our loss

We are too heavy for our cross,
And fall and crush you and your seed.



XXXV



I fall, I swoon, I look at the sky!

The clouds are breaking on my brain:
I am floated along, as if I should die

Of Liberty's exquisite pain!
In the name of the white child waiting for me

In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree
White men, I leave you all curse-free,

In my broken heart's disdain!



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE
by William Wordsworth

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconauerable mind.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 227

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 5

Chateau de Joux, 1 803
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Am I alone or is it you, my friend?

I call you friend, but let it not be known

That such a word was uttered in this place.

You are the first that has forgotten duty

So far as to be sorryand perilously,

For you that I am not so frozen yet,

Or starved, or blasted, that I cannot feel.

Yes, I can feel, and hear. I can hear something

Behind me. Is it you? There is no light,

But there's a gray place where a window was

Before the sun went down. Was there a sun?

There must have been one; for there was a light,

Or sort of light enough to make me see

That I was here alone. Was I forgotten?

I have been here alone now for three days,

Without you, and with nothing here to eat

Or drink; and for God knows how many months,

Or years, before you came, have I been here

But never alone so long. You must be careful,

Or they will kill you if they hear you asking

Questions of me as if I were a man.

I did not know that there was anything left

Alive to see me, or to consider me,

As more than a transplanted shovelful

Of black earth, with a seed of danger in it

A seed that's not there now, and never was.

When was I dangerous to Napoleon?

Does a perfidious victor fear the victim

That he has trapped and harassed? No, he hates him.

The only danger that was ever in me

Was food that his hate made to feed itself.

B From Nicodemus, copyright, 1932, by Edwin Arlington Robinson; used by per-
mission of The Macmillan Company, New York, and Macmillan & Co., Ltd.,
London.



228 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

There lives in hate a seed more dangerous

To man, I fear, than any in time's garden

That has not risen to full stalk and flower

In history yet, I am glad now for being

So like a child as to believe in him

As long as there was hope. And what was hope?

Hope was a pebble I brought here to play with,

And might as well have dropped into the ocean

Before there was a bitter league of it

Between me and rriy island. It was well

Not to do that. Not that it matters now.

My friend, I do not hear you any longer.

Are you still there? Are you afraid to speak?

You are the first thing fashioned as a man

That has acknowledged me since I came here

To die, as I see nowwith word or motion

Of one man in the same world with another;

And you may be afraid of saying to me

Some word that hurts your tongue. Have they invented

A last new misery fit for the last days

Of an old sick black man who says tonight

He does not think that he shall have to live

Much longer now? If there were left in me

A way to laugh, I might as well be laughing

To think of that. Say to Napoleon

That he has made an end of me so slowly,

And thoroughly, that only God Almighty

Shall say what is to say. And if God made him,

And made him as he is, and has to be,

Say who shall answer for a world where men

Are mostly blind, and they who are the blindest

Climb to cold heights that others cannot reach,

And there, with all there is for them to see,

See nothing but themselves. I am not one

To tell you about that, for I am only

A man destroyed, a sick man, soon to die;

A man betrayed, who sees his end a ruin,

Yet cannot see that he has lived in vain.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 229

Though he was crushed and humbled at the last
As things are that are crawling in man's way,
He was a man. God knows he was a man,
And tells him so tonight. Another man
Mixed fear with power and hate and made of it
A poison that was death, and more than death.
And strangled me to make me swallow it
And here I am. I shall not be here long
To trouble you; and I shall not forget
Your seeing in me a remnant of mankind.
And not a piece of God's peculiar clay
Shaped as a reptile, or as a black snake.
A black man, to be sure; and that's important.

I cannot tell you about God, my friend,

But in my life I have learned more of men

Than would be useful now, or necessary,

If a man's Life were only a man's life.

Sometimes it is, or looks to be, no better

Than a weed growing to be crushed or cut,

Or at the most and best, or worst, to live

And shrivel and slowly die and be forgotten.

Others are not like that; and it appears

That mine was not. Mine was a million lives,

And millions after them. Why am I here!

What have I done to die in a cold hole

In a cold land that has no need of me?

Men have been mightier than in doing this thing

To me, I think. Yet who am I to say it?

An exile, buried alive in a cold grave

For serving man, as men may still remember.

There are diseased and senseless ways of hate

That puzzle me partly because I'm black,

Perhaps, though more because of things that are,

And shall be, and for God may say how long.

Hear me, and I will tell you a strange thing
Which may be new and of an interest



230 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

To many who may not know so much of me

As even my name until my name shall have

A meaning in this world's unhappy story.

Napoleon cannot starve my name to death,

Or blot it out with his. There is an island

Where men remember me; and from an island

Surprising freight of dreams and deeds may come,

To make men think. Is it not strange, my friend

If you are there that one dishonored slave,

One animal owned and valued at a price,

One black commodity, should have seen so early

All that I saw? When I filled sight with action,

I could see tyranny's blood-spattered eyes

That saw no farther, laughing at God and fate,

Than a day's end, or possibly one day more,

Until I made them see. Was it not strange?

Drivers and governors of multitudes

Must be more than themselves, and have more eyes

Than one man's eyes, or scorn will bury them,

Or leave them worse uncovered; and time will pass them

Only to kick their bones. I could see that;

And my prophetic eyes, where God had fixed them

In this black face, could see in front of them

A flaming shambles of men's ignorance

Of all that men should know. I could see farther;

And in a world far larger than my island

Could see the foul indifferent poison wreaking

Sorrow and death and useless indignation

On millions who are waiting to be born;

And this because the few that have the word

Are mostly the wrong few in the wrong places.

On thrones or chairs of state too high for them,

Where they sit swollen or seated, or both, as may be,

They watch, unseen, a diligent see-saw

Played by their privileged and especial slaves

On slippery planks that shake and smell of blood

That flows from crushed and quivering backs and arms

Of slaves that hold them up. There are more slaves

Than have yet felt or are to feel, and know it,



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY HOH-NEGROES 231

An iron or a lash. This will go on
Until more slaves like me, and more, and more,
Throw off their shackles and make swords of them
For those to feel who have not felt before,
And will not see. It will go on as long
As men capitulate who feel and see,
And men who know say nothing. If this means
It must go on for alwayswell I have done
All that one man one black man, I should say-
Could do against a madness and a system
And a malicious policy, all rotten
With craft and hate. It will be so again:
Humanity will hear the lash of scorn
And ignorance again falling on hope,
And hearing it will feel it. Ignorance,
Always a devil, is a father of devils
When it has power and fire and hate to play with,
And goes down with the noise of its own house
Falling, always too late to save itself,
Because it has no eyes. That's power, my friend.
If you are sorry to be born without it,
Be sorry for something else, and answer me:
Is power a breaking down of flesh and spirit?
Is foresight a word lost with a lost language?
Is honor incomprehensible? Is it strange,
That I should sit here and say this to you
Here in the dark? . . . Nothing to eat or drink,
Nothing to do but die? This is not right. . . .
Hear me, and I will tell you what I saw.

Last night I saw Napoleon in hell.
He was not dead, but I knew where he was,
For there was fire and death surrounding him
Like red coals ringed around a scorpion
To make him sting himself rather than burn.
Napoleon burned. I saw his two hands flaming;
And while I saw him I could see that hate
For me was still alive in his blind eyes.
I was no happier for the sight of him,



232 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

For that would not help me; and I had seen
Too much already of crime and fire at work
Before I made an end of it for him
To make of peace a useless waste and fury.
I have not yet gone mad, for I have known
That I was right. It seems a miracle,
Yet I am not so sure it is a mercy
That I have still my wits and memories
For company in this place. I saw him there,
And his hands that were flaming with a fire
They caught from the same fire that they had lighted.
So fire will act, sometimes, apparently.
Well, there he was, and if I'm not in error,
He will be there again before he dies;
And that will not be medicine here for this.
There is no cure for this, except to die,
\ And there is nothing left that is worth hating
Not even the hate of him that kills with hate.
Is it that I am weak or am I wise?
Can a black man be wise? He would say not.
Having his wisdom, he would have to say it
To keep his hate alive; and without that
He would soon hate the sound of his own name.
Prisons have tongues, and this will all be told;
And it will not sound well when men remember.

Where are you now? Is this another night?

Another day and now another night?

I do not hear you any more, my friend.

Where are you? Were you ever here at all?

I have been here alone now for too long.

They will not let you come to me again

Until you come to carry a dead man.

I see it now out of this cold and darkness

To a place where black and white are dark together.

Nothing to eat or drink nothing to do

But wait, and die. No, it will not sound well.

Where are you now, my friend? I cannot hear you;

I cannot feel you. Are you dead, perhaps?



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 233

I said to you it would be perilous

Not to remember that I'm not a man,

But an imprudent piece of merchandise

To buy and sell or this time rather to steal;

To catch and steal, and carry from my island

To France, and to this place. And in this place,

Is it not strange, my friend, for me to see

So clearly, and in the dark, more than he sees

Who put me here as I saw long ago

More than a man could do, till it "was done?

Yes, it is done, and cannot be undone.

I know, because I know; and only those

Whose creed and caution has been never to know

Will see in that no reason . . . Yes, I know,

My friend, but I do not know where you are.

If you are here, help me to rise and stand

Once more. I cannot sleep. I cannot see.

Nothing to eat or drink nothing to see

But night. Good night, my friend if you are here.



Nothing to see but night and a long night,

My friend. I hear you now. I hear you moving,

And breathing. I can feel you in the dark,

Although I cannot see you. ... Is this night?

Or is it morning! No, it is not night

For now I see. You were a dream, my friend!

Glory to God, who made a dream of you,

And of a place that I believed a prison.

There were no prisons no Napoleons.

I must have been asleep for a long time.

Now I remember. I was on a ship

A ship they said was carrying me to France.

Why should I go to France? I must have slept,

And sailed away asleep, and sailed on sleeping.

I am not quite awake; yet I can see

White waves, and I can feel a warm wind coming

And I can see the sun! . . . This is not France

This is a ship; and France was never a ship.



234 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



France was a place where they were starving me

To death, because a black man had a brain.

I feel the sun! Now we going faster

Now I see landI see land and a mountain!

I see white foam along a sunny shore

And there's a town. Now there are people in it,

Shouting and singing, waving wild arms at me,

And crowding down together to the water!

You know me and you knew that I was coming!

you lost faces! My lost friends! My island!
You knew that I was coming. . . .

You are gone.
Where are you gone? Is this the night again?

1 cannot see you now. But you are there
You are still there. And I know who is here.



THE SLAVE'S DREAM

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,

His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair

Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams

The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain

Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans

Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,,

They held him by the hand!



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES



A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.



And then at furious speed he rode

Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,

O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,

And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,

And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds

Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,

Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,

Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,

With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled

At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,

And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!



236 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE FAREWELL

by John Greenleof Whittier



Of a Virginia Slave Mother to Her Daughters,
Sold into Southern Bondage

Gone, gone sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,

Where the noisome insect stings,

Where the fever demon strews

Poison with the falling dews,

Where the sickly sunbeams glare

Through the hot and misty air,
Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughter si

Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,

From the fields at night they go,



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 237



Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again
There no brother's voice shall greet them
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play
From the cool spring where they drank
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there-
Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone-
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er
And the fetter galls no morel
Gone, gone sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

By the holy love He beareth

By the bruised reed He spareth



233 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.
Gone, gonesold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!



STANZAS ON FREEDOM
by James Russell Lowell



Men! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother's pain,
Are ye not base slaves, indeed,
Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe New England air,
If ye hear without a blush
Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains,
Answer! are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And with leathern hearts forget
That we owe mankind a debt?
No! true Freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 239

And with heart and hands to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.



HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPERS FERRY 6
by Edmund Clarence Stedman

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,
Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,
Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,
Came homeward in the morningto find his house burned down.

Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;

Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;
And he and his brave boys vowed so might Heaven help and speed

'em!-

They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights
the land;

And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.

And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day and even,
Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,
"Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.



240 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;

Then Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!

Then they seized another brave boy, not amid the heat of battle,
But in peace, behind his ploughshare, and they loaded him with

chains,

And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;

Then Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down.

And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,

He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;
He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; he
Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,

That Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!

Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew

wilder,

And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar;
And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,
Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.

So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,

Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,
Hired a farm by Harpers Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,
Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;

For Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 241

He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;

But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles;
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.

Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
"Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!

'Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the Negroes and then arm

them;

Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them
These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning
mouth."

Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
"The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown/*

'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:

"This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!"
It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privatesblack and
white,

Captain Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;

Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;

Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;
Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,
And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.

Mad Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.

Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;
It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's coup d'6tat.



242 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

''Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he,
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,

This Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown;
And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.

Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;

And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whither
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.
General Brown!
Osawatomie Brown! !
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance,

And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assur-
ance-
Only nineteen thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.

But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;
So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,
Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon

whiskey,

Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and ma-
chines;

And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.

Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!

In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;
And when'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,
Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Saw his sons fall dead beside him and between them laid him down.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 243

How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;
How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-
house floor;

How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;
What the brave old madman told them, these are known the coun-
try o'er.

"Hang Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,"
Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.

But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon,

Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by

Southern hands;
And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the

dragon,

May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn
lands!

And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin downl



JOHN BROWN'S PRAYER 7

From John Brown's Body
by Stephen Vincent Benet

Omnipotent and steadfast God,
Who, in Thy mercy, hath
Upheaved in me Jehovah's rod
And his chastising wrath,

For fifty-nine unsparing years
Thy Grace hath worked apart
To mould a man of iron tears
With a bullet for a heart.

7 From "John Brown's Body," in Selected Works of Stephen Vincent 'Benet, copy-
right, 1927, 1928, by Stephen Vincent Ben&. Published by Rinehart & Company,
Inc.



244 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Yet, since this body may be weak
With all it has to bear,
Once more, before Thy thunders speak,
Almighty, hear my prayer.

I saw Thee when Thou did display
The black man and his lord
To bid me free the one, and slay
The other with the sword.

I heard Thee when Thou bade me spurn
Destruction from my hand
And, though all Kansas bleed and burn,
It was at Thy command.

I hear the rolling of the wheels,
The chariots of war!
I hear the breaking of the seals
And the opening of the doorl

The glorious beasts with many eyes
Exult before the Crowned.
The buried saints arise, arise
Like incense from the ground!

Before them march the martyr-longs,

In bloody sunsets drest,

O, Kansas, bleeding Kansas,

l[ou will not let me rest!

I hear your sighing corn again,
I smell your prairie-sky ,
And I remember -five dead men
By Pottawattomie.

Lord God it was a work of Thine,
And how might I refrain?
But Kansas, bleeding Kansas,
I hear her in her pain.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 245



Her corn is rustling in the ground,
An arrow in my flesh.
And all night long I staunch a wound
That ever bleeds afresh.

Get up, get up, my hardy sons.
From this time forth we are
No longer men, but pikes and guns
In God's advancing war.

And if we live, we free the slave,
And if we die, we die.
But God has digged His saints a grave
Beyond the western sky.

Oh, fairer than the bugle-call
Its walls of jasper shine!
And Joshua's sword is on the wall
With space beside for mine.

And should the Philistine defend

His strength against our blows,

The God who doth not spare His friend,

Will not forget His foes.



HARPERS FERRY 8
by Selden Rodman

Everything was wrong; the local slaves wore smiles,

At least on Sundays; freedom could be bought;

There was no cotton within fifty miles.

Brown and his eighteen roughnecks never thought

To stand, but the attack went un-rehearsed

And with the Shenandoah crossed, retreat

Was out of question; reckless, he dispersed

His men; no hour of withdrawal was set.

8 From The Amazing Year, by Selden Rodman. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub-
lishers.



246 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The first man to be shot was free, and black.
Liquor at Wager House began to flow.
Brown, while his time ran out, rode four miles back
To steal George Washington's pistols for a Negro.
Trapped in the engine-house, he burnt the brief
Stuart prepared, and when they beat him flat
Told gentlemanly Lee: "You . , . are the thief,
We came to free the slaves and only that . . ."

And like a thief America slept on,

Dreaming of where two angry rivers met,

And the trains howled in the mountain, and a town

Crouched like a black child, shivering and wet,

Until the voice that had aroused to murder

Before the circle of the noose had set

Screamed at the sleeping Giant, and so stirred her

She took a million lives to pay the debt.



"FORMERLY A SLAVE 1 '
by Herman Melville

An idealized portrait by E. Vedder,

in the spring exhibition

of the National Academy > 1865

The sufferance of her race is shown,

And retrospect of life,
Which now too late deliverance dawns upon;

Yet is she not at strife.

Her children's children they shall know

The good withheld from her;
And so her reverie takes prophetic cheer

In spirit she sees the stir.

Far down the depth of thousand years,

And marks the revel shine;
Her dusky face is lit with sober light,

Sibylline, yet benign.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 247



ECHOES OF CHILDHOOD'

A Folk-Medley

From Echoes of Childhood
by Alice Corbin

UNCLE JIM



Old Uncle Jim was as blind as a mole,
But he could fiddle Virginia Reels,
Till you felt the sap run out of your heels,
Till you knew the devil had got your soul-

Down the middle and swing yd partners,
Up agin and salute her low,
Shake yd foot an keep a-goin
Down the middle an do-se-dol

Mind yd manners an doan git keerless,
Swing yd lady and bow full low,
S'lute yd partner an 9 turn yd neighbor,
Gran -right-an -left, and arourf you go!



DELPHY

Delphy's breast was wide and deep,
A shelf to lay a child asleep,

String low, sweet chariot, swing low;
Rocking like a lifted boat
On lazy tropic seas afloat,

Swing low, sweet chariot, swing low.

Delphy, when my mother died,
Taught me wisdom, curbed my pride,
String low, sweet chariot, swing low;
'By permission of author.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And when she laid her body down,
It shone, a jewel, in His crown,

Swing low., sweet chariot, swing low.

( Underneath the southern moon
I was cradled to the tune
Of the banjo and the fiddle
And the plaintive Negro croon.)

MANDTS RELIGION

Tse got religion an' I doan care

Who knows that God an' I are square,

I wuz carryin* home my mistis* wash

When God came an' spoke to me out'n de hush.

An* I th'ew de wash up inter de air,
An* I climbed a tree to de golden stair;
Ef it hadn't a been fur Mistah Wright
I'd had ter stayed dere all de night!

( Underneath the southern moon
I was cradled to the tune
Of the banjo and the fiddle
And the plaintive Negro croon. )



NEGRO SPIRITUAL
by Perient Trott



Sable is my throat
golden the cable
golden the column of its sound-
firm, my transplanted feet
upon this soil
deeD, my roots



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 24?

I am the sounding board
the maker of songs-
mine, the folk song of America!
Sensitive, my transplanted feet
to the rhythm of the earth:
deep, my roots

in the somnambulant greatness
of the earth
in the nostalgia
of my race
in the drama
of my people
uprooted
dispossessed
transplanted
the song of America
wells full-bodied
in my throat . . .

I am the maker of songs
the voice of colony
the folk song of empire

Oh, sable is my throat. . . .
golden, the rich cable. . . .
rich, the column of my song!
Sable, sable!
Golden, golden!

Oh, sable is my throat!



250 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE CONGO 10

A Study of the Negro Race
by Yachel Lindsay

I-THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY

Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,

Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,

A deep roll- Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,
ing bass Pounded on the table,

Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,

Hard as they were able,

Boom, boom, BOOM,

With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom,

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.

THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision.

I could not turn from their revel in derision.
More deliber- THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING
ate. Solemnly THROUGH THE BLACK,

chanted CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A

GOLDEN TRACK.

Then along that river bank

A thousand miles

Tattooed cannibals danced in files;

Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song

And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.

A rapidly pil- And "BLOOD!" screamed the whistles and the fifes
ing climax of of the warriors,

speed and "BLOOD!" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doc-
racket tors;

"Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,

Harry the uplands,

Steal all the cattle,

Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,

Bing!

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM!"

10 From The Congo 6- Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay; copyright, 1914, by The
Macmillan Company. Reprinted with their permission.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 25!

With a philo- A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
sophic pause From the mouth of the Congo

To the Mountains of the Moon.

Death is an Elephant,
Shrilly and Torch-eyed and horrible,
with a heavily Foam-flanked and terrible.
accented BOOM, steal the pygmies,

meter BOOM, kill the Arabs,

BOOM, kill the white men,

HOO, HOO, HOO.

Like the wind Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost
in the Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.

chimney Hear how the demons chuckle and yell

Cutting his hands off down in Hell.

Listen to the creepy proclamation,

All the O Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,

sounds very Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay,
golden. Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:

Heavy ae- "Be careful what you do,

cents very Or Mumbo-Jumbo, god of the Congo,
heavy. Light And all of the other
accents very Gods of the Congo,
light. Last Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
line whis- Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,

per ed Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."

II-THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS

Rather shrill Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call

and high Danced title juba in their gambling-hall,

And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town,
And guyed the policemen and laughed them down
With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
THEN I SAW THE CONGO CREEPING
THROUGH THE BLACK,

Read exactly CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A

as in first sec- GOLDEN TRA'CK.

tion. Lay em- A Negro fairyland swung into view,

phasis on the A minstrel river

delicate ideas. Where dreams come true.



252 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Keep as light- The ebony palace soared on high
footed as pos- Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky.
sible The inlaid porches and casements shone

With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.
And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore
At the baboon butler in the agate door,
And the well-known tunes of the parrot band
That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.

A troop of skull-faced witch-men came
With pom- Through the agate doorway in suits of flame
posity Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust

And hats that were covered with diamond-dust.

And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call
With a great And danced the juba from wall to wall.
deliberation But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng
and ghostli- With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:
ness "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." . . .

With over- Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes

whelming as- Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats,

surance, good Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine,

cheer, and And tall silk hats that were red as wine.

pomp And they pranced with their butterfly partners there,

Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair,
With growing Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet,
speed and And bells on their ankles and little black feet.
sharply And the couples railed at the chant and the frown

marked Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down.

dance- (Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while

rhythm That made those glowering witch-men smile. )

The cake-walk royalty then began
To walk for a cake that was tall as a man
To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,"
With a touch While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air,
of Negro dia- And sang with the scalawags prancing there:
lect, and as 'Walk with care, walk with care,
rapidly as Or Mumbo-Jumbo, god of the Congo,
possible to- And all of the other
ward the end Gods of the Congo,



Slow philo-
sophic calm



Heavy bass.
With a literal
imitation of
camp-meet-
ing racket
and trance



Exactly as in
the -first sec-
tion. Begin
with terror
and power,
end with joy.
Sung to the
tune of "Hark,
ten thousand
harps and
voices'



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 253

Mumbo- Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Beware, beware, walk with care,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,
BOOM"

Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while
That made those glowering witch-men smile.

III-THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION

A good old Negro in the slums of the town

Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.

Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,

His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.

Beat on the Bible till he wore it out

Starting the jubilee revival shout.

And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,

And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,

And they all repented, a thousand strong,

From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong,

And slammed with their hymn-books till they shook

the room

With "Glory, glory, glory,"
And "Boom, boom, Boom."
THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING

THROUGH THE BLACK,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A

GOLDEN TRACK.

And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.
In bright white steel they were seated round,
And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high,
Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:
"Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;
Never again will he hoo-doo you,
Never again will he hoo-doo you."



254 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Then along that river, a thousand miles,
With growing The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
deliberation Pioneer angels cleared the way
and joy For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,

For sacred capitals, for temples clean.

Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean;
In a rather There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed,
high key as A million boats of the angels sailed
delicately as With oars of silver, and prows of blue,
possible And silken pennants that the sun shone through.

Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation.
To the tune Oh, a singing wind swept the Negro nation,
of "Hark> ten And on through the backwoods clearing flew:
thousand "Mumbo- Jumbo is dead in the jungle.

harps and Never again will he hoo-doo you.
voices 9 " Never again will he hoo-doo you."

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men a

And only the vulture dared again
Dying doton By the far lone mountains of the moon
into a pene- To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:
trating, ter- "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
rifted whisper Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.

Mumbo . . . Jumbo . . . will . . . hoo-doo . . . you. 3



BLACK TAMBOURINE 11
by Hart Crane

The interests of a black man in a cellar

Mark tardy judgment on the world's closed door.

Gnats toss in the shadow of a bottle,

And a roach spans a crevice in the floor.

^From The Collected Poems of Hart Crane, Reprinted by permission of Liveright
Publishing Corporation.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 255

Aesop, driven to pondering, found
Heaven with the tortoise and the hare;
Fox brush and sow ear top his grave
And mingling incantations on the air.

The black man, forlorn in the cellar.
Wanders in some mid-kingdom, dark, that lies,
Between his tambourine, stuck on the wall,
And, in Africa, a carcass quick with flies.



ELEGY ON A NORDIC WHITE PROTESTANT 13
by John Gould Fletcher

Lazy petals of magnolia-bloom float down the sluggish river,

Borne by the wind from deep bayous, where loose lithe boughs are
trailing

Grey-green beards of Spanish moss; white flowers in the sluggish cur-
rent;

But the black tide beneath them is rising.

Lofty and still, the trees

Stand like a columned ballroom for the dance

Of fireflies; green-white they spurt and flicker.

Down in the marsh the bullfrogs with bassoons

Hold a deep raucous bass above the chorus

Of katydid and cricket in the stillness:

Remote and lone, the trees

Look down long clearings, grey-green in dense moonlight;

The hound-dogs bay, and glimmering lights peep out

From low dark cabin-doors.

But the white house keeps cold and high, aloof,

Its classic columns not yet given to decay:

It brings a day

To memory, when under its broad roof

Over unrotted and new-polished floors,

There flowed no grace

'"From XXIV Elegies, copyright, 1935, by John Gould Fletcher. Published by
Writers' Editions, Santa Fe, New Mexico.



256 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Like this, nor was there ever seen a face
So white, unearthly fan-
As yours:
But the moon in the woods knows better, for it has looked on despair.

Pale petals of magnolia-bloom thrust out white cups for coolness,

Magnolia-buds thrust up, hold themselves taut to the thunder

That beats across the ragged hills to southward

Its dull deep-muttering drum;

Between snake-fences staggering off over fields,

The strong green plumes of warrior-corn, the white dense clumps of

cotton,

And miles away the strong and eddying current of the river
Fretting the green levees, night after night in the moonlight,
Where the strong black tide is rising, ever rising,
As it would rise forever.

Voices speak in the trees;

Voices shake in the leaves, as the leaves shake before thunder;

Ku-klux, the faint snick-snick of rifles,

Galloping horses, voices, crackle of twigs on the trail.

White figures flit past swiftly

Dissolving into moonbeams, that dapple the earth with shadows;

For tonight the eternal forest

Is filled with the hunt for blood.

(When a dry rain of mandolins, pulsing and fluttering, beats on the

stiffened tuberoses
That hold up their chaste waxlike chalices, chill to the breeze of the

night,
That runs out of red-gullied hills, and creaks through the pomegranate

bushes

That flare out in startling scarlet all down the long avenue,
Under the sombre magnolias with the trail of the Milky Way going

southwestward,

You whom I loved so of oldyou whom I hold in my heart still
I shall often think that I come back only to you).

Slowly, the moon, bronzed by the heat of the day,
Passes, a lithe brown fluteplayer;



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 257

Slowly on streets where the dust hovers and settles.

From the mule-drays that rattled along

Bearing their bales in the morning;

Swinging the brown-bagged cotton,

Out of the fields to the town;

Slowly the red earth cracks, and the white fronts of the houses

Stare into hopeless silence;

And slowly rises the river,

Seething, chocolate-brown;

Stealthily drifts on its current,

Sweeping, with many a shiver,

Over the cottonwoods, roosting on sandbanks, spectrally grey and

surprising:

Writhing their branches to the sky;
Slowly the black tide is rising.

Batter on your banjoes, roar you golden saxophones,
Beat your sullen bass-drums, jingle loud your tambourines,
Shout loud deep trombone voices, swell in amazing chorus;
White mobs of lynchers, vain is your work;

Vain is the web of your terror, you pass like mist in the morning:
Shifting and ebbing forever, leaving the land dark and naked;
Under the hail of your bullets, the river runs on still triumphant,
And the black tide in its banks is rising,
Rising, forever, rising!



THE BIRD AND THE TREE 18
by Ridgely Torrence

Blackbird, blackbird in the cage,
There's something wrong tonight.
Far off the sheriff's footfall dies,
The minutes crawl like last year's flies
Between the bars, and like an age
The hours are long tonight.

"From Poems, by Ridgely Torrence, copyright, 1941, by The Macmillan Com-
pany. Used with their permission.



258 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



The sky is like a heavy lid
Out here beyond the door tonight.
What's that? A mutter down the street.
What's that? A sound of yells and feet.
For what you didn't do or did
Youll pay the score tonight.

No use to reek with reddened sweat,

No use to whimper and to sweat.

They've got the rope; they've got the guns.

They've got the courage and the guns;

And that's the reason why tonight;

No use to ask them any more.

They'll fire the answer through the door

You're out to die tonight.

There where the lonely cross-road lies,
There is no place to make replies;
But silence, inch by inch, is there,
And the right limb for a lynch is there;
And a lean daw waits for both your eyes,
Blackbird.

Perhaps you'll meet again some place.
Look for the mask upon the face:
That's the way you'll know them there
A white mask to hide the face:
And you can halt and show them there
The things that they are deaf to now,
And they can tell you what they meant
To wash the blood with blood. But how
If you are innocent?

Blackbird singer, blackbird mute,

They choked the seed you might have found.

Out of a thorny field you go

For you it may be better so

And leave the sowers of the ground

To eat the harvest of the fruit,

Blackbird.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 259



THE LYNCHING BEE 14
by William Eilery Leonard



Here at the crossroads is the night so black
It swallows tree and thicket, barn and stack,
Even though the sickle of the new moon hang,
Keen as a knife, bent like a boomerang,
A witch's bangle in the Zodiac.

Black on the crossroads . , . but in skies off yonder
There broods a fiery gloom, a hectic glow,
Like the last twilight just before the thunder,
Or omens of doomed soothsayers, long ago . . .
To-day the veriest dog or mule would know
It only means a lighted town thereunder.



Honk, Honk!

On to the fork! Honk! Honk!
You hear?

From hand-squeezed bulb and belching conch!
Honk! Honk!

Down in the hollow now, but near.
How many there?
Honk! Honk!

Topping the hill off there
Behind the foremost cone of glare-
That, like the swift typhoon,
Sweeps on along each length of rut
And makes their ridges as clear cut
As in Uganda at high noon
Stand out the Mountains of the Moon.

"From The Lynching Bee and Other Poems, by William Ellery Leonard, copy-
right, 1920, by B. W. Huebsch, Inc., 1948, by Charlotte Charlton Leonard.



260 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



III



IV



Honk, for the brasses and cat-gut!
Honk, Honk, for cymbals and bassoon!
New times, new music and new fun!
Though Bottom's gone and Oberon,
With Satyr, Dwarf, and pet Baboon,
Midsummer nights have still their rites.
Honk, Honk: "We've caught the coon!"
("Honk" means they've caught the coon.)



They stop they jerk they chug they back.
And in a monstrous ring they park,
With ghostly cones converging from the dark
Upon a central tree all split and black,
Whose limbs and leaves are caverned out of sight
In the eternity of night.
It's like a magic circle where
Snake-dancers, striped, brown, and bare,
With pouch in waving hand and horns on hair,
In old times swayed and swung
And called on Tunga-Tung,
With nasal ang and gutteral unk
Around a lightning-blasted trunk,
Or hissed in chorus with a serpent-stare.
Yet nothing like this there-
It's only the sign-board of the town's,
And crossroads cottonwood by Farmer Brown's.



It's only twelve true men in pants and coats
(The sort who pay their bills, and cast their votes,
Or file to jury boxes on hot afternoons) . . .
Each with a finger on a trigger,
Dragging by ropes, around his gullet tied,
With hobbled legs and arms well lashed to side,



V



VI



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 261

The best of all buffoons

A banjo-boy and jigger,

A hovel-doorway bawler of coarse tunes.

Like Caliban he shuffles, only bigger;

Or ourang-outang, only larger-eyed

A bandy-legged nigger,

Quite jerky, but all silent down inside.



They take the rope off at the tree perhaps

Won't hang him after all? These humorous chaps!

Just make him dance amid the glare

For women-folk and boys and girls back there,

Still in their seats?

Make him show off his feats?

Stand on his head-piece while he eats

Hoe-cakes or possum sweets?

Or turn him up, and have him wag his ears;

Or wriggle and wrinkle scalp and brow,

Like a fly-bitten back of Holstein cow,

And throw from pate a bowl or plate,

While underneath he grins and leers?

He'll butt his thick skull 'gainst the trunk, I think,

And then draw back, guffaw, and wink.



Not so. They pay a chain out link by link.

Hear it rattle, hear it clink!

A good stout chain so much can do!

As dancing bear and old-time showman knew,

Or bloodhound leashed at kennel door in straw.

And down along the Nile,

With Pharaoh's Sphinx in view,

The Coptic coolies, with a chain or two

Around his belly, tail, and jaw,



262 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Aboard the freighter hoist the crocodile

For Circus or for Zoo

A stout chain holds,

Come fear or fire, whatever's in its folds.



VII



VIII



They strip him, overalls and shirt,
They set his back against the tree,
They wind the links so tight about,
In girdles two and three. . . .
And yet it hardly seems to hurt,
For not a word says he.
Honk! Honk!



He stands five fathoms deep in glare agrin.

Honk, Honk! Honk, Honk!

His skin-bark on the tree bark-skin,

Trunk grafted on to trunk.

Honk! Honk! . . .

The graft should take, for they are close of kin,-

Both sprung of one old soil of earth,

Both fed on rain and air and dirt from birth,

Both tough and stark and thin . . .



One steps with jack-knife up. And he
Will cut the bark of which dark tree?
Nigger or cottonwood? With that
He gelds him like a colt or cat!
But the coon's caterwauls and wails
(Honk, Honk! Honk, Honk!)
Fall thin and blurred and flat-
While every conch-horn at him rails:



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 263



"No more he'll spawn in bush or bed,
With cocaine crazed, with whiskey drunk,
A charcoal woolly head,
Or yellow half-breed bratP
Honk, Honk!



Another comes with brush and pot,
And smears him over, as with ointment hot.
Honk! Honk!

Good fellow, at your trellised house in town,
You boil the tar to indigo and brown,
Shimmering in sunshine, bubbling to the brim-
Why waste it at the crossroads here on him?
Tar on your driveway, rolled in grit,
Makes you a roadbed firm and fit;
Tar on your upturned row-boat sinks
In all the nail-holes, joints, and chinks;
Tar on your gadding daughter's white kid shoe
Was black, and tickled you all through;
But, brother, with the brush and pot,
Tar does no good on hide of Hottentot
Or have you feathers in a bag or two?
If so, by now, he'd just as Kef as not.
Honk! Honk!



With rags, and straw, and sticks, and other toys,
In run the women-folk and girls and boys.
They'll prod his ribs? tickle his arm-pits? sop
His sweating cheeks, as with a pantry mop?
Such crossroads pranks are not just right
For decent town-folk, it would seem. . . .
( Or is this only a midsummer dream
In innocent midnight?) . . .



264 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



XII



Besides they haven't the heart. They drop
Their knickknacks at black ankles and bare feet,
And cool him from the spouts of cans
(Fetched from below-stairs, under washing pans
Porcelain-lined and scoured so white. )
And then they all, excepting one, retreat,
Back through the length of light.



This one is honored over every other,
She is the dead child's Mother.

And the two glare and glare

At one another

In two eternities of hate and pain,

Yet with such monstrous union in despair,

Such hideous sameness in their haggard shapes,

The one, the other,

That you would say the twain

Seemed like a savage sister and twin-brother

Dying of hunger out among the apes.



XIII



Her hand is clutching her unsuckled breast

You know the rest:

The bloody curls, the dainty skirt a shred,

The sprawling hand-prints on the legs and head,

Her body's little body in a shed. . . .

Then down she kneels;

You see her hunched back and her upturned heels.

But not the scratch and scratch,

Not the small flame that tips the second match. . .

And not her hands, her face, her hank of hair,

As when a Java woman kneels in prayer,

Under a temple-hut of thatch,

Before some devil-idol standing lone,

Not far from jungles and the tiger's lair,



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 265

Carved from the teak-wood to a jet-black face,

With Pagan wrinkles, curving pair by pair,

With set grimace,

And two great eyeballs, staring white in stone. . . .

Whilst smoke curls roofward from its hidden base . . .

The Mother rises . . . will depart . . .

Her duty done . . . and her desire. . . .

And as she turns, you see a strange

And quiet rapture of most uncouth change.

For from her burning marrow, her crazed heart,

She has transferred title fire

Of horror and despair

To the dumb savage there. . . .

She has transferred, she thinks, the fire to him.

Honk, Honk! let lights be dim!

(And now the lights are dim.) . . .



XIV



And for a moment is the night so black
It swallows tree and coon and all the pack,
And lets the sickle of the new moon hang,
Keen as a knife, bent like a boomerang,
A witch's bangle in the Zodiac.



Gone is the light that played upon the tree,

But at the cottonwood's own base

Another light now takes its place

And there is still so much for us to see.

Honk! Honk!

There have been many bonfires on the earth,

Born out of many moods and needs of men:

As when the maskers, in their twilight mirth

On Wessex heaths, would burn Guy Fawkes again;

As when the bustling ctmntry-side in dread

Against the Armada's coming set the beacons,



266 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

In the heroic English days, on Beachy Head,

When the midsummer sea-winds blew;

As when the village dames and Yankee deacons

Out on the common had a barbecue;

As when the boys in South and North

Still make the boxes blaze and crackle on the Fourth.

The ghouls and witches too

In olden times and regions far away

Danced at their wonted rendezvous

Upon the Brocken on the first of May,

Screaming round the bonfire's light

All through Walpurgis Night

Honk! Honk!

There is much fascination in a flame,
Not least, whenever it has sprung
In intertwining tongue and tongue,
And left the one small spot from whence it came
Faster, faster, higher, higher,
Shapes of wing, and wave, and lyre,
Shapes of demon-heads and peaked caps
And flying smocks, and shreds and scraps
Of all fantastic things without a name.
Tongue after tongue in middle air-
Snatched from existence, how and where?
There is much fascination in a flame-
Not least, when it is yellow, blue, and red,
With blackness for a background and a frame,
Still fuel-fed

With straw and wood and tar and kerosene,
And some organic matter still alive.
Its witcheries of color, how they strive!
Even though some smudge and smoke may get between.



XVI



Yet two vast bloodshot eyeballs by their might
Out-top the flame, though from the flame their light



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 267

Two eyeballs wrought (like eyeballs of the steei's
Or dog's, or cat's, or woodchuck's, or a deer's)
By one blind Nature in a mammal's womb,
By one Herself with neither eyes nor ears,
Nor birth, nor breath, nor doom.

The two vast eyeballs grow and grow,

Till, to the masters of the revels,

They seem the eyeballs of the devil's

Ascending from hell-fire down below.

The masters will not have it so :

A pole, all glowing charcoal at the tip,

Zip, Zip! Zip, Zip!

Honk, Honk! Honk, Honk!

And the blind savage at the flaming tree

No more will glare so monstrously.



XVII



But on the crossroads our midsummer dream

Converts each flame into a scream, a scream

A shriek, a shriek!

The horns honk at them as a hose at fire;

But still with every honk they come,

Shriek after shriek,

But fiercer, faster, higher!

(And all the while before, he was as dumb

As Roman martyr, schooled to turn the cheek.)

Honk, honk, away to left and right!

Between the honking and the shrieking black

The odds ( awhile ) are ten to one to-night

In favor of the blazing maniac!

All ancient Africa is in his yells:

The wounded zebra's neighing, the gazelle's

Fierce whinny at the salt-lick, and the goat's;

The roars of lions, with distended throats,

Over the moonlit rocks for hollow hunger;

The bellowing elephants, with jaws agape,



268 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And lifted trunks that thrash across their backs

Like writhing pythons or the great sea-conger,

Their monstrous hindlegs bogged beyond escape

In fire-swept jungles off their beaten tracks.

All Africa is in the Negro's shrieks:

The forests with their thousand parrot-beaks,

From Nile and Congo to the Cape;

But the Gorilla, the man-ape,

With his broad, hairy, upright chest,

Seems to out-scream the rest.

All Africa is in his agony:

The human ladings at the western coast,

The slave-ship, and the storm at sea,

The naked bodies (never very old)

Dragged, sick and crippled, from the fetid hold

And over the pitching gunwales tossed,

Both male and female, overboard,

While sharks, careening on their backs,

In the green swells with scudding foam astreak,

Ate up the blacks,

And crew and captain prayed the Lord,

Or crammed fresh oakum in the leak.

All Africa is on his lips:

The million sweats, the million bloody whips,

The million ankles festering in a cord

The unborn baby still between the hips,

The bent gray head along the rice-swamp humming,

"O Massa Gawd, Tse coining."



XVIII



His voice has come from other times and places.

And hence away it carries far and far. . . .

For in mid-darkness, level with a limb,

Above the flames and smoking tar,

Ride feather-crested heads that bob at him,

With peering faces,

There and there and there!



XIX



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 269

Faces, Faces,

Sudden and weird as those that loom and peep
Upon us nightly just before we sleep.
No hands, nor arms, nor tomahawks you see,
No thighs in buck-skins dyed and slashed,
No moccasin, no foot, no knee,
Not even a copper torso brave and bare
From many a war-path scarred and gashed-
But only faces, faces, faces,
Riding in the air-
Faces, faces, faces, faces,
Feather-crested with long braided hair,
Peering with an old desire
From the gloom upon the fire,
Summoned back from Otherwhere. . . .
Summoned back from What-has-been :
"Is that a Jesuit father at the stake
Burning for his Jesus' sake?
He hung us crosses round our necks to save-
But when the Mohawks to our village came
They killed both squaw and brave;
We Hurons put the Mumble- Jumble to the flame.
The cross it was no good to make us win
It was bad medicine!"
And Seminole, Pawnee, and Sioux,
Apache, Blackfoot, Chippewa, and Crow,
Each gloats as if he saw anew
His own best captive of the long ago. . . .



The faces fade away. . . .

The Negro's cries

Have joined the uncouth sounds of Yesterday

The incantations to the blood-red moon,

The ululations in the eclipse at noon,

The old palm-island lullabies

That ring-nosed crones were used to croon,

Squatting circle-wise. . . .



270 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And the twelve Shadows to the fire fling

Great logs with fungus, spines, and rotted pith,

And great dead boughs with thin and sprawling arms

( Fetched from about a long-abandoned spring,

And toad-stool woodlots of surrounding farms)

As if to cage in wickerwork therewith

(Like the wild people of a South-sea myth)

The Demon-in-fire from everything it harms. . . .

The Negro's corpse will take strange shapes,

As the flames gnaw it, flesh and bone;

But neither men shall see, nor apes,

For it shall burn from now alone. . . .

Alone . . . and up and up ... and down and down.
While honkers honk it back to town.



At last the stench, or glow of embers, brings

The wolves, or wolf -like things. . . .

Such as on earthquake midnights prowl around

Smoulder of fallen beams and littered ground,

And tear from dead hands golden finger-rings.

But though they crouch in slow two-legged stealth,

Their hunt is not for wealth.

They paw into the cinders, as with hooks. . . ,

Snatch something out,

With gloating, starveling looks . . .

A bit of rib ... or skull ... or cnip , . .

Hot ash and finger knuckle . . ,

They wrap them up,

And putter round about ...

And chuckle . . .

And foot it oft and down the road,

Past the weasel, skunk, and toad,

The barnyard rat,

The hooting owl and the whirring bat.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 271



XXI



But over the spot of glowing embers, listen,

The poplar's leaves are rustling like the rain

That patters on my garden-shrubs by night. . . .

The dew may glisten,

The south-wind come this way again,

And wander thither,

But the charred cottonwood has caught the blight. . . .

Its leaves shall wither.

Here on the fork, except that spot of red

(Still fierce as some primordial desire),

Ah 1 lust is dead:

The lust to breed, the lust to burn;

The rut of flesh, the glut of fire. . . .

Lift up the head,

If still you can, and turn

To the great spaces of the skies.

Black . . . black ... all black . . .

The moon has set, perhaps elsewhere to hang,

Keen as a knife, bent like a boomerang,

A witch's bangle in the Zodiac . . .

Black . . . black ... all black . . .

Though dawn be pregnant with her enterprise,

And stars perhaps will keep . . .

Black . . . black . . . and over yonder,

The glow is gone from all the town thereunder . . .

And all the people sleep . . . and sleep . . . and sleep.*

*(You cringe and shrink?
It makes your own eyes in their sockets ache?
O squeamish listener, but think
It's all a midnight dream, and no one is awake;
And in the morning, with the bobolink,
We'll see together, you and I,
The flowers, the fields, the sun, the sky,
And the magnolia blossoms, white and pink. ) .



272 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

NICE DAY FOR A LYNCHING 15
by Kenneth Patchen



The bloodhounds look like sad old judges
In a strange court. They point their noses
At the Negro jerking in the tight noose;
His feet spread crow-like above these
Honorable men who laugh as he chokes.

I don't know this black man.
I don't know these white men.

But I know that one of my hands
Is black, and one white. I know that
One part of me is being strangled,
While another part horribly laughs.

Until it changes,

I shall be forever killing; and be killed.



NEGROES 18

by Maxwell Bodenheim

The loose eyes of an old man

Shone aloof upon his boyish face;

And a sluggish innocence

Hugged his dull, brown skin.

He sang a hymn borrowed from his elders

And his voice resembled

A quavering, feverish laugh

Softened in a swaying cradle.

His life had found a refuge in his voice,

And the rest of him was under-nourished flesh

Ignorant of life and death.

1B By permission of New Directions.
M By permission of author.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 273

Centuries of oppression

Became a mute, infinitely compassionate

Background for this child's refrain.

His mother shuffled out upon the porch.

Slowly her dark brown face resolved

Into the hushed and sulky look

Of one who stands within a dim-walled trap.

Lazily uncertain.

She raised the boy into her arms.

Then her voice swung in the air

Like a quavering, feverish laugh

Softened in a long-forgotten cradle.



LYNCHED NEGRO 17
by Maxwell Bodenheim

Your downcast, harlequin, defenceless face
Was turned to ashen flakes, and wavered up
In lightly shapeless impotence upon
The sprightly scandals of a morning wind,
The hands of other men fell on your breast,
Like scores of scorpions instinctively
Expelled from jungle-spots within their hearts.
Your blood, in fine quick problems, spattered out
Upon the morning air that studied them
And left complete, dry answers on your skin.
( Oh, what is life but cold arithmetic
Where fractions serve as subtleties and add
Refinement to the rise and fall of dull,
Blunt numbers shuffled indisputably:
And what is death but mathematics where
The numbers graduate to higher planes
And leave a "terrifying" interest?)

17 From Return to Emotion, by Maxwell Bodenheim. Reprinted by permission of
Liveright Publishing Corporation.



274 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Yet, something beyond pain within your shriek

Would indicate, black man, that sky-large brains

Can stumble in their count and recognize

An eerie, unrelenting quality

Forever in revolt against their plans.

Emotion and its choking metaphors

Insist that two times two is never quite

The four that "life" methodically brands

On nations and the ceaseless pain of men.

You were accused of tendering a strong,

Experimental hatred to the frail,

Intense obstruction of a woman's flesh,

And endlessly you squawked your innocence.

But crime and justice do not live beyond

The point where death, with one, efficient whim,

Corrects the tongues of bungling, churlish men.



POEM TO NEGRO AND WHITES 18
by Maxwell Bodenheim

The elevator rises, Negro men
Receive from Whites a condescending, slight,
Forever draped removal voice and pen
Intensifying sugar half -contrite.
A quiet, level spontaneity
Springs only where familiar burdens pile,
Far from the hired, night-club gaiety,
The inexpensive speech, the tactful smile.
The radio commentator rolls his trite
Evasions, taste of soap within his mouth.
Newspapermen who know the truth must write:
"The delicate race question of the South."
The South! for years, astute, coarse, windy bands
Of men with venom blackening their lips
Have ruled the South, but they are not the lands,
The loads, the common, homely needs and whips.
"By permission of author.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 275

They are the ones who spur the lynchers" feet:

They scurry out to spread old lie and smear.

Without them, southern Negroes, Whites could meet

And plan sane compromise within one year.

The soldiers in the fox-holes, black and white,

Must function with reliance and respect,

And some who march back from pain-welded night

Will shoulder memories close and erect.

For in the centuries that seem to lift

Almost too imperceptibly for hope,

Equalities have been a threatened gift

Wrenched from the dim light where men thrash and grope.

This much we know a solid meeting sheers

From arduous, scarcely noticed brotherhood:

The bread, the stumbling labor shared for years,

The mutual rescues, quiet, understood.



A COMMUNICATION TO NANCY CUNARD 19
by Kay Boyle

These are not words set down for the rejected
Nor for outcasts cast by the mind's pity
Beyond the aid of lip or hand or from the speech
Of fires lighted in the wilderness by lost men
Reaching in fright and passion to each other.
This is not for the abandoned to hear.

It begins in the dark on a box-car floor, the groaning timber

Stretched from bolt to bolt above the freight-train wheels

That grind and cry aloud like hounds upon the trail, the breathing

weaving

Unseen within the dark from mouth to nostril, nostril to speaking mouth.
This is the theme of it, stated by one girl in a box-car saying:
"Christ, what they pay you don't keep body and soul together."
"Where was you working?'* 'Working in a mill-town."

"From A Glad Day, by Kay Boyle, copyright, 1938. Reprinted by permission
of New Directions.



276 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The other girl in the corner saying: "Working the men when we could

get them."
"Christ, what they pay you/* wove the sound of breathing, "don't keep

shoes on your feet.

Don't feed you. That's why we're shoving on."

(This is not for Virginia Price or Ruby Bates, the white girls dressed
like boys to go; not for Ozie Powell, six years in a cell playing the harp
he played tap-dancing on the box-car boards; not for Olen Montgomery,
the blind boy travelling towards Memphis that night, hopping a ride to
find a doctor who could cure his eyes; not for Eugene Williams or
Charlie Weems, not for Willie Robertson nor for Leroy and Andy
Wright, thirteen years old the time in March they took him off the train
in Paint Rock, Alabama; this is not for Clarence Norris or Haywood
Patterson, sentenced three times to die. )

This is for the sheriff with a gold lodge pin

And for the jury venireman who said: "Now, mos' folk don't go on

And think things out. The Bible never speaks

Of sexual intercourses. It jus' says a man knows a woman.

So after Cain killed Abel he went off and knew a woman

In the land of Nod. But the Bible tells as how

There couldn't be no human folk there then.

Now, jus' put two and two together. Cain had off-spring

In the land of Nod so he musta had him a female baboon

Or chimpanzee or somethin* like it.

And that's how the nigger race begun."
This is for the Sunday-school teacher with the tobacco-plug
Who addressed the jury, the juice splattering on the wall,
Pleading: "Whether in overalls or furs a woman is protected by the

Alabama law
Against the vilest crime the human species knows. Now, even dogs

choose their mates,

But these nine boys are lower than the birds of the air,
Lower than the fish in the sea, lower than the beasts of the fields.
There is a law reaching down from the mountain-tops to the swamps

and caves
It's the wisdom of the ages, there to protect the sacred parts of the

female species

Without them having to buckle around their middles
Six-shooters or some other method of defense/*



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 277

This is set down for the others: people who go and come,

Open a door and pass through it, walk in the streets

With the shops lit, loitering, lingering, gazing.

This is for two men riding, Deputy Sheriff Sandlin, Deputy Sheriff

Blacock,

With Ozie Powell, handcuffed. Twelve miles out of Cullman
They shot him through the head.



THE TESTIMONY

Haywood Patterson: Victoria Price:
"So here goes an I shell try

Faithfully an I possibly can "I

Reference to myself in particularly cain't

And concerning the other boys personal pride remember."
And life time upto now.

You must be patience with me and remember "I

Most of my English is not of much interest cain't

And that I am continually remember/'
Stopping and searching for the word/'

So here goes and I shall try faithfully as possible to tell you as I under-
stand if not mistaken that Olen Montgomery, who was part blind then,
kept saying because of the dark there was inside the box-car and out-
side it: "It sure don't seem to me we re getting anywheres. It sure don't
seem like it to me." I and my three comrades whom were with me,
namely Roy Wright and his brother Andy and Eugene Williams, and
about my character I have always been a good natural sort of boy, but
as far as I am personally concerned about those pictures of me in the
papers, why they are more or less undoubtedly not having the full like-
ness of me for I am a sight better -looking than those pictures make me
out. Why all my life I spent in and around working for Jews in their
stores and so on and I have quite a few Jew friends whom can and
always have gave me a good reputation as having regards for those
whom have regards for me. The depression ran me away from home,
I was off on my way to try my very best to find some work some else-



278 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

where but misfortune befalled me without a moving cause. For it is
events and misfortune which happens to people and how some must
whom are less fortunate have their lives taken from them and how
people die in chair for what they do not do.



THE SPIBITUAL FOR NINE VOICES

I went last night to a turkey feast (Oh, God, don't fail your chil-
dren now!)

My people were sitting there the way they'll sit in heaven
With their wings spread out and their hearts all singing
Their mouths full of food and the table set with glass '
(Oh, God, don't fail your children now! )

There were poor men sitting with their fingers dripping honey
All the ugly sisters were fair. I saw my brother who never had a

penny

With a silk shirt on and a pair of golden braces
And gems strewn through his hair.

(Were you looking, Father, when the sheriffs came in?
Was your face turned towards us when they had their say? )

There was baked sweet potato and fried corn pone
There was eating galore, there was plenty in the horn.

(Were you there when Victoria Price took the stand?

Did you see the state attorney with her drawers in his hand?

Did you hear him asking for me to burn?)

There were oysters cooked in amplitude
There was sauce in every mouth.
There was ham done slow in spice and clove
And chicken enough for the young and the old.

(Was it you stilled the waters on horse-swapping day

When the mob came to the jail? Was it you come out in a long

tail coat
Come dancing high with the word in your mouth?)



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 279

I saw my sister who never had a cent
Come shaking and shuffling between the seats.
Her hair was straight and her nails were pointed
Her breasts were high and her legs double-jointed,

( Oh, God, don't fail your children now! )



THE SENTENCE

Hear how it goes, the wheels of it travelling fast on the rails
The box-cars, the gondolas running drunk through the night.

Hear the long high wail as it flashes through stations unlit
Past signals ungiven. running wild through a country

A time when sleepers rouse in their beds and listen
And cannot sleep again.

Hear it passing in no direction, to no destination

Carrying people caught in the box-cars, trapped on the coupled chert-
cars

(Hear the rattle of gravel as it rides whistling through the day and
night.)

Not the old or the young on it, nor people with any difference in their
color or shape,

Not girls or men, negroes or white, but people with this in common:

People that no one had use for, had nothing to give to, no place to offer

But the cars of a freight-train careening through Paint Rock, through
Memphis,

Through town after town without halting.

The loose hands hang down, and swing with the swing of the train in
the darkness,

Holding nothing but poverty, syphilis white as a handful of dust, taking
nothing as baggage

But the sound of the harp Ozie Powell is playing or the voice of Mont-
gomery

Half -blind in oblivion saying: "It sure don't seem to me like we're
getting anywheres.

It don't seem to me like we're getting anywheres at all."

(1937)



280 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE TRIAL 20

by Muriel Rukeyser

The South is green with coming spring; revival

flourishes in the fields of Alabama. Spongy with rain,

plantations breathe April: carwheels suck mud in the roads,

the town expands warm in the afternoons. At night the black boy

teeters no-handed on a bicycle, whistling The St. Louis Blues,

blood beating, and hot South. A red brick courthouse

is vicious with men inviting death. Array your judges; call your jurors;

come,

here is your justice, come out of the cra2y jail.
Grass is green now in Alabama; Birmingham dusks are quiet
relaxed and soft in the park, stern at the yards:
a hundred boxcars shunted off to sidings, and the hoboes
gathering grains of sleep in forbidden corners.
In all the yards: Atlanta, Chattanooga,
Memphis, and New Orleans, the cars, and no jobs.

Every night the mail-planes burrow the sky,

carrying postcards to laughing girls in Texas,

passionate letters to the Charleston virgins,

words through the South: and no reprieve,

no pardon, no release.

A blinded statue attends before the courthouse,

bronze and black men lie on the grass, waiting,

the khaki dapper National Guard leans on its bayonets.

But the air is populous beyond our vision:

all the people's anger finds its vortex here

as the mythic lips of justice open, and speak.

Hammers and sickles are carried in a wave of strength, fire-tipped,
swinging passionately ninefold to a shore.

Answer the back-thrown Negro face of the lynched, the flat forehead
knotted,



Theory of Flight, by Muriel Rukeyser. Reprinted by permission of Yale
University Press.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 281

the eyes showing a wild iris, the mouth a welter of blood,

answer the broken shoulders and these twisted arms.

John Brown, Nat Turner, Toussaint stand in this courtroom,

Dred Scott wrestles for freedom there in the dark corner,

all our celebrated shambles are repeated here: now again

Sacco and Vanzetti walk to a chair, to the straps and rivets

and the switch spitting death and Massachusetts' will.

Wreaths are brought out of history

here are the well-nourished flowers of France, grown strong on blood,

Caesar twisting his thin throat toward conquest,

turning north from the Roman laurels,
the Istrian galleys slide again to sea.
How they waded through bloody Godfrey's Jerusalem!
How the fires broke through Europe, and the rich
and the tall jails battened on revolution!
The fastidious Louis', cousins to the sun, stamping
those ribboned heels on Galas, on the people;
the lynched five thousand of America.
Tom Mooney from San Quentin, Herndon: here
is an army for audience

all resolved

to a gobbet of tobacco, spat, and the empanelled hundred,
a jury of vengeance, the cheap pressed lips, the narrow eyes like hard-
ware;

the judge, his eye-sockets and cheeks dark and immutably secret,
the twisting mouth of the prosecuting attorney.

Nine dark boys spread their breasts against Alabama,
schooled in the cells, fathered by want.

Mother: one writes: they treat us bad. If they send

us back to Kilby jail, I think I shall kill myself.

I think I must hang myself by my overalls.

Alabama and the South are soft with spring;

in the North, the seasons change, sweet April, December and the air

loaded with snow. There is time for meetings

during the years, they remaining in prison.



282 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

in the Square

a crowd listens, carrying banners.
Overhead, boring through the speaker's voice, a plane
circles with a snoring of motors revolving in the sky,
drowning the single voice. It does not touch
the crowd's silence. It circles. The name stands:
Scottsboro.



THEY ARE OURS 21

On the Scottsboro Boys
by A. B. Magil

They are ours; we claim them and we claim
what they have suffered, upon our backs is laid
the stone of their dark days, and we have made
their name our name.

These are the nine black boys, the stubborn fruit
sprung from a sour soil manured with blood;
these are the lives covered with lynchers' mud,
withered at the root.

But withered root becomes seed, and death becomes birth,
and over all the Southland, on every farm
the nine black boys are planted, rise ripe and warm
through the bleeding earth.

You who have lynched three years of their lives, who have taken
the sun from their sky and buried their young strength away,
see; on our shoulders we bear a new sun, a new day
that shall not darken.

Though you have drawn your noose around their throat,
we come, the millions that do not beg or haggle,
to bind them to us with the flesh of struggle
and revolt.

^Originally published in International Literature magazine.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 283



RECAPITULATIONS 2 -
by Karl Shapiro



XI



We waged a war within a war,

A cause within a cause;
The glory of it was withheld

In keeping with the laws
Whereby the public need not know
The pitfalls of the status quo.



Love was the reason for the blood:

The black men of our land
Were seen to walk with pure white girls

Laughing and hand in hand.
This most unreasonable state
No feeling White would tolerate.



We threw each other from the trams,
We carried knives and pipes,

We sacrificed in self-defense
Some of the baser types,

But though a certain number died

You would not call it fratricide.



The women with indignant tears

Professed to love the Blacks,
And dark and woolly heads still met

With heads of English flax.
Only the cockney could conceive
Of any marriage so naive.

"From Trial of a Poet and Other Poems, copyright, 1947, by Karl Shapiro^
Reprinted by permission of Reynal and Hitchcock, Inc.



284 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Yet scarcely fifty years before
Their fathers rode to shoot

The undressed aborigines,
Though not to persecute.

A fine distinction lies in that

They have no others to combat.

By order of the high command
The black men were removed

To the interior and north;
The crisis thus improved,

Even the women could detect

Their awful fall from intellect.



THE SOUTHERNER 23
by Karl Shapiro

He entered with the authority of politeness
And the jokes died in the air. A well-made blaze
Grew round the main log in the fireplace
Spontaneously. I watched its brightness
Spread to the altered faces of my guests.
They did not like the Southerner. I did.
A liberal felt that someone should forbid
That soft voice making its soft arrests.

As when a Negro or a prince extends
His hand to an average man, and the mind
Speeds up a minute and then drops behind,
So did the conversation of my friends.
I was amused by this respectful awe
Which those hotly deny who have no prince.
I watched the frown, the stare, and the wince
Recede into attention, the arms thaw.

Copyright, 1947, by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc. From Trial of a Poet and
Other Poems, copyright, 1947, by Karl Shapiro. Reprinted by permission of Reynal
and Hitchcock, Inc.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 285

I saw my southern evil memories

Raped from my mind before my eyes, my youth

Practicing caste, perfecting the untruth

Of staking honor on the wish to please.

I saw my honor's paradox:

Grandpa, the saintly Jew, keeping his beard

In difficult Virginia, yet endeared

Of blacks and farmers, although orthodox.

The nonsense of the gracious lawn,
The fall of hollow columns in the pines,
Do these deceive more than the rusted signs
Of Jesus on the road? Can they go on
In the timeless manner of all gentlefolk
There in a culture rotted and unweeded
Where the black yoni of the South is seeded
By crooked men in denims thin as silk?

They do go on, denying still the fall
Of Richmond and man, who gently live
On the street above the violence, fugitive,
Graceful, and darling, who recall
The heartbroken country once about to flower,
Full of black poison, beautiful to smell,
Who know how to conform, how to compel,
And how from the best bush to receive a flower.



UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS 24
by Hervey Allen

The judge, who lives impeccably upstairs
With dull decorum and its implication,
Has all his servants in to family prayers,
And edifies his soul with exhortation.

^From Carolina Chansons, Legends of the Low Country, by Du Bose Heyward
and Hervey Allen, copyright, 1922, by Rinehart & Company, Inc.



286 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Meanwhile his blacks live wastefully downstairs;
Not always chaste, they manage to exist
With less decorum than the judge upstairs,
And find withal a something that he missed.

This painful fact a Swede philosopher,
Who tarried for a fortnight in our city,
Remarked, one evening at the meal, before
We paralyzed him silent with our pity-
Saying the black man living with the white
Had given more than white men could requite.



PORGY, MARIA, AND BESS 25
fay Du Bose Heyward

Porgy, Maria, and Bess,
Bobbins, and Peter, and Crown;
Life was a three-stringed harp
Brought from the woods to town.

Marvelous tunes you rang

From passion, and death, and birth,

You who had laughed and wept

On the warm, brown lap of the earth.

Now in your untried hands
An instrument, terrible, new,
Is thrust by a master who frowns,
Demanding strange songs of you.

God of the White and Black,
Grant us great hearts on the way
That we may understand
Until you have learned to play.

^y permission of Mrs. Du Bose Heyward.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 287



MAMMY HUMS 26
by Carl Sandburg

This is the song I rested with:

The right shoulder of a strong man I leaned on.

The face of the rain that drizzled on the short neck of a canal boat.

The eyes of a child who slept while death went over and under.

The petals of peony pink that fluttered in a shot of wind come and gone.

This is the song I rested with:

Head, heels, and fingers rocked to the mammy humming of it, to the
mile-off steamboat landing whistle of it.

The murmurs run with bees' wings

in a late summer sun.
They go and come with white surf

slamming on a beach all day.

Get this.

And then you may sleep with a late afternoon slumber sun.
Then you may slip your head in an elbow knowing nothing only sleep,
If so you sleep in the house of our song,
If so you sleep under the apple trees of our song,
Then the face of sleep must be the one face you were looking for.



JAZZ FANTASIA 27
by Carl Sandburg

Drum on your drums, batter on your banjoes,
sob on the long cool winding saxophones.
Go to it, O jazzmen.

^From Cornhuskers, by Carl Sandburg, copyright, 1918, by Henry Holt and
Company.

Trom Smoke and Steel, by Carl Sandburg, copyright, 1920, by Harcourt, Brace
and Company, Inc.



288 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy
tin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go husha-
husha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.

Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome tree-
tops, moan soft like you wanted somebody terrible,
cry like a racing car slipping away from a motorcycle
cop, bang-bang! you jazzmen, bang altogether drums,
traps, banjoes, horns, tin cans make two people fight
on the top of a stairway and scratch each other's eyes
in a clinch tumbling down the stairs.

Can the rough stuff . . . now a Mississippi steamboat
pushes up the night river with a hoo-hoo-hoo-oo . . .
and the green lanterns calling to the high soft stars
... a red moon rides on the humps of the low river
hills ... go to it, O jazzmen.



SONGS FOR A COLORED SINGER 28
by Elizabeth Bishop



A washing hangs upon the line,

but it's not mine.
None of the things that I can see

belong to me.
The neighbors got a radio with an aerial;

we got a little portable.
They got a lot of closet space;

we got a suitcase.

I say, "Le Roy, just how much are we owing?

Something I can't comprehend,

the more we got the more we spend. . . ."

North and South, by Elizabeth Bishop. Reprinted by permission of
Houghton Mifflin Company.



II



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 289

He only answers, "Let*s get going,"

Le Roy, you're earning too much money now.

I sit and look at our back yard

and find it very hard
that all we got for all his dollars and cents

's a pile of bottles by the fence.
He's faithful and he's kind

but he sure has an inquiring mind.
He's seen a lot; he's bound to see the rest,

and if I protest

Le Roy will answer with a frown,
"Darling, when I earns I spends.
The world is wide; it still extends. . . .
I'm going to get a job in the next town."
Le Roy, you're earning too much money now.



The time has come to call a halt;

and so it ends.

He's gone off with his other friends.

He needn't try to make amends,
'cause this occasion's all his fault.

Through rain and dark I see his face

across the street at Flossie's place.

He's drinking in the warm pink glow

to th' accompaniment of the piccolo.

The time has come to call a halt.
I met him walking with Varella
and hit him twice with my umbrella.
Perhaps that occasion was my fault,
but the time has come to call a halt.

Go drink your wine and go get tight.
Let the piccolo play.
I'm sick of all your fussing anyway.
Now I'm going to go and take the bus
and find someone monogamous.



290 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The time has come to call a halt.
I've borrowed fifteen dollars fare
and it will take me anywhere.
For this occasion's all his fault.
The time has come to call a halt.



Ill



Lullaby.

Adult and child

sink to their rest.

At sea the big ship sinks and dies,

lead in its breast.

Lullaby.

Let nations rage,

let nations fall.

The shadow of the crib makes an enormous cage

upon the wall.

Lullaby.

Sleep on and on,

war's over soon.

Drop the silly, harmless toy,

pick up the moon.

Lullaby.

If they should say

you have no sense,

don't you mind them; it won't make

much difference.

Lullaby.

Adult and child

sink to their rest.

At sea the big ship sinks and dies,

lead in its breast.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 291
IV

What's that shining in the leaves,
the shadowy leaves,
like tears when somebody grieves,
shining, shining in the leaves?

Is it dew or is it tears,

dew or tears,

hanging there for years and years

like a heavy dew of tears?

Then that dew begins to fall,
roll down and fall.
Maybe it's not tears at all.
See it, see it roll and fall.

Hear it falling on the ground,
hear, all around.
That is not a tearful sound,
beating, beating on the ground.

See it lying there like seeds,
like black seeds.
See it taking root like weeds,
faster, faster than the weeds,

all the shining seeds take root,
conspiring root,

and what curious flower or fruit
will grow from that conspiring root?

Fruit or flower? It is a face.
Yes, a face.

In that dark and dreary place
each seed grows into a face.



292 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Like an army in a dream
the faces seem,
darker, darker, like a dream.
They're too real to be a dream.



SINGING IN THE DARK 29
by Irma Wassail



A blind girl singing on the radio.

A blind young man "blacked on ?> the stage
and guided off by a voice from the wings,
unheard by the audience through the applause.

A blind beggar in the City of Mexico,

sitting with his guitar on the sidewalk,
singing "Cielito Lindo" with his unseeing face
lifted to the beautiful heaven of his song,
in the warm sun that was black to him.

All these

Then others deliberately closing their brilliant eyes,
looking inward, withdrawing: Roland Hayes,
seeming almost to float across the dim
stage to the dark polished piano;
and Marian Anderson, at the Lincoln Memorial,

before that enthralled, tremendous throng,
singing in the darkness behind their own eyelids.



ON A PICTURE BY PIPPIN, CALLED "THE DEN" 30

To William Calfee
by Selden Rodman

Here is the way the white man's heaven felt
That day in Paoli in Jane's chdteau,

permission of author. Originally published in The Kansas Magazine, 1948.
The Amazing Year, by Selden Rodman. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub-
lishers.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 293

A drink or two, or three, under your belt.
Inside, the fire, and outside, the snow
Reflected what was there: a wire screen,
A bearskin and two leopard chairs, a flock
(Along the mantelpiece) of European
Porcelain dogs ascending to a clock.

But what is here did not exist until

Your art recalled what only children learn:

That leopards have a thousand eyes; a grill

Containing fire warms, but need not burn;

Bears can be guardians; and on a sill

Whose dogs deploy, the hands of Time are still.



DAPHNE 31

by Selden Rodman

The god spoke once that made your girdle fall

And then was gone. Whatever magic mastered

That night your heart until its unsealed wall

Caught fire on the frozen ground, was blasted

When morning slew the dark and winter hung

On every amorous curve its classic scaffold.

Now here, now there, I watched you pose among

Desires like a marble, and was baffled

Till in a land too hot for stratagems,

Where only priests and white men are immoral,

I saw your lips sprout leaves and fingers stems;

How floating in the sea your breasts were coral,

Your eyes still brilliant but as hard as gems,

And your hair that the god had breathed upon turned laurel.

^From The Amazing Year, by Selden Rodman. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub-
Jishers.



294 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



NORRIS DAM 82
by Selden Rodman



Liberals raised this in their finest hour

Thinking, between two worlds, to build a bridge;

The doors say "WHITE" and "COLORED," and the power
Stokes the atomic ovens at Oak Ridge.



THE CASTLE 83

by Sidney Alexander

I watched them playing there upon the sand:
the little white boy and the little black,
their hands happy as the hands of artists
shaping a castle of their dreams together.
And as each turret grew, each battlement-
exultant cries burst from one throat:
They danced like prospectors striking oil
at the wink of water in the tiny moat.

And then the tide, the hateful tide rolled in.
The boyhood castle crumbled. Innocence fled.
A cloud coiled and struck like a cobra.
The beach was starred with devils and with wrack.
I saw them clutched in murder before my eyes
the grown-up white man and the grown-up black.

^From The Amazing 'Year, by Selden Rodman. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub-
lishers.

^By permission of author.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 295



DEFEAT 34

by Witter Bynner



On a train in Texas German prisoners eat
With white American soldiers, seat by seat
While black American soldiers sit apart
The white men eating meat, the black men heart.
Now, with that other war a century done,
Not the live North but the dead South has won:
Not yet a riven nation comes awake.
Whom are we fighting this time, for God's sake?
Mark well the token of the separate seat-
It is again ourselves that we defeat.



THE STRONG SWIMMER 35
by William Rose Benet

I have a story fit to tell,
In head and heart a song;
A burning blue Pacific swell;
A raft that was towed along.

Out in the bloody Solomon Isles
Destroyer Gregory gone;
Ocean that kills for all her smiles,
And darkness coming on.

The Gregory's raft bobbed on the tide
Loaded with wounded men.
Ensign and seaman clung her side.
Seaward she drifted then.

^From Take Away the Darkness, copyright, 1944, 1947, by Witter Bynner. Re-
printed by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

^From Day of Deliverance, copyright, 1944, by William Rose Benet. Reprinted
by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.



296 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

A mess-attendant, a Negro man,
Mighty of chest and limb,
Spoke up: "Til tow you all I can
As long as I can swim."

Naked, he wound his waist with a line;
Slipped smoothly overside,
Where the red bubble tells the brine
That sharks have sheared the tide.

'Tm goin 9 to tow this old craft in

Since we ain't got not one oar/*

He breathed, as the water lapped his chin;

And he inched that raft ashore.

Strongly he stroked, and long he hauled
No breath for any song.
His wounded mates clung close, appalled.
He towed that raft along.

Clear to the eye the darkening swell
Where glimmering dangers glide;
The raft of sailors grimed from Hell
Afloat on a smoky tide

And a dark shoulder and muscled arm
Lunging, steady and strong.
The messman, their brother, who bears a charm,
Is towing their raft along.

He gasped, "Just say if Tm goin right!"
Yes, brother, right you are!
Danger of ocean or dark of night,
You steer by one clear star.

Six hours crawled by. ... A barge in sight
With the raft just off the shore. . . .
The messman coughed, "Sure, I'm all right/'
He was just as he was before.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 297

And all that they knew was they called him "French*

Not quite a name to sing.

Green jungle hell or desert trench,

No man did a braver thing.

He's burned a story in my brain,
Set in my heart a song.
He and his like, by wave and main,
World without end and not in vain
Are towing this world along!



MY SOUTH
by Don West



Oh soft flowing rivers

With slender willows

Clutched hungrily

To your bosom

And red Georgia hills

Where cotton patches

Speckle the ground

With downy snow balls

Like a spotted hound's back,

And lazy pools

The deep green of corn blades

In June

Glisten under a Southern moon-

You are my South.

I found life deep in your womb

And I love you . . .

I love the sad solemn beauty

In your mountains

The great Blue Ridge,

Cumberlands

Smokies

Unakas



298 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

That stand like sentinels
To witness the surge
Of human passion
Flowing through your ribs.
Laughter and hate
Of Southern toilers . . .

And I love you who toil

In the dirt

And factories

And mines

You whose skin is ebony

From a tropic sun

And my own bleached brothers

I love the slow soft drawl

Of your Southern voice,

The way you love the sound

Of silence

And the easy swing

Of your bent shoulders . . .

I've felt your deep sorrow

In songs you sing

And I've wanted to sing

With you,

To tune your songs

Into keen blue blades

Slashing at your chains,

The cruel chains of hunger!

Bift your eyes were blind
And your hate was old
Your brain was warped
And your heart was cold . . .

Oh, my South,
My cold-blooded South
With a Negro's blood
Smeared over your mouth



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 299

And a Negro's bones
Which you blindly make
A few charred coals
By a burnt-off stake

You have drunk poison
And it turns you mad
Like a rotten cancer
Gnawing at your brain.

And am I grinding
The blades of my songs
To a tempered edge
To whittle on
Your cancerous brain . . .

Tomorrow you must wake

And white hands will clasp

Ebony

Bowed over a few charred bones.

By a burnt-off stake . . . 1

You are my South;
I'll hammer you
Into a beautiful song
For I love you , . .



STREET SCENE 1946 38
by Kenneth Porter

On a street in Knoxville
bless these eyes of minel-
white man and a Negro
form a picket linel

Rankin and McKellar
rant in Washington:
^Originally published in Common Ground.



300 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

over eastern Tennessee
shows a streak of sun!

Storms and shadows thicken.
Here is fairing weather!
Negro and a white man
picketing together!



GOVERNMENT INJUNCTION 37

Restraining Harlem Cosmetic Co.
by Josephine Miles

They say La Jac Brite Pink Skin Bleach avails not,
They say its Orange Beauty Glow does not glow,
Nor the face grow five shades lighter nor the heart
Five shades lighter. They say no.

They deny good luck, love, power, romance and inspiration
From La Jac Brite ointment and incense of all kinds,
And condemn in writing skin brightening and whitening
And whitening of minds.

There is upon the federal trade commission a burden of glory
So to defend the fact, so to impel

The plucking of hope from the hand, honor from the complexion,
Sprite from the spell.



BOOGIE-WOOGIE BALLADS 88
by St. Clair McKelway

The Touchin Case of Mr. and Mrs. Massa

Oh, let's fix us a julep and kick us a houn 7
(Sing "Yassah! Yassah! Yassah!")

37 From Poems of Several Occasions, by Josephine Miles, copyright, 1941. Re-
printed by permission of New Directions.

permission of the author. Copyright, 1943, The New Yorker magazine, Inc,



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 301

And let's dig a place in de coF, cof groun'
For Mr. and Mrs. Massa!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, this Mr. and Mrs. Massa have always lived in old Virginia and old
North Carolina and old South Carolina and old Alabama and old Ken-
tucky and old So Forth and old So On and nobody has ever understood
the colored people the way they do because down in old So Forth and
old So On is where the white folks understand the colored folks like no
other white folks on earth understand colored folks. Yassah, Massa!
Yassah!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, before the war and for some time afterward Mr. and Mrs. Massa
understood the colored folks so well that they had a washerwoman they
paid $1.50 a week and a cook they paid $1.75 a week and a butler they
paid $2.25 a week and it was mighty lucky for these colored folks that
the washerwoman was the cook's mother and the butler was the cook^
husband because this enabled the three of them to live cozily in the
fifth one-room shack from the left on the other side of the railroad tracks
and thus pay $0.85 less a week for rent than the total of their combined
salaries.

(Boogie-woogie)

Qh, and over and above the total of their combined salaries Mrs. Massa
every other week gave the cook a ham bone outright and Mr. Massa
every other month gave the butler a whole quarter of a dollar extra
right out of a clear sky. It was manna, Mammyl Manna!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, but after the war had been going along for a while the butler,
whose name was Charles F. Parker, came to Mr, Massa and told him he
was going to quit because he had been offered a job as a counterman in
the cafeteria of a defense plant at a salary of $15 a week plus three
meals a day and Mr. Massa understood the colored folks so well he told
Charles F, Parker that up to then he (Mr. Massa) had been able



302 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

through influence to persuade the local draft board not to draft him
(Charles F. Parker) but that if he (Charles F. Parker) quit his job as
butler he (Mr. Massa) would have to persuade the draft board to go
ahead and draft him (Charles F. Parker). Swing low, sweet Lincoln!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, but then Charles F. Parker told Mr. Massa that as he (Charles F.
Parker) understood the situation after conversations with the draft
board he (Charles F. Parker) had already been classed as 4-F owing
to a number of physical disabilities, including chronic hoecake poison-
ing, and that therefore he thought he would take the job at the defense-
plant cafeteria but with all due respect to Mr. Massa, etc. and etc. Hit
that hoecake, boys! Hit it!

( Boogie-woogie)

Oh, so Mr. and Mrs. Massa saw the straws in the wind, saw which way
the wind was blowing, and also recognized the trend of the time, so
they took another tack, changed face, turned over new leaves, and each
gave Charles F. Parker fifteen cents as a bonus and wished him success
in his new job and raised the washerwoman (Esther G. Henderson)
from $1,50 a week to $1.75 a week and raised the cook ( Mrs. Charles F.
Parker) from $1.75 a week to $1.85 a week with the understanding that
Mrs. Esther G. Henderson would help out Mrs. Charles F. Parker in the
kitchen and that Mrs. Charles F. Parker would wait on the table. Pass
the hominy grits, boys! Pass it!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, but at the end of the first week under the new arrangement Mrs.
Charles F. Parker came to Mrs. Massa and said she was going to quit
because she had been offered a job as cook at the defense-plant cafe-
teria at a salary of $22.50 per week plus three meals a day and Mrs.
Massa jus' had to cry. Weep some mo', my lady, oh, weep some mo'!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, and then the washerwoman (Esther G. Henderson) came to Mrs.
Massa and said she was going to quit because she was eighty-two years



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NON-NEGROES 303

old and her back ached and her daughter and son-in-law were going to
support her for nothing, and Mrs. Massa jus' had to cry some mo'!

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, and then one day a week after that Mr. and Mrs. Massa were walk-
ing back home after a dinner at the Old Southern Greek Chophouse and
they saw Charles F. Parker and Mrs. Charles F. Parker and Esther G.
Henderson coming out of the colored section of a movie house after
having seen a Technicolored feature featuring Jack Benny and Mr. and
Mrs. Massa noticed that Charles F. Parker had on a new suit and looked
happy and that Mrs. Charles F. Parker had on a new dress and looked
happy and that Esther G. Henderson had on a new shawl and looked
happy and moreover was still laughing at the jokes Jack Benny had
made inside the movie house and Mr. and Mrs. Massa saw the three of
them go into a three-room stucco bungalow where Esther G. Hender-
son had a room all to herself and Mr. and Mrs. Charles F. Parker had a
room all to themselves and then Mr. and Mrs. Massa looked at each
other understandingly and tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Massa and
Mr. Massa put his hand on her shoulder and said to her softly, "Nevah
you mind, there'll be a reckonin' one of these days!"

(Boogie-woogie)

Oh, and so Mr. and Mrs. Massa finally closed up the house in old So
Forth and old So On and came to New York and leased a suite at the
Savoy-Plaza and the Savoy-Netherlands and the Savoy-So Forth and the
Savoy-So On and any time you want to listen day or night as well as any
time you don't want to listen day or night they will tell you for hours
without stopping how they understand the colored people like no other
white folks on earth understand colored folks and how the war and high
wages are jus' ruinin' everything down in old So Forth and old So On
and how never you mind there's goin' to be a reckonin' one of these
days. Reckon twice and hit it again, boys! Hit it!

(Boogie-woogie)

j

Oh, and the bones of Mr. and Mrs. Massa are not growing cold and
their heads are not bending low and no angel voices are calling to them



304 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

and if nobody will carry them back to old So Forth and old So On, oh,
then. . * ,

(Boogie-woogie)

Let's fix us a julep and kick us a houn'
(Sing "Yassah! Yassah! Yassah!")
And let's dig a place in de col', col' groun'
For Mr. and Mrs. Massal



LENOX AVENUE 39
by Sidney Alexander

And it came to pass,

when Joseph was come unto his "brethren,

that they stripped Joseph out of his coat,

his coat of many colors that was on him;

And they took him, and cast him into a pit:

and the pit was empty,

there was no water in it.

GENESIS XXXVH

With the hooves of a doe
my eye has wandered into this strange forest:
Soft-footed, break no twigs, stir no grass;
the underfoot of last year's death is here

Cactuses of men
weird against the sky . . .
Fantastic shapings of the poor . . .
Waste of seed . . .

And swaying to the icy air of flutes
the chorus of the prostitutes
led by hunger to the act of dogs
"Originally published in The Negro Quarterly, fall 1942.



TRIBUTARY POEMS BY NOM-NEGROES 305

The palm-leaf is your mouth,

And sinuous as rivers down the perfumed banks

Your hips before me on the avenue.

And you, O bronze boy, playing at the curb,
Why do you stare with eyes of a mountain-pool
suddenly freezing over at my step?
What is there in the pinkness of my skin
makes me an interloper in your home?
A lost stag in a lost valley,
startled at the muttering horizons,
hemmed by the pointing of fingers

The questions whirl, the mind sees
the shadow hanging from the trees;
green by day and purple by night;
The wind kissing the innocent leaves,
And ever behind me is the tread
of guilt creeping toward my bed . , .

For though I have not sown, yet I must reap:
The harvests of hatred are shared;
The galley-slave is chained to my oar;
The cotton is bloodied at my door;
The storm breaks. No one is spared.

When freedom's rose blooms in the senator's mouth
Does he hear the beating of that drum?
the tomtom stretched of his failure?
the seamstress and the shoeshine boy
whirling round the cauldron of his bones?

When the statue bleeds

When the motionless move

When the tiger leaps from the cates of these eyes?

So before me, Lenox Avenue,

you pass like a dream half-realized,

Twisted by anger and fear. . . .



306 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Your loungers of a jungle grace
Your numbers on the flung dice
Your exclamations of cigars
Your marijuana and your bread.

Those who cast you in the pit have fled.
The caravan has come. Give me your hand!
In that embrace stars shall explode,
And brotherhood like a coat of many colors
Cover the nakedness of man.



3



THE CARIBBEAN



JAMAICA



THE CARIBBEAN 1
by Stephanie Ormsby



Here where the pirate chieftains sailed
In quest of gore and gold,
Where brutal, bloody Might prevailed
We pass, with none to hold.

Thought dreams behind, Hope flies before
The sea knows naught of years.
The white foam flashes as of yore,
And melts in pearls and tears.



SAN GLORIA
by Tom Redcam



Oh, Captain of wide western seas,
Where now thy great soul lives, dost thou
Recall San Gloria's spice-'censed breeze?

White-sanded curves where serried trees
Filed backward as thy sharpened prow
Sheared into foam the racing seas?

San Gloria's wood-carved mountain frieze

In the blue bay is mirrored now,

As when thy white sail wooed the breeze.

The thunder of insurgent seas

Beats yet the rough reefs ragged brow,

Roaring by green, far-stretching leas;



*By permission of author.



310 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Yet through the wood the peony flees,
And frets with gold the night-dark bough
Down the long avenue of trees.

Still flowering gyneps tempt the bees,
The yellow guave ripens now,
Rich-hearted ipomes please.

Dost thou remember things like these,
Hear yet the dark-robed woodlands sough,
Oh, Captain of wide western seas,
Dost thou remember things like these
Where thy great soul inhabits now?



JAMAICA MARKET
by Agnes Maxwell-Hall



Honey, pepper, leaf -green limes,
Pagan fruit whose names are rhymes,
Mangoes, breadfruit, ginger-roots,
Granadillas, bamboo-shoots,
Cho-cho, ackees, tangerines,
Lemons, purple Congo-beans,
Sugar, okras, kola-nuts,
Citrons, hairy cocoanuts,
Fish, tobacco, native hats,
Gold bananas, woven mats, ,
Plantains, wild-thyme, pallid leeks,
Pigeons with their scarlet beaks,
Oranges and saffron yams,
Baskets, ruby guava jams,
Turtles, goat-skins, cinnamon.
Allspice, conch-shells, golden rum.
Black skins, babel and the sun
That burns all colours into one. .



THE CARIBBEAN 311



LIZARD

by Agnes Maxwell-Hall



O, what would people say if you
Ate bitter-tasting ants, drank dew,
Caught gnats as blue as summer skies,
And swallowed painted butterflies?

And what would people think, if then
You laid eggs just like any hen-
Forgot them in a windy nest,
And left the sun to do the rest?



Leave everyone come sit with me
In trees; the things you'll hear and seel
And lead a lizard-life I'm one!
A pocket-dragon in the sun!



BOYHOOD ETCHINGS 2
by Walter Adolphe Roberts

I: Tropic Sunset

Oh, full and soft, upon the orange trees,

Flamed forth bright beams of glory from the West!

And through the boughs there sighed a gypsy breeze.
Bearing a thousand perfumes on its breast.

For it had kissed the coffee's starry spray,
Had stolen sweetness from the lily's bell,

And I had seen the stephanotis sway
Before its breath, as it swept up the dell.

a Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts.



3U THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



The feathery bamboos pencilled on the sky,
The cedars branches garbed in August green,

The palms that stirred storm-tattered fronds on high-
All breathed the languor of the hour serene.



II: Tropic Storm

The scent of jasmines in the sultry air,

A deathly stillness hanging over all,
Great sombre clouds, which float across the sky

And hide the sun ? as with a funeral pall.

The birds' sweet voices silenced in the trees,
As if they had not got the heart to sing,

As on some twig, close-sheltered by the leaves,

Each sits with ruffled plumes and drooping wing.

But now a sullen murmur breaks the calm,
The gathering East wind stirs the vapors warm,

The roll of thunder smites upon the ear,

The lightning flashes red and bursts the storm.



THE CAPTAINS 3

by Walter Adolphe Roberts

A glamor of regret is on the brown

And placid streets of this old harbor town,

That wear their pride like a Victorian gown.

They mourn the vanished captains and their fleets,
Whose cargoes once were spices and strange sweets,
Parrots, and marmosets, and parakeets.

"Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts.



THE CARIBBEAN 313



SAN FRANCISCO*

by Walter Adolphe Roberts



My galleon of adventure

Beat through the Golden Gate.
The sailors said it was a ship

With passengers and freight.

But I was young and dreamful.

Dreams were the best of me.
And I, to San Francisco,

Came dreaming from the sea.

I found a woman city,

Suave as a cooing dove.
I sought her as a lover,

But was too young for love.

Draped on her like a mantle.
Her fog was cool and gray;

But since her girdle baffled me,
She sent me on my way.

Now I have learned that poets
When youth is gone kiss best,

I think, if I went back, that she
Would take me to her breast.



VILLANELLE OF WASHINGTON SQUARE 5
by Walter Adolphe Roberts

The starshine on the Arch is silver white;

Elves, April elves, are dancing in the Square;
The green-robed Spring has come to town tonight

*' 5 Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts.



314 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Jasmines are in her arms and clouded quite

With lilac is the nimbus of her hair;
The starshine on the Arch is silver white.

With sap at floodtide and pale leaves bedight,

Ghosts of gray trees assume a vernal air;
The green-robed Spring has come to town tonight.

Young lovers' lips seek for the old delight,

On the park bench that winter-long was bare

The starshine on the Arch is silver white

And they who hear her primal call aright

Rejoice that, deathless, virginal and fair,
The green-robed Spring has come to town tonight.

Dreamers whose windows on the Square are bright,

Know that your dreams may not witH this compare;
The starshine on the Arch is silver white.
The green-robed Spring has come to town tonight.



VILLANELLE OF THE LIVING PAN 6
by Walter Adolphe Roberts

Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake,
Hard by the blue of some Aegean shore.
Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake.

Vine leaves have drifted o'er him, flake by flake,

And with dry laurel he is covered o'er.
Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake.

The music that his own cicadas make

Comes to him faintly, like forgotten lore.
Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake.

'Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts,



THE CARIBBEAN 315

Let not the enemies of Beauty take

Unction of soul that he can rise no more.
Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake,

Dreaming of one that for the goat god's sake

Shall pipe old tunes and worship as of yore.
Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake.

So once again the Attic coast shall shake

With a cry greater than it heard before:
"Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake!'*
Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake.



PEACOCKS 7

by Walter Adolphe Roberts

They came from Persia to the Sacred Way
And rode in Pompey's triumph, side by side
With odalisques and idols, plumes flung wide.

A flame of gems in the chill Roman day.

They that were brought as captives came to stay,
To flaunt in beauty, mystery and pride,
To preen before the emperors deified,

Symbols of their magnificent decay.

Then there was madness and a scourge of swords.

Imperial purple mouldered into dust.
But the immortal peacocks stung new lords

To furies of insatiable lust.
Contemptuous, they loitered on parade-
Live opals, rubies, sardonyx and jade.

7 Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts.



316 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



VIEUX CARRE 8

by Walter Adolphe Roberts



This city is the child of France and Spain,
That once lived nobly, ardent as the heat
In which it came to birth. Alas, how fleet

The years of love and arms! There now remain,

Bleached by the sun and mouldered by the rain,
Impassive fronts that guard some rare retreat,
Some dim, arched salon, or some garden sweet,

Where dreams persist and the past lives again.

The braided iron of the balconies
Is like locked hands, fastidiously set

To bar the world. But the proud mysteries
Showed me a glamour I may not forget:

Your face, camellia-white upon the stair,

Framed in the midnight thicket of your hair.



ON A MONUMENT TO MARTP
by Walter Adolphe Roberts

Cuba, disheveled, naked to the waist,

Springs up erect from the dark earth and screams

Her joy in liberty. The metal gleams

Where her chains broke. Magnificent her haste

To charge into the battle and to taste

Revenge on the oppressor. Thus she seems.

But she were powerless without the dreams

Of him who stands above, unsmiling, chaste.

Yes, over Cuba on her jubilant way
Broods the Apostle, Jose Julian Marti.

8 ' e Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts.



THE CARIBBEAN 317



He shaped her course of glory, and the day
The guns first spoke he died to make her free.
That night a meteor flamed in splendid loss
Between the North Star and the Southern Cross.



THE MAROON GIRL 10

by Walter Adolphe Roberts



I see her on a lonely forest track,
Her level brows made salient by the sheen
Of flesh the hue of cinnamon. The clean

Blood of the hunted, vanished Arawak

Flows in her veins with blood of white and black.
Maternal, noble-breasted is her mien;
She is a peasant, yet she is a queen.

She is Jamaica poised against attack.

Her woods are hung with orchids; the still flame
Of red hibiscus lights her path, and starred
With orange and coffee blossoms in her yard.

Fabulous, pitted ifiountains close the frame.

She stands on ground for which her fathers died;
Figure of savage beauty, figure of pride.



LITANY

by George Campbell

I hold the splendid daylight in my hands
Inwardly grateful for a lovely day.
Thank you life.

Daylight like a fine fan spread from my hands
Daylight like scarlet poinsettia
Daylight like yellow cassia flowers
Daylight like clean water
Daylight like green cacti

10 Reprinted by permission of Walter Adolphe Roberts.



318 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Daylight like sea sparkling with white horses

Daylight like sunstrained blue sky

Daylight like tropic hills

Daylight like a sacrament in my hands.

Amen.



LIZARD 11

by K. E. Ingram

In the tender spreading tropical mornings

The collandium leaves extend themselves

To the quivering flaming light

Spread out so open and so wide

Like giant red spiders with their feet webbed together.

O webbed so very neatly;

And forming such cool soft divans for the lizard's belly,

For lizards lie belly-leafed in the early dawning.

One little fellow lies reared on his fore-legs

Upright and aware towards the leaping light,

For lizards are very aware little creatures seldom caught off guard:

As I turned the corner this little fellow

Had cocked his head inquiringly

Demanding of me the password.

'Who goes?"

And when I still have made no motion, friendly or hostile,
He still with head question-wise insists,

"Who goes?"

And then I put my question to him,

What was he doing out there in the spreading, flaming light

In the burning gold of the new-risen sun,

When I had always thought that the lizard's world

n By permission of author. First published in the Jamaican weekly, Public
Opinion.



THE CARIBBEAN 319

Was a green-world, gloom-world,

Beneath the mysterious shade of leaf and fern

Where stalk knows root on the hard earth's lip;

Had he deserted his unknowable world of

Lizard-leap, lizard-dive and lizard-chase.

And then, just as I turned,

Just as I couldn't stand his impertinent slow-eyed stare,

He jumped, jumped into the deep gloom of the leaf-shade,

As if to show me how superior he was

For he was able to experience my world and his own.

And I was left wondering what new blood was now creeping through

his veins,

Through his limpid green veins,
This cold-blooded, cool-world creature
That had ventured forth into the spilling morning light



NINE O'CLOCK
by Louis Simpson

At nine o'clock the bus snouts cityward
Surfeited, and groaning at every start;
The passengers, in lulls of being tossed,
With relish chew their misanthropic cud.

Reluctantly agreed, their bodies sway,

While, clogged with too much marmalade at heart,

Again they pick up pins of grievance lost,

Nudge room from neighbours going the same way.

They scan the usual banners of world hate.

A girl clutching her purse conjures the cost

Of daily lunch, or shoes that might be smart,

Or matinees . . . she strokes a perfumed pate. , . .

And Charon, coming round for his due fare,
Collects all men's frustrations in a stare.



320 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



DINNER PARTY, 1940
by P. M. Sherlock

Do you mind the news while we eat?

So, guests assenting,
The well-bred voice from Daventry
Mingled with sounds from the pantry
And slowly through the ether spilled
Its syllables not silencing augmenting
The show of wit which never fails
Thanks to 7: 30 cocktails . . . "and at

Narvik where for 5 days a storm has raged a few were killed"
More mutton Alice? Yes, it's delicious dear
Yesterday at bridge I held three aces, three

"In the Baltic

It is reported from Stockholm that the soldiers fled
Leaving a number of dead.**

But don't you like it cold with guava-jelly?

The well-bred voice from Daventry

Did not grow less well-bred,

And did not speak of more than 3 or 400 dead,

And did not really silence the sounds from the pantry

Or the show of wit which never fails

Thanks to 7:30 cocktails.

Cold mutton is delicious with guava-jelly

And does not seriously incommode

Like cold lead in the belly.



THE FINAL MAN
by Basil McFarlane



This is the final man;
Who lives within the dusk,
Who is the dusk
Always.



THE CARIBBEAN 321

To know birth and to know death

In one emotion,

To look before and after with one eye,

To see the Whole,

To know the Truth,

To know the World and be without a World:

In this light that is no light,

This time that is no time, to be

And to be free:

This is the final man,

Who lives within the dusk,

Who is the dusk

Always.



ON NATIONAL VANITY
by J. E. Clare McFarlane



Slowly we learn; the oft repeated line
Lingers a little moment and is gone;
Nation on Nation follows, Sun on Sun;

But we are blind and see not. In our pride
We strain toward the petrifying mound
To sit above our fellows, and we ride
The slow and luckless toiler to the ground.

Fools are we for our pains! Whom we despise,
Last come, shall mount our withered vanities,
Topmost to sit upon the vast decay
Of time and temporal things; for, last or first,
The proud array of pictured bubbles burst;
Mirages of their glory pass away.



322 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



THE CAGED MONGOOSE
by Constance Hollar



Within the cage he ramped and raged!

His jailer, proud, exultant, stood before him,

The while he hissed and spat

Forth fury. His tail, all reddish silver,

Coiled high in bristling anger, flashed

Upon his back. His sleek grey sides

Like ribbon gleamed. His eyes,

Keen steel-bright rapiers,

Cut the distance as a Damasc blade

A skein of silk.

His white teeth gleamed like daggers,

As he flew and bit the wooden bars,

As in old days he slew the snake,

Or cracked the bones of juicy chickens

Or stole the red gold

From the crystal fountain of the egg.

No prayer for pity crossed his lips,

But curses deep, rage and despair.

I turned aside I could not bear
To see him drowned. To see the light
Go out from those bright eyes-
But, fascinated, turned and looked
Just as he went beneath the pool
And saw two fore-feet
High-uplifted, clenched,
As if in prayer.

A gurgling sound! A hissing breath!
The problem of both Life and Death
Was solved for him.
His race was run.



Beneath the bamboo tree
His brown mate waited till the dusk:



THE CARIBBEAN 323

She and her little ones,

And oft she raised her eyes and peered,

Or nosed the ground.

Then with half -sigh she settled

'Midst the leaves again.

In that blind patience of dumb animals

She made her prayer.

And I pray too

For all the chased and hunted "little ones" of earth,

For cattle with black fear within their hearts,

Imprisoned in the cruel slaughter-yards,

For patient sheep and goats

Led to the Sacrifice.

For foxes hunted by the loud-voiced pack,

For hares fast coursing down the wind,

Also for barn-yard fowls

In feathers clean and neat,

For all the graceful birds on wing

Now airy joys then broken bones and blood,

To "make a Roman holiday":

For all who yield the sweet delights of Life

Unasked, unwilling and with grievous fear

And voiceless agony,

I make my prayer to God and man.



I, REMEMBERING
by Roger Mais



I, remembering how light love

Has a soft footfall, and fleet,

That goes clicking down

The heart's lone

And empty street

In a kind

Of spread twilight-nimbus of the mind,



324 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



And a soft voice of shaken laughter
Like the wind . . .

I, remembering this,

And remembering that light love is

As fragile as a kiss

Lightly given,

And passes like the little rain

Softly down-driven;

Bade love come to you
With rough male footsteps-
Deliberate
That hurt to come,
And hurt to go. ...
And bade love speak to you
With accents terrible, and slow.



HUNTED

by Una Marson



The hunted hare seeks out some dark retreat
And hopes the pulsing pack will pass him by
His body quivers, fast his heart must beat
As oft he hears the heartless huntsmen's cry:
So hunted still by love's relentless might
With heart convulsing and with hasty tread
I seek some refuge, hidden from his sight
So he might pass whom I so darkly dread;
Pass on, and leave me there to die of grief
Or solaced back to life in Nature's arms
On her soft soothing breast to find relief
And half forget the sorrow of love's charms:
But lo! he comes with his own cruel dart
To find me out and wound for sport my heart.



THE CARIBBEAN 325



NIGHTFALL
by Una Marson



How tender the heart grows
At the twilight hour,
More sweet seems the perfume
Of the sunless flower.

Come quickly, wings of night,
The twilight hurts too deep;
Let darkness wrap the world around,
My pain will go to sleep.



THE GLEANER
by Vivian L. Virtue



". . . And Ruth the Modbitess . . .

came to Bethlehem

in the beginning of barley harvest."

Gleaning she goes down the far golden ways,
Longing her garment, with Loneliness shod,
Lift up your hearts, all ye sons, in her praise!

Bethlehem fields are with harvest ablaze:
Fairer than she not among them has trod;
Gleaning she goes down the far golden ways.

Daughter most dutiful, lo ? in her gaze

Faith that not Sorrow could break with its rod!

Lift up your hearts, all ye sons, in her praise!

Hark the rare words that she steadfastly says,
All thine be mine till we home to the clod. . . .
Gleaning she goes down the far golden ways.



326 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Binding the sheaves of ripe barley she prays;
Answer her, Heaven! raise her hope from the sod!
Lift up your hearts, all ye sons, in her praise!

Cometh fulfilment . . . O joy and amaze!
Out of her faithfulness flowers our God.
Gleaning she goes down the far golden ways,
Lift up your hearts, all ye sons, in her praisel



ATLANTIC MOONRISE
by Vivian L Virtue

The new-washed moon drew up from the sea's dark rim.

Naked, and unsuspecting, on my sight

Her bosom dripped, till, struck with virgin fright,

Catching my gaze, she snatched a cloud-fold dim

Across the delightsome shame that flushed each limb,

Mocking the hunger in me to possess her bright

Divinity with proper, prudish spite,

With beauty's conscious sovereignty and whim.

Baffled I waited, burning with desire;

Then with such slow magnificent pretence,

As though I were not there, she stripped again. . . .

I stood like David on the roof, the fire

Of young Bathsheba torturing his sense,

Bartered, like him, my peace for Beauty's pain.



TO CLAUDE McKAY
by Vivian L Virtue

Far from your native hills although you roam,
How would your heart rejoice this picnic day
With rustic fiddle and flute and roundelay
To welcome August, from the dawning gloam*



THE CARIBBEAN 327



Until the new moon climbed the dewy dome,
Lingered above your village, went her way,
Leaving, night long, dusk limbs to trip and sway
To rhythmic dance and song in fields of home!

These have not changed, old loves you left behind;

The rural sights and sounds are lovely yet

And times and seasons that would make you yearn

With lyrical remembrance and regret

For pathways waiting your delayed return

Of long, long years of pain to ease your mind.

THE TROPICS IN NEW YORK 12
by Claude McKay

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grapefruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills,

My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

AFTER THE WINTER 18
by Claude McKay

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves

And against the morning's white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves

Have sheltered for the night,

^From Spring in New Hampshire, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1920. Grant
Richards, Ltd., publishers; from Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright,
1922. Harcourt, Brace & Co., publishers.



32S THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



We'll turn our faces southward, love,

Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove

And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill

Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,

And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there

Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,

And ferns that never fade.



HERITAGE 14

by Claude McKay

Now the dead past seems vividly alive,

And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,

Your fatm-like form, your fond elusive face.

And suddenly some secret spring's released,

And unawares a riddle is revealed,
And I can read like large, black-lettered print,

What seemed before a thing forever sealed.

I know the magic word, the graceful thought,

The song that fills me in my lucid hours,
The spirit's wine that thrills my body through,

And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.

I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,
I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;

But I can feel and I can write the word;
The best of me is but the least of you.

"From Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright. 1922. Harcourt, Brace
& Co., publishers.



THE CAWBBEAN 329



SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE 15
by Claude McKay



Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,

For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,

Wasting the golden hours indoors,

Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,

The stars too gloriously bright,

For me to spend the evening hours,

When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,

Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.



TO O.E.A. 16

by Claude McKay

Your voice is the color of a robin's breast,

And there's a sweet sob in it like rain still rain in the night.
Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest,

The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight
Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat.

I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold,

Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold.
But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the

eucharis
Before the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss.

You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness,
Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth.



Spring in New Hampshire, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1920. Grant
Richards, Ltd., publishers; from Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright,
1922, Harcourt, Brace & Co., publishers.



330 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your

birth.

Oh I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong!
But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with

flesh,
Forever, life-long.



A SONG OF THE MOON 17
by Claude McKay

The moonlight breaks upon the city's domes,
And falls along cemented steel and stone,
Upon the grayness of a million homes,
Lugubrious in unchanging monotone.

Upon the clothes behind the tenement,
That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines,
Linking each flat to each indifferent,
Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.

There is no magic from your presence here,
Ho, moon, sad moon, tuck up your trailing robe,
Whose silver seems antique and so severe
Against the glow of one electric globe.

Go spill your beauty on the laughing faces

Of happy flowers that bloom a thousand hues,

Waiting on tiptoe in the wilding spaces,

To drink your wine mixed with sweet drafts of dews.

"From A Song of the Moon, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1937, by the Guild's
Committee for Federal Writers' Publications, Inc., and copyright, 1937, by Viking
Press, Inc.



THE CARIBBEAN 331



HARLEM SHADOWS 18
by Claude McKay

I hear the halting footsteps of a lass

In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall

Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass
To bend and barter at desire's call.

Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet

Go prowling through the night from street to street!

Through the long night until the silver break

Of day the little gray feet know no rest;
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake

Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast,
The dusky, half -clad girls of tired feet
Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street*

Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way

Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,

The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.



AMERICA 19

by Claude McKay

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!

M From Spring in New Hampshire, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1920. Grant
Bichards, Ltd., publishers; from Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright,
1922. Harcourt, Brace & Co., publishers.

"From Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1922. Harcourt, Brace
& Co., publishers.



332 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,

Giving me strength erect against her hate.

Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.

Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,

I stand within her walls with not a shred

Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.

Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,

And see her might and granite wonders there,

Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,

Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.



WHITE HOUSES 20
by Claude McKay

Your door is shut against my tightened face,

And I am sharp as steel with discontent;

But I possess the courage and the grace

To bear my anger proudly and unbent

The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,

A chafing savage, down the decent street;

And passion rends my vitals as I pass,

Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.

Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,

Deep in my wrathful bosom sore and raw,

And find in it the superhuman power

To hold me to the letter of your law!

Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate

Against the potent poison of your hate.

^From A Long Way from Home, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1937. Lee Fur-
man, Inc., publishers.



THE CARIBBEAN 333



IF WE MUST DIE 21
by Claude McKay



If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,

Making their mock at our accursed lot.

If we must die, O let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shed

In vain; then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!

Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,

And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!

What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,

Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!



BAPTISM 23

by Claude McKay

Into the furnace let me go alone;

Stay you without in terror of the heat.

I will go naked in for thus 'tis sweet

Into the weird depths of the hottest zone.

I will not quiver in the frailest bone,

You will not note a flicker of defeat;

My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet,

My mouth give utterance to any moan.

The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears;

Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name.

Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears,

Transforming me into a shape of flame.

^From Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1922. Harcourt, Brace
& Co., publishers.



334 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



I will come out, back to your world of tears,
A stronger soul within a finer frame.



RUSSIAN CATHEDRAL 255
by Claude McKay



Bow down my soul in worship very low

And in the holy silences be lost.

Bow down before the marble man of woe.

Bow down before the singing angel host.

What jewelled glory fills my spirit's eye!

What golden grandeur moves the depths of me!

The soaring arches lift me up on high

Taking my breath with their rare symmetry.

Bow down my soul and let the wondrous light
Of beauty bathe thee from her lofty throne,
Bow down before the wonder of man's might.
Bow down in worship, humble and alone;
Bow lowly down before the sacred sight
Of man's divinity alive in stone.



FLAME-HEART 24
by Claude McKay

So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;

^By permission of Mrs. Hope McKay Virtue.

'"From Spring in New Hampshire, by Claude McKay, copyright, 1920. Grant
Richards, Ltd., publishers; from Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay, copyright,
1922. Harcourt, Brace & Co., publishers.



THE CARIBBEAN 335



What time of year the ground doves brown the fields

And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.

I have forgotten much, but still remember

The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

I still recall the honey-fever grass,

But cannot recollect the high days when

We rooted them out of the ping-wing path

To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.

I often try to think in what sweet month

The languid painted ladies used to dapple

The yellow by-road mazing from the main,

Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.

I have forgottenstrange but quite remember

The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year

We cheated school to have our fling at tops?

What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy

Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?

Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,

Even the sacred moments when we played,

All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,

At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.

We were so happy, happy, I remember,

Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.



NATURE 25

by H. D. Carberry

We have neither Summer nor Winter
Neither Autumn nor Spring.

We have instead the days

When the gold sun shines on the lush green canefields

Magnificently.

^By permission of author; originally published in the Jamaican weekly, Public
Opinion.



336 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

The days when the rain beats like bullets on the roofs
And there is no sound but the swish of water in the gullies
And trees struggling in the high Jamaica winds.

Also there are the days when the leaves fade from off guango trees
And the reaped canefields lie bare and fallow to the sun.

But best of all there are the days when the mango and the logwood
blossom

When the bushes are full of the sound of bees and the scent of honey,
When the tall grass sways and shivers to the slightest breath of air,

When the buttercups have paved the earth with yellow stars
And beauty comes suddenly and the rains have gone.



I SHALL REMEMBER 26
by H. D, Carberry

And in strange lands

Where the fog presses down

And even the street lamps are faint and misty,

I shall remember

The beauty of our nights,

With stars so near

That one could almost stretch and touch them,

Stars winking and flashing

Magnificently in a sky of velvet blue.

I shall remember

Walking down long avenues of trees,

The black asphalt flecked with pale moonlight

Pouring through the acacia leaves

And the soft laughter of girls

Leaning back, cool and inviting

Against the trunks of flaming poincianne trees.

^By permission of author; originally published in the Jamaican weekly. Public
Opinion.



THE CARIBBEAN 337



And in the long day when rain falls sullenly

And no sun shines

And all the earth lies in a weary stupor

I shall remember

The splendour of our sun

The brightness of our days.

And how the rain poured down

Upon a passionate thirsty earth,

Swiftly, unrelenting with immeasurable power,

Then vanished suddenly in a peal of childlike laughter

And all the earth was green and light once more.

I shall remember

The warmth of our island seas,

The sparkling whiteness of the breaking waves

And the blue haze on our hills and mountains

With their noisy streams cascading down

Sheer cliffs in clouds of incandescent spray

And deafening sound.

And in strange cities

Among unaccustomed people

Who move palefaced with tired staring eyes

I shall remember

The warmth and gaiety of my people,

The polyglot colour and variety of their faces,

The happy fusion of our myriad races

In the common love that unites and binds us to this land.

And I shall yearn for the sight
Of faces black and bronzed,
People with dark sparkling eyes
With ready tongue
And laughter loud and unashamed.



338 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



RETURN 27

by H. D. Carberry



In the narrow street

Of filthy kerosene box shacks

He stands.

There are dark sullen clouds above
One star and the dim street lamp-
Scars in his hands

And in his eyes a deep pity

And a great love

For the earth that is man's.



BRITISH GUIANA



Passages from
OVER GUIANA, CLOUDS 28
by A. J. Seymour

Over Guiana, clouds.

Little curled feathers on the back of the sky.
White, chicken-downy on the soft sweet blue-
In slow reluctant patterns for the world to see.

, ^y permission of author; originally published in the Jamaican weekly, Public
Opinion.



permission of author; originally published in Over Guiana, Clouds, by A. T.
Seymour. Published in British Guiana, 1944.



THE CARIBBEAN 339



Then frisky lambs that gambol and bowl along
Shepherded by the brave Trade Wind.

And glittering in the sun come great grave battleships
Ploughing an even keel across the sky.

In their own time, their bowels full of rain

The angry clouds that rage with lightning

Emitting sullen bulldog growls

And then they spirit themselves away in mist and rain.

Over Guiana, clouds.

And they go rushing on across the country

Staining the land with shadow as they pass.

Closer than raiment to the naked skin, that shadow,

Bringing a pause of sun, over and across

Black noiseless rivers running out to sea,

Fields, pieced and plotted, and ankle-deep in rice

Or waving their multitudinous hair of cane.

It scales the sides of mountains

Lifting effortlessly to their summits,

And fleets across savannahs, in its race,

But there are times that shadow falters

And hesitates upon a lake

To fix that eye of water in a stare,

Or use its burnished shield to search the sun,

Or yet as maids do,

To let the cloud compose her hurried beauty.

And then upon its way to Venezuela

Across vast stretches where trees huddle close

And throw liana arms around their neighbours*

Over Guiana, clouds.

Forest night full of drums

Death-throbbing drums

For shining-breasted invaders of the shores.



340 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Immemorial feuds shake hands

And Indians come,

Death's harvests swinging in their quivers.

A cinema of rapid figures
Thrown by wood-torches on the trees,
Impassive faces with passion forcing through,
Then the hard treks, and the long full canoes
Rustling down the river-night.

A horror of nights for Spaniards
Keen arrows biting the throat above the steel
The Indians flitting like actors in the wings
The swamps, the heavy marching, the malaria.

A trail of burnt villages and tortured men and treacheries.

Wave after wave, the white-faced warriors
Then weary of war,
The Indians talk of trade.



Indians knew the bird calls in the woods

Before Columbus sailed

The swallow songs

Arrows of longing for the northern Summer days-

The clamorous-winging wild ducks and the choughs

The merry kiskadees and the pirate hawks

The cries of little frightened doves,

The brilliant and unmusical macaws.

And they can tell the single hours to sunset

By the birds cheeping, cheeping overhead.

This wildwood and untroubled knowledge still

Cradles the dying tribes

For death has laid his hand upon the race.

They know the wisdom of all herbs and weeds

Which one to eat for sickness, which to shun

And which to crush into an oil that pulls

The cramping pains from out the marrow bones.



THE CARIBBEAN 341



They hear the river as it courses down
And they can tell the rising of the tide
From river- water lapping, lapping softly
Slapping against the wooden landing-stage.

The impassivity of silent trees becomes their own
And they will watch the wheeling of white birds
For company.

But still they have their dances and at nights,
When the drums trouble the dark with rhythm
The violin takes a voice and patterns the air
And then the Indians find their tribal memories
Of victories and war and dim old journeys
That brought them from beyond the Bering Strait.



Raleigh comes to Guiana

The wind had dropped, the giant hand
Of night was shrouding up the land
From where the thick couridas stand

On the Guiana shore.
And when the ships their anchors weighed
Men went below, but one man stayed

The distant jungle's roar.
These musings fed on his far stare
"I have been bold the King to dare,
And will my expedition fare

As falsely as of yore?

These secret forests left behind
Will I in that star-peopled south find
The image stamped upon my mind,

The city built in gold?"
Where golden streets threw back the light,
And roofs gleamed dully through the night
But like an auburn head blazed bright

When earth to morning rolled



342 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



But deep within the mountains' breast
The city lay; there was no rest
Until he and his men had pressed

And won a conqueror's way
Through jungles where death stung and leapt
Or in the tree-black midnight crept
And claimed each tenth man as he slept

And therefore could not pray.

And to Sir Walter came the thought
Perhaps the destiny he sought
Would never shine, be gold.
Perhaps this kindly fitful breeze
He'd no more feel, nor see these seas,
Perhaps his men would feed the trees

Changed to a rotting mould.
He pulled his cloak around his knees

Because the night was cold.

Slaves

Humming in the twilight by the shanty door

Oh Lord Jesus.

Slaves

Pouring out heart-music till it run no more

Oh Lord Jesus.

Slaves born in hot wet forestlands

Tend the young cane-shoots and they give

Brute power to the signal of the lash

It curls and hisses through the air

And lifts upon the black, broad backs

Roped wales in hideous sculpture

"Oh Lord Jesus."

Some slaves are whipped
For looking at the Master's grown-up daughters
Picking their way across the compound,
And other slaves for trying to run away.
"Oh Lord Jesus."



THE CARIBBEAN 343

Some few found kindly-hearted owners
And they were used like human beings
But those were rare, Lord Jesus.

Before, it was the shining yellow metal

And now, the dark sweet crystal owned the land

And if the chattel and the cattle died

There always would be more to take their place.

Till, in its deep sleep

Europe's conscience turned

And strenuous voices

Broke chains and set the people free.

"Oh Lord Jesus."

But there were other chains and earth was not yet heaven
And other races came to share the work
And halve the pay.

So with a stride down to the modern times and
Random villages dawning between the plantations
The sea pounding away to break the dams.

And the railway pencils a line to the Berbice River
Villages broaden shoulders and, sugar booming,
Schools spring up suddenly to dot the coast.

Men get eager for the yellow metal, shooting

Down rapids for diamonds and quick wealth, returning

Bloated and drunk to paint the villages red.

Plantations thicken, spread, and tney web together,
The angry sea batters the concrete defences
Scooping a grave for them to bury themselves.

Bustle and industry on the coasts but inland
Few echoes shake the forests from their silences
And nothing wakes their strong cathedral calm.



344 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Their tops like plumes, the years grow old with forests
And sleep upon the broad, short-shrubbed savannahs
Patient and free from suffering like the stones.

The races fade into a brown-stained people
And the Guiana Spirit arises, stretching
As a young giant begins to open his eyes

And sees his country with its waiting promise
Fair and unraped, and lifts his head to the heavens

Over Guiana, clouds.

Over Guiana clouds still lift their beauty

And pace the sheer glad firmament by day

They seem to halt, lay anchor when the night

Distains the heavens and pours thick darkness in

Its bowl, but on their pilgrimage they go

And weave themselves strange pagan arabesques

Or subtle unimaginable shapes

Before they pass on to another land.

High symbols, that behind the brow of history

Dim objects brood and huge hands shape events

From here, a little actuated dust

And there, the blind collisions of the stars.

Over Guiana, clouds.



THE CARIBBEAN 345



BRITISH HONDURAS



THERE IS A MYSTIC SPLENDOR
by Raymond Barrow

There is a mystic splendor that one feels
Walking this shore in the half-light of dawn.
Placing one's footprints on the sands where keels
Of ancient vessels must have beached and drawn.

For there are tales that speak of glorious days
When martial shouting rang within our Bay,
And cannons thundered, and black battle haze
Clouded this sickle isle with dark affray.

Those were the times when privateers fled
The predatory Brethren of the Coast;
Pirates and buccaneers all these are dead,
And all their lordly sway seems but a ghost.

But even now the surfs loud thunder brings
Sounds strangely clear like battle cries of old;
And palm trees murmur of deep-sunken things,
Of buried treasure-chests . . . and Morgan's gold.



346 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



BARBADOS



NOCTURNE

by H A. Vaughan



The wind is blowing from the hill,
The sky is robed in purest sheen,
The crickets' music, sweetly shrill,
Conies from -the cane-brake and the green.

The pond is quivering with delight,
The pear tree nods. The jasmine fair
And gracious lady-of-the-night
With perfume load the dewy air.

The village sleeps. Only beyond
The brake two lovers linger still.
The moon with silver clothes the pond.
Silent and silver is the hill.



THE OLD CONVICT
by H. A. Vaughan



Look at me. I am Ishmael,

Ham's heir, the spit and spawn of Cain,
The outcast with the twisted brain,

Lord of Cats Castle, fit for Hell.

I got no chance. The social odds

Were dead against me when they sent
Me up The Hill because I went

For some forgotten prank to Dodds.



THE CARIBBEAN 347'



And so because they made me wince,
And stretched me on the legal rack,
I took an oath I would hit back,

And have been hitting ever since.

Maybe it is a foolish game

Judged by the record. Who likes jail?

But then I've fought them tooth and nail,
And surely that's no cause for shame.

Reform, you say? Reform indeed!

Let's all reform. They must not quit
The Golden Rule, and I from it

Will not stray once. That is our need.



IN MEMORIAM

by Frank A. Collymore



And so, when the time came,

And you kissed them all and went,

All your bills paid and your affairs wound up,

To the lonely waiting ward,

Though they thought you'd be afraid

And tried to smile as they fussed around you,

You could afford to smile back;

For you were not afraid:

You knew you were going to die.

You'd known this all along, hadn't you?

You'd always been afraid of the little things

The toothache, the crowded theatre, the fire alarm;

But when it came to this

You could afford to smile back at them;

For this was no trivial matter,

This was the end; and now

There was no cause for fear:

You had worked out the answer.



348 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

And so, when they came to see you

And told you you'd soon be better . . .

You were looking much better . . .

You must get better . . .

There were so many important things to live for

You could only smile.

What else could you do?

There might be important things to live for,

But death was just round the comer,

And death was more important just then.

Only it was no good trying to explain.



TRINIDAD



ROOTS

by Harold Telemaque



Who danced Saturday mornings
Between immortelle roots
And plays about his palate
The mellowness of cocoa beans,
Who felt the hint of the cool river,
In his blood,

The hint of the cool river,
Chill and sweet.

Who followed curved shores

Between two seasons,

Who took stones in his hands,

Stones white as milk,

Examining the Island in his hands;

And shells,

Shells as pink as frogs' eyes

From the sea.



THE CARIBBEAN 349

Who saw the young corn sprout

With April rain

Who measured the young meaning

By looking at the moon

And walked roads a footpath's width,

And calling,

Cooed with the mountain doves

Come morning time.

Who breathed mango odour

From his polished cheek,

Who followed the cus-cus weeders

In their rich performance,

Who heard the bamboo flute wailing,

Fluting, wailing,

And watched the poui golden

Listening.

Who with the climbing sinews

Climbed the palm

To where the wind plays most

And saw a chasmed pilgrimage

Making agreement for his clean return,

Whose heaviness

Was heaviness of dreams,

From drowsy gifts.



ADINA

by Harold Telemaque



They hunt chameleon worlds with cameras.
Their guides avoid the virtue of our valleys,
They have not seen Adina's velvet figure
Swimming uncovered in our rivers' bubbles



350 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



They have not seen the bamboo's slow manoeuvre,
The light refracting round her shapely ankles:
They have not seen Adina's dancing beauty
Blazing effulgent in the Caribbean.

They stalk with telescopes the larger precincts
Their view ascends skyscrapers' hazy regions,
They have not seen the silver sun on green leaves,
Adina's basket starred with fruit and flowers,
The bird sung matinee, the dancing palm-trees,
Beside her rhythmic swinging arms
Storms do not strike

They have not seen Adina in the breezes
Blazing effulgent in the Caribbean.



HAITI

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH



CHOUCOUNE 5 *
by Oswald Durand

When I think of it all I am so sad,

In chains since that day my two feet fve had!

Choucoune she is a marabout,
Her two eyes shine like candles too,
Her breasts stick straight out to view. . . .
Oh! if only Choucoune had been true!

We stood talking a long time there

Till the little wood-birds were all happy in air!

^From Poets of Haiti, translated by Edna Worthley Underwood; copyright, 1934.



THE CARIBBEAN 351



I'd like to forget if I only could for it makes me sad,
In chains since that day my two feet I've had!

The little teeth of Choucoune as milk are white,
And her mouth is the color of our caimite,
She's not a fat woman but plump and sweet,
The oldtime days are not these that we meet,
The little wood-birds every word they heard,
If they think of it now they must grieve and be sad,
In chains since that day my two feet I've had!

To the house of her mother we had to go,
An honest old woman and good you know.
She looked me over from shoes to hat,
Said I'm satisfied, so that's all of that!

We drank nut-chocolate just as we should. . . .
Is it all settled now, Little Birds in the Wood?
But I'd like to forget it all I'm so sad,
In chains since that day my two feet I've had!

The furniture's ready; fine bed-bateau,
Rattan chair, table, and a dodine,
Mattress together with porte-manteau,
Table-spread, napkins, and shades mousselines,
And we had only fifteen days to go ...
Little Birds of the Wood, hear, hear, for you know,
And you understand just why I'm so sad,
In chains since that day my two feet IVe had!

A young white fellow, he happened our way,
Short red beard, pretty, blond face you see,
Smooth hair too and a watch on display,
He is the cause of what happened to me!

That Choucoune's a beauty he soon can tell.

He speaks French . . . Choucoune she loves him

well. . . .

I'd like to forget it, it makes me so sad,
She left me, since then in chains my two feet IVe had!



352 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

But the saddest is this
And surprise you it will
Despite things amiss
Choucoune I love still.

Soon a baby mulatto there will be found,
Little Birds, Little Birds, look, see she's grown round.
Shut your mouths! Keep still . . . because I'm so sad,
In chains since that day both Pierre's feet he's had!

E. W. U.



THE BLACK MAN'S SON 30
by Oswald Durand

As Lise however my mother was white,
Her eyes were blue where sleeping tears gleamed,

Whenever she blushed or in fear or delight,
Pomegranates burst into bloom it seemed.

Her hair was gold too! In wind and the light
It covered her forehead where pale griefs dreamed.

My father was blacker than I. Yet deemed
Sacred their union the Church and right.

Behold, strange contrast, on her white breast

A child as golden and brown as the maize.
Ardent too as the sun in our land always.

I, orphan, loved Lise at youth's intensest,
But her face grew pale at such words from me,

The Black Man's son held a terror you see.

E. W. U.

^From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



THE CARIBBEAN 353



IF 31

by Oswald Durcmd



If ever I'd known Italy

Or Florence where men grief forget,
Where Raphael painted grandly,

Or Venice where the sails shine yet
And gaily they can sing a song,

As soon as evening came along
I would call to some one dear:

Come, dream in my gondola here
While these rare mansions slip along!,

But 'tis only our sad mountains I know

Where bend and sway the banana trees,
Our skies, horizons without bound,

And forests sweet and springtime breeze.
At dusk when winds strut with such pride,

Gay curling fields of rice are found,
Marianne I call unto my side:

Come to the Savane let us go,
To love where blossoms the mango!

E. W. U.



FAREWELL 32

by Isaac Toussaint-L'Ouverture

Shores of my native land

What tears I have shed for you
When the winds with cruel command

Called the hour of my adieu!
Borne by the ship, swift, light,

Far from love, from the joys I knew,

^From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



354 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



The little thatched-roof vanished from sight
Of the one love my heart knew.

Strange the stars, all this other world,
Strange the cities, the people I view,

This longing which my soul suffers
'Mid sailors where fires blew,

And the sea this supreme barrier,
All tell my grief again too

How far, how far the little thatched-roof

Of the one love my heart knew!

I have braved both storm and war,
Strange lands with their stranger ways!

But nothing has dimmed your face for me
Whether safe in port or at sea's mercy,

I kept on saying of you:

When shall I see the little thatched-roof

Of the one love my soul knew!

E. W. U.



TO MADAME LA DUCHESSE DE BAUFFREMONT 83
by Louis Morpeau

Your park's like a Gothic Cathedral to me,
Your chestnut trees tower like antique marbles grandly.

The pallid hues under your opaline sky
Delight me. Yet my homesick heart must sob and still cry.

Now the twilight is bleeding and the wind sweeps the grain,

All my great sun-land at my throat leaps again-
Chestnut trees of Brienne, flower covered and old,
Ah! Mangoes of Haitirich green arid so gold!

E. W. U.

^From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



THE CARIBBEAN 355



BELLE-DE-NUIT*' 3 *
by Ignace Nau



Oh My Beauty of Night! close, close quick your robe

For the moon has grown pale on the edge of the dusk,
Waste not the rich sweetness of your censer so pure,

The morning blooms soon and Dawn's eyes are wide!

*

The light of the sun is too bitter for you.

Hide, hide humble flower, where the branches are thick
? Til night comes along with its breezes, its balm,

And the moon's timid crescent comes back to the sky.

Your rare shaded purple again you can wear,
Again among lovers you'll see round you glow

The winged night-moths with be-diamonded eyes.
What kisses, what sighs Oh! sweet, sweet fiancee!

When disputing your heart in the fury of love

They'll swarm tonight bee-likelove's manifold charms!

E. W. U.



AMITIE AMOUREUSE 35
by Luc Grimard

Look, look! Day dies and the evening has come!

The dusk once again has surprised us here;
The light grew pale, fainted, too weary alas,

Leaving memory only as its perfume.

The dusk once again has surprised us here,
In front of the sea, the wall, the old tree,

Soon will vanish horizons for us less clear,
Since something within is released, set free.

* Botanical name, Mirabilis Jalapa, the West Indian Four O'clock.
^From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



356 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



The last breeze of summer shivers over the palm
Whose lower branches are yellowing some,

Late hours of September are like this and calm!
Look! day dies now and the night has come.

E. W. U.



ELEGIES 36

by Philippe Thoby-Marcelin



II



Tai une alliance

auec des pierres ueinees bleu,

et vous melaissez, egalement, assis,

dans lamitie de mes genoux.



SAINT-LEGER LEGER



Outside wind heavy and wet
Plucks at the mango trees.

They, keep on dropping the stars
Without any wishing at all.

Night beckons back a cloud
To fling around one shoulder

Where I fain would stretch me out
For rest that's sweet.



Faiths washed away
As with sponge.

w From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



in



IV



THE CARIBBEAN 357

Yet children still hunt the sun
With pebbles flung, and with cries.

Mosquitoes circling warn me
Night will be long, long,

If there were not anything left to love
Or hate . . .



'Twas Summer I recall-
Summer, wet, heavy, unchaste,
With floating vapors, and hot.

A shadow in agony,

That crawls toward a far fountain.

Trees which keep grieving aloud
The echoes of pain grown great . ,

A woman I'd longed to love
Waited for me till the night.



The season of love
Will it come back?

The season of love
When you loved me not?

My heart was rotting and sad
Like a leaf of Autumn that's dead.

My song lifted pure and high
The perfume of my land



358 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Where wasps buzz and sting
Around mangoes ripe, rotting



The morning's moist and fog-veiled,
The hills pasture like the cows
Belly-deep in grass bathing.

Sea Swallows last night's dusk knew,
Then burned in the late sunset,
Leap alive from their ashes anew . .

Today is the day that I love you
My Beauty ... my sweet regret.

E. W. U.



POET OF FAREWELL 37
by Christian Werleigh

Partir cest motif ir un pen

TOSTI

My verses dream-rich and tender you've read,
All my songs, old now and forgotten as well,

Like a black palm-trunk whose top's severed,
And you have called me the poet of farewell.

The poet of farewell! It is true, as you tell,
I have always sung of what fades arid then dies,

My poor heart's been merely a kind of chapel
Where Grief came to dry her beautiful eyes.

Trom Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



THE CARIBBEAN 359

I have often known in that instant's brief gleam
Just what broke in the heart at the fateful word,

Eternities seen with their hope, with their dream,
Expand in one sob sent to God who heard.

E. W. U.



A NEGRO SINGS 38
by Normil Sylvain

Oh! Little Girl!

Do not try to love me.

Beware black abysses that sleep in my eyes!

In the deeps of my eyes dwells laughter that slays,

Go away!

Little Girl, Little Girl!
Do not pause,
Not even to hear me sing
In my songs are too many sobs.

From the wind and the rain I stole my songs.
They gave words.

The rain ... it knows tales and tales . . .
And wind knows grief of the world,
That traveller everywhere.

Songs I sing for self.

They cradle thought and my grief.

I am drunk on solitude,

Like my ancestors the slaves.

My despairing soul sings despair.
Keep away from this black midnight!
The labyrinth's ways are not yours.

Trom Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



360 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Roads of silence I know,

Mystery's paths,

Griefs secret places, and dim.

Little Girl, you are wrongl
You could not love me,
I am sad,
Love lives on joy.

I am sadder than tears,

Than good-byes,

Than sadness.

I know Golgotha, Gethsemane,

Little Girl, Little Girl! . . .
Let me go,
Let me carry my own sorrow.

I am sad tonight
The vast sadness
Of a martyred race.

E. W. U.



THE MANGOES 39
by Duracine Vaval

To intoxicate you with the wine of things,

Might I not offer you a pale bouquet where roses fail?

A poem pleasing in its even rhythms?

I send you then a basket full of mangoes.

Desire clings to their yellow tawny flesh.
The savour of the soil lies deep within them.
Their dusky tang of camphor or of muscatel
Filters scent-borne into the very soul.



Anthology of Contemporary Latin-American Poetry, edited by Dudley
Fitts. Reprinted by permission of New Directions.



THE CARIBBEAN 341

And these mangoes, honey-sweet, that decked the hedge.
They are fragrant with black shadow, with the sun,
Fragrant with a true and love-provoking breath.

In the orchard that bleeds in its vermilion cloak
The golden mango surpasses in prime sweetness
Our royal fruits swollen with juice and light!

D. D. W.

THE PEASANT DECLARES HIS LOVE 40
by Emile Roumer

HIGH-YELLOW of my heart, with breasts like tangerines,

you taste better to me than eggplant stuffed with crab,

you are the tripe in my pepper-pot,

the dumpling in my peas, my tea of aromatic herbs.

You are the corned beef whose customhouse is my heart,

my mush with syrup that trickles down the throat.

You are a steaming dish, mushroom cooked with rice,

crisp potato fries, and little fish fried brown . . .

My hankering for love follows you wherever you go.

Your bum is a gorgeous basket brimming with fruits and meat.

J. P. B.

LA MAMBO DANS LE HOUNFORT 41
by Charles F. Pressoir

Above a rough altar, coarse cement all,

Beside wine bottles a candle glows
At the feet of Christ, a red flame shows,

Shadows dance on the mortar wall.

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

"From An Anthology of Contemporary Latin-American Poetry, edited by Dudley
Fitts. Reprinted by permission of New Directions.

41 From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934,



362 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



On the whitewashed wall in bright colored paint,
Obscure vague symbols and cabalistic.

Some simple old male forms hieratic
Which edge the engravings of a saint.

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

One peasant plays the part of Legba,

And like our country women here,
Comes from Ouedo the black one dear,

In a short jacket, sweet Ayida.

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

Next Agoue, the Barkentine,
Lord of the Tempests, Master of Seas

Who cuts off heads, Ogou precedes,
A murderous general, menacing, mean.

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

In a corner they roll, they roar, the big drums

Covered with hairy wild-ass hide,
Monstrous black devils and side by side,

Mama, Papa, then Cata comes.

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

Now the old witch waves her tiatia,
Strange, strange canticles kneeling sings,

In 'midst of the mystical hymning rings
Over and over the name Maria.

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

But when Mambo ceases behold voilti
Something that moves on the ground is spread

Uplifting two shining points fiery red,
This is the serpent of Damballa.



THE CARIBBEAN

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

On the altar of this dim temple fall

The flames of the candles, they tremble and shake.
While mysterious and horrible shadows make

The old hag's dances along the wall.

Tonight the wind cries over the Mornes . . .

But what can be done with a goat without horns?

E. W. U.



COUNTRY GRAVEYARD 42
by Charles F. Pressoir

"C'est le lent chemin de GuinSe"

JACQUES ROUMATN

In the high, high grass of Guinee

The little houses hide,
Gray stone, moss-grown and thickly,

Like dun hair that floats beside.

Sometimes the ground curves slightly
In a long, vague, pebbly wave

Which the weeds veil but lightly-
Some poor wretch's fresh-made grave.

At foot of the Cross suspended,

Lest the dead should know grangou,
A tiny grain, some fish, foods blended

At feet of Christ you find voodoo.

^From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



364 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



So they follow the two faiths ever
The white, the bone-bred deeply.

Do the dead go then forever,
To Heaven or to Guinee?

E. W. U.



WHEN THE TOM-TOM BEATS . . .* 8
by Jacques Roumain

Your heart trembles in the shadows, like a face

reflected in troubled water
The old mirage rises from the pit of the night
You sense the sweet sorcery of the past:
A river carries you far away from the banks,
Carries you toward the ancestral landscape.
Listen to those voices singing the sadness of love
And in the mountain, hear that tom-tom

panting like the breast of a young black girl

Your soul is this image in the whispering water where

your fathers bent their dark faces
Its hidden movements blend you with the waves
And the white that made you a mulatto is this bit
of foam cast up, like spit, upon the shore.

L. H.



LANGSTON HUGHES 44
by Jacques Roumain

At Lagos you knew sad faced girls.

Silver circled their ankles.

They offered themselves to you naked as the night

Gold-circled by the moon.

^From An Anthology of Contemporary Latin-American Poetry, edited by Dudley
Fitts. Reprinted by permission of New Directions.

**From Poets of Haiti, translated from the original by Edna Worthley Under-
wood; copyright, 1934.



THE CARIBBEAN 365

You saw France without uttering a worn, shop-made phrase;

Here toe are, Lafayette!
The Seine seemed less lovely than the Congo.

Venice. You sought the shade of Desdemona.

Her name was Paola.

You said: Sweet, sweet Love!

And sometimes

Babe! Baby!

Then she wept and asked for twenty lire.

Like a Baedeker your nomad heart wandered

From Harlem to Dakar.

The Sea sounded on in your songs sweet, rhythmic,

wild. . . .
And its bitter tears
Of white foam blossom-born.

Now here in this cabaret as the dawn draws near you

murmur . . .

Play the blues again for me!
O! for me again play the blues!

Are you dreaming tonight, perhaps, of the palm trees, of
Black Men there who paddled you down the dusks?

E. W. U



GUINEA 45

by Jacques Roumain

It's the long road to Guinea
Death takes you down
Here are the boughs, the trees, the forest
Listen to the sound of the wind in its long hair
of eternal night

"From An Anthology of Contemporary Latin-American Poetry, edited by Dudley
Fitts. Reprinted by permission of New Directions.



THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

It's the long road to Guinea

Where your fathers await you without impatience
Along the way, they talk
They wait

This is the hour when the streams rattle
like beads of bone

It's the long road to Guinea

No bright welcome will be made for you

In the dark land of dark men:

Under a smoky sky pierced by the cry of birds

Around the eye of the river

the eyelashes of the trees open on decaying light
There, there awaits you beside the water a quiet village,
And the hut of your fathers, and the hard ancestral stone

where your head will rest at last.

L. H.



NEDJE 46

by Roussan Camille

Not quite sixteen,

you said you came from Danakil,

you whom vicious white men

crammed with anisette and whiskey

in that smoke-filled cafe

in Casablanca.

Through the narrow window

the dusk was dripping blood

on the burnous of the Spahis

leaning against the bar

and tracing above the desert outside

epic visions

of clashes, pursuits,

defeats and glory.

Reprinted by permission of author and Mercer Cook, translator. First appeared
in The American Anthology, Port-au-Prince, 1944.



THE CARIBBEAN 367

One bloody evening

which was but a minute

in the eternal bloody night of Africa,

so sad a night

your dance became imbued with it

and made me sick at heart

like your song,

like your glance

blending with my soul.

Your eyes were full of countries

so many countries

that when I looked at you

I saw anew

in their wild light

the dark suburbs of London,

the brothels of Tripoli,

Montmartre, Harlem,

every pseudo paradise

where Negroes dance and sing

for others.

The nearby call

of your mutilated Danakil,

the call of black fraternal hands

infused into your dance of love

a virginal purity

and echoed in your heart

great familiar songs.

Your frail arms

through the smoke

yearned to embrace

centuries of pride,

kilometers of landscape,

while your steps

on the waxed mosaic

sought the highlands and the lowlands

of your childhood.



3<S8 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



The window opened on the anxious East.

One hundred times your heart returned there.

One hundred times the red rose brandished

in your delicate finger-tips

adorned the mirage

of the gates of your village.

Your sorrow and nostalgia

were known to all the debauches

sailors on manoeuvres

soldiers on leave

the idling tourists

crushing your brown breasts

with the vast boredom of travellers.

The missionaries and the fearful

sometimes tried to console you.

' But you alone know
little girl from Danakil
lost in the smoke-filled cafes of Casablanca,
that your heart
will find its happiness when
in the new dawns
that bathe your native desert
you return to dance
for your living heroes,
your heroes yet unborn.

Then each step,

each gesture,

each glance,

each song

will show the sun

your land belongs to youl

M. C.



THE CARIBBEAN 369



HARLEM 47

by Jean Brierre

I have seen you suffer in the midst of winters,
and your shadow erect amidst the street lamps
has told me often of its hunger at the doors

of the eating houses.

I have seen you bleed at times on the sidewalks,
and I have not heard your agony make complaint.
I have seen you adorned in the springtime,

bedecked in laughter and joy,

dressed in sunshine and silk,

singing and dancing,

singing strange songs,
the heavy songs of sirens,

of voyaging,

of calls and of silence on forgotten seas,

of bitter songs,

ending with outbursts of laughter

like mighty cymbals.

I have seen you dancing in whirlwinds

like the frenzied,

celebrating some god hidden in the

depths of you.

Where, O Harlem, do you sleep?
Perhaps you pluck the leaves of the last star
in your fragile cup
and find again at the portals of the dawn

the trouble,

the toil,

the weariness,

the poverty,

the hour which sounds like a knell

and your heart, weary and alone

on the road, hostile and black.

J. F. M.

* 7 Translated by John F, Matheus, from Ebony Rhythm, edited by Beatrice M.
Murphy. The Exposition Press, New York.



370 THE FOETRY OF THE NEGRO



MARTINIQUE

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH



Passages from:

MEMORANDUM ON MY MARTINIQUE
by Aime Cesaire

Neither the teacher of the class nor the priest with his catechism can
get a word out of this sleepy Negro lad, although they drum energeti-
cally on his shorn skull, for his voice is engulfed in the swamps of hun-
ger (say-a-single-word-just-one-and-the-Queen-of-Castile-will-be-for-
gotten, say-a-single-word-just-one, look-at-the-boy-who-doesn't-know-a-
single-of -the-ten-laws-of-the-Lord )

For his voice sinks in the swamps of hunger,

And there is really nothing to be drawn from this good-for-nothing,

nothing but the hunger which can no longer climb to the rigging of
his voice,
a heavy and slack hunger,

a hunger buried in the depths of the Hunger of this starveling hill.



Also mine: a little cell in the Jura mountains, a little cell, the snow
adds white bars, the snow a white jailer guarding my prison cell

What is mine

A single man imprisoned in white

A single man defying the white cries of white death

(TOUSSAINT, TOUSSAINT LOUVERTURE)

A single man who fascinates the white hawk of white death

A man alone in the sterile sea of white sand

An old Negro facing the waters of the sky

Death describes a white circle above this man
Death gently stars his head
Death breathes in the ripe sugar-cane of his arms
Death gallops in the prison like a white horse



THE CARIBBEAN 371



Death shines in the shadow like cats' eyes

Death hiccups like water under the Keys

Death is a hurt bird

Death wanes

Death vacillates

Death is an easily offended patyura

Death expires in a white swamp of silence.

L. A. & I. G.



POEMS

by Leon Damas



FRENCH GUIANA

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH



REALLY I KNOW

nothing sadder

or more hateful

or more frightening

or more lugubrious in the world

than to hear love at the end of the day

repeating itself like a low mass

once upon a time

a woman happened to pass

whose arms were full of roses

TRITE WITHOUT DOUBT
but before giving over
entirely beautiful and black
to the whorl-flowered grass
on the path which leads
to the mountains
where a bamboo flute



372 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



cries in the night

the girl with the calabash

of indifference on her head

should pr^y three times each

to Lord Jesus

the Virgin

Saint Joseph

SHE LEFT HERSELF ONE EVENING

to prowl around

my misery

like a mad dog

like a naked dog

like a doggish dog

quite mad

quite naked

quite doggishly

dog

thus simply
the drama began

L. H.



CUBA

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH



OPINIONS OF THE NEW CHINESE STUDENT
by Regino Pedroso

Until yesterday I was polite and peaceful . , .

Last year I drank the yellow-leaved Yunnan tea

in fine cups' of porcelain,

and deciphered the sacred texts of Lao-Tze,

of Mang-tze,

and the wisest of the wise, Kung-fu-Tseu.



THE CARIBBEAN 373

Deep in the shade of the pagodas

my life ran on, harmonious and serene,

white as the lilies in the pools,

gentle as a poem by Li Tai Po,

watching the loop-the-loop

of white storks at eve

against the screen of an alabaster sky.

But I have been awakened by the echo of foreign voices

booming from the mouths of mechanical instruments:

dragons setting ablaze with howls of grapeshot

to the horror of my brothers

murdered in the night

my bamboo houses

and my ancient pagodas.

And now, from the airplane of my new conscience,
I watch over the green plains of Europe,
and her magnificent cities
blossoming in stone and iron.

Before my eyes the western world is naked.

With the long pipe of the centuries

in my pale hands,

I am no longer enticed by the opium of barbarism.

Today I march toward the progress of the people,

training my fingers on the trigger of a Mauser.

Over the flame of today

impatiently I cook the drug of tomorrow.

I would breathe deep of the new era

in my great pipe of jade.

A strange restlessness

has taken all sleep from my slanting eyes.

To gain a deeper view of the horizon

I leap up on the old wall of the past , . .

Until yesterday I was polite and peaceful . . .

L. H.



374 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



CANE

by Nicolas Guillen



Negro

in the cane fields.

White man

above the cane fields.

Earth

beneath the cane fields.

Blood

that flows from us.

L. H.



SIGHTSEERS IN A COURTYARD
by Nicolas Guillen

Tourists in the courtyard
of an Havana tenement.
Cantaliso sings a song
not made for dancing.

Rather than your fine hotels,
stop in the courtyard of this tenement.
Here you'll see plenty of local color
you'll never find in your hotels.
Gentlemen, allow me to present to you

Juan Concinero!

He owns one table and he owns one chair,
he owns one chair and he owns one table,

and one oil stove.



The oil stove won't burn
and hasn't kissed a pot for ages.
But see how jolly and gay,
how; well-fed and happy

Juan Concinero

is today!

JUAN CONCINERO INTERRUPTS:

With what one Yankee
drinks down
in steins of beer,
anybody could live
a whole year!

THE SONG CONTINUES:

Folks, this is Louis, the candy-maker.
And this is Carlos from the Canaries.
And that Negro there is called Pedro Martinez.
And that other, Norberto Soto.
And that dark girl over there, Petra Sarda.
All of them live in the same room-
No doubt because that's not so dear.
What people! What high-class people live here!

ALL IN CHORUS:

With what one tourist
spends on brandy in a day,
a month's room rent
anybody could pay,

THE SONG GOES ON:

That woman coughing over there,
folks, by name of Juana:



376 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



tuberculosis in an advanced stage.

Nobody looked after her

so, like a dunce,

she went all day

without eating. A funny idea

with so much food to waste!



ALL IN CHORUS:

What one Yankee
drinks up with ease
MightVe cured
Juana's disease.



THE SONG ENDS:

Oh, but tourists, stay here,
and have a good time!
This is your chance!
Tourists, stay here!
Have a good time!
This is your chance!
Til sing you songs
Nobody can dance!

L. H.



DEAD SOLDIER
by Nicolas Guillen



What buUet killed him?

Nobody knows.
Where was he born?

In Jovellanos, they say.



THE CARIBBEAN 377

Why did they pick him up?

He was lying dead in the road

And some other soldiers saw him.
What bullet killed him?

His sweetheart comes and kisses him.
His mother comes and cries.
When the Captain gets there
All he says is:
Bury him!

Rat-ta-tat-tat!
THERE GOES THE DEAD SOLDIER.

Rat-ta-tat-tat!
THEY PICKED HIM UP IN THE ROAD.

Rat-ta-tat-tat!
A SOLDIER AIN'T NOTHING.

Rat-ta-tat-tat!
THERE'RE PLENTY OF SOLDIERS.

L. H.



WAKE FOR PAPA MONTERO
by Nicolas Guillen



You burned the dawn

with the fire of your guitar:

juice of the cane

in the gourd of your dark warm flesh

under a cold white moon.



Music poured from you
round and mulatto as a plum.



378 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

Steady drinker

with the throat of tin,

boat cut loose in a sea of rum,

horseman of the wild party,

what will you do with the night

now that you can no longer drink it,

and what vein

will give you back the blood

youVe lost down the black drain

of a knife wound?

Tonight they got you,
Papa Montero!

They waited for you at your flat,
but they brought you home dead.
It was a good fight,
but they brought you home dead.
They say he was your pal,
but they brought you home dead.
Nobody could find the knife,
but they brought you home dead.

Now Baldemero's done for,
a devil, a dog, and a dancer!

Only two candles

burn away the shadows.

For your two-bit death

two candles are too many.

But the red shirt

that once lit up your songs

and the brownskin laughter of your music

and your gleaming straightened hair,

makes more light for you now

than any candles.

Tonight they got you,
Papa Montero!



THE CARIBBEAN 379

Today the moon rose
in the courtyard of my house.
It fell blade-wise to earth
and stuck there.

Some kids picked it up
to wash its face,
so I bought it tonight
to be your pillow.

L. H.



TWO WEEKS

by Nicolas Guillen



She was a little girl who smelled

of nice cologne and castile soap.

I loved her with a simple passion

that some love poems and a look had given hope.

I remember when I told her that I loved her
a blush made red each pallid little cheek.
She put her stubby hands upon a chair back,
looked at her shoes, and did not speak.

That useless little girl could tell me

nothing new, so I began to see

her love as quite too young for lovers' ways.

Facts are, scarcely did we smile or pine.
We spoke five times and looked nine.
It lasted only fourteen days.

L. H.



380 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



PROPOSITION
by Nicolas Guillen



Tonight

when the moon comes out

I shall change it

into money.

But I'd be sorry

if people knew about it,

for the moon

is an old family treasure.

L. H.



BARREN STONE
by Nicolas Guillen



You will come back to me
when the road has given you all its secrets,
whispered its dusty voice in your ear-
when, like a barren stone,
your true self is worn away,
your mouth is bitter
and the hours,
with folded arms,
have nothing more to say.

I cannot talk to you then

for you will be more unresponsive than ever.

Your presence will pass through mine

like a rolling stone

tumbling into the depths of myself,

falling into my past,

I shall see you sinking.

I shall hear the hollow sound.



THE CARIBBEAN 381

I shall wait for the last echo,

the ultimate vibration

in the depths,

far down

a barren stone,

your true self

worn away.

L. EL



FEDERICO

by Nicolas Guillen



An excerpt concerning Federico Garcia Lorca,
from "ESPANA, Poema en Cuatro Angustias
y Una Esperanza"

I knock at the door of a romance.
"Is Federico not here?"
A parrot answers:
"No, he has gone."

I knock at the door of crystal.
"Is Federico not here?"
There comes a hand to answer:
"He is at the river."

I knock at the door of a gypsy.
"Is Federico not here?"
No one answers, no one speaks . . .
"Federico! Federico!"

Dark and empty is the house,
black moss on the walls,
rim of a bucketless well
and garden of green lizards.

On the spongy earth
snails that move,



382 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



and the red wind of July
sways among the ruins,

Federicol Federico!
Where does the gypsy die?
Where do his eyes grow cold?
Where is he, that he doesn't come?
Federico! Federico!



A SONG

He left on Sunday at nine,

he left on Sunday, at night,

He left on Sunday, and never came back!

In his hand was an iris,

in his eyes a fever,

the iris became blood,

the blood became death.



ANOTHER SONG

Where are you, Federico?

Where are you, that you dont cornel

Federico! Federico!

Where are you, that you dont come!

Where are you, that you dont come!



MOMENT WITH GARCIA LORCA

Federico dreamed of spikenard and wax
and olive and carnation and cold moon.
Federico, his Granada, and the springtime lax.

He slept alone in solitude's abode,
stretched out beneath ambiguous lemon trees
as songs passed down the lonely road.



THE CARIBBEAN 383

Vast, the night with blazing starlight gleams.
In its transparent train it pulls along
over paths and cart-roads shining beams.

Passing slowly by, a gypsy crowd,
with iinprotesting hands tied fast,
called "Federico!" suddenly aloud.

What voice is that of all their bloodless veins!
What softness in their steps, their steps!
And what benumbed ardors cloak their pains!

Darkened by night, and olive-green they took
the harsh, the hard invertebrated road
Where senses used to walk barefoot.

Federico arose batAed in shining light,

Federico, his Granada, and the springtime lax,

And with his moon, carnation, spikenard, wax

over the perfumed mountain followed them that night.

B. F. a



FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER 48
by Placido

(Written in the Chapel

of the Hospital de Santa Cristina

on the night before his execution)

If the unfortunate fate engulfing me,
The ending of my history of grief,
The closing of my span of years so brief,
Mother, should wake a single pang in thee,

translated by James Weldon Johnson from the Spanish of Placido; from Sain*
Peter Relates an Incident, copyright, 1935, by James Weldon Johnson. Reprinted
by permission of The Viking Press, Inc.



384 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO



Weep not. No saddening thought to me devote;
I calmly go to a death that is glory-filled;
My lyre before it is forever stilled
Breathes out to thee its last and dying note.

A note scarce more than a burden-easing sigh
Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere-
Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry
I gave at birth And now the hour is here
O God, thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins!
Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins.

J. W. J.



AFRICA



NATIVITY 49

by Aquah Laluah

Within a native hut, ere stirred the dawn,

Unto the Pure one was an Infant born;

Wrapped in blue lappah that His mother dyed,

Laid on His father's home-tanned deerskin hide,

The Babe still slept, by all things glorified.

Spirits of black bards burst their bonds and sang

Teace upon earth' until the heavens rang.

All the black babies who from earth had fled

Peeped through the clouds then gathered round His head.

Telling of things a baby needs to do,

When first he opes his eyes on wonders new;

Telling Him that to sleep was sweetest rest,

All comfort came from His black mother's breast.

"Reprinted by permission of The Atlantic Monthly.



THE CARIBBEAN 385

Their gift was Love, caught from the springing sod,
Whilst tears and .laughter were the gifts of God.
Then all the Wise Men of the past stood forth,
Filling the air, East, West, and South and North;
And told Him of the joy that wisdom brings
To mortals in their earthly wanderings.
The children of the past shook down each bough,
Wreathed frangipani blossoms for His brow;
They put pink lilies in His mother's hand,
And heaped for both the first fruits of the land.
His father cut some palm fronds, that the air
Be coaxed to zephyrs while He rested there.
Birds trilled their hallelujahs; all the dew
Trembled with laughter, till the Babe laughed too.
All the black women brought their love so wise,
And kissed their motherhood into His mother's eyes.



THE SERVING GIRL 50
by Aquah Laluah



The calabash wherein she served my food,

Was smooth and polished as sandalwood:

Fish, as white as the foam of the sea,

Peppered, and golden-fried for me.

She brought palm wine that carelessly slips

From the sleeping palm tree's honeyed lips.

But who can guess, or even surmise

The countless things she served with her eyes?



THE SOULS OF BLACK AND WHITE 51
by Aquah Laluah

The souls of black and white were made
By the selfsame God of the selfsame shade,

"^Reprinted by permission of The Atlantic Monthly.



386 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO

God made both pure, and He left one white;

God laughed o'er the other, and wrapped it in night.

Said He, Tve a flower, and none can unfold it;
IVe a breath of great mystery, nothing can hold it.
Spirit so illusive the wind cannot sway it,
A force of such might even death cannot slay it."

But so that He might conceal its glow
He wrapped it in darkness, that men might not know.
Oh, the wonderful souls of both black and white
Were made by one God, of one sod, on one night.



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES



LEWIS ALEXANDER (Washington, D,C., 1900- ) was educated in the public
schools in Washington and at Howard University. He studied further at the
University of Pennsylvania.

SIDNEY ALEXANDER (Brooklyn, New York, 1912- )

HERVEY ALLEN (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 1889- )

RUSSELL ATKINS (Cleveland, Ohio, 1926- ) attended public schools and kter
studied at the Cleveland School of Art and at the Cleveknd Institute of Music.
His poems have appeared in View, Experiment, and in several newspapers.

RAYMOND BARROW (British Honduras) (Belize, 1920- ), the son of a district
judge, was educated at St. John's College in Belize. His poems have appeared
in magazines in the British West Indies. From 1942 to 1945 he was editor of
the Civil Service Chronicle in Honduras.

STEPHEN VINCENT BENET (Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, 1898-1943)

WILLIAM ROSE BENET (Fort Hamilton, New York Harbor, N.Y., 1886- )

GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT (Giddings, Texas, 1902- ) received her elementary
education in the schools of Washington, D.C., and was graduated in 1921
from the Girls' High School of Brooklyn, New York, She then studied at Co-
lumbia University and at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. An early interest in the
fine arts led to a year's study in Paris at the Academie Julian and the Ecole de
Pantheon and to an instructorship in Art at Howard University, She served
for a time as a member of the editorial staff of Opportunity.

ELIZABETH BISHOP (Worcester, Massachusetts, 1911- )

WILLIAM BLAKE (England) (London, 1757-1827)

MAXWELL BODENHE1M (Natchez, Mississippi, 1892- )

ARNA BONTEMPS (Alexandria, Louisiana, 1902- ) was educated in elementary
schools in Los Angeles, at San Fernando Academy, at Pacific Union College in
Angwin, California, and at the University of Chicago. He has held teaching
posts in New York City, in Alabama, and in Chicago. In 1943 he became chief
librarian of Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee. His poetry first appeared
in The Crisis magazine in 1924. In 1926 his "Golgotha Is a Mountain" won
the Alexander Pushkin Award for Poetry offered by Opportunity. The follow-
ing year his "The Return" was given the same award. His "Nocturne at
Bethesda ? " won a first prize in the poetry contest sponsored by The Crisis in
1927. Since then his writing has been mainly in prose, as represented by the
novels God Sends Sunday, 1931, Black Thunder, 1936, and Drums at Dusk,
1939; by biographical and historical books like They Seek a City (with Jack
Conroy, 1945), We Have Tomorrow, 1945, and Story of the Negro, 1948; and
the following stories for young people: Popo and Fifina (with Langston
Hughes, 1932 }, 'You Cant Pet a Possum, 1934, Sad-Faced Boy, 1937, and
The Fast Sooner Hound and Slappy Hooper (with Jack Conroy, 1942 and
1946). St. Louis Woman, a musical play based on his novel God Sends Sunday,
was produced at the Martin Beck Theatre in New York City in 1946. Bontemps
is the editor of Golden Slippers, an anthology of Negro poetry for young
people.

KAY BOYLE (St. Paul, Minnesota, 1903- )



390 BIOGRAPHICAL MOTES

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE (Boston, Massachusetts, 1878- ) was born of

West Indian parents. His career as a poet began in 1904, with the publication
of Lyrics of Life and Love. A second volume, The House of Falling Leaves,
followed in 1908, and in 1948 Coward-McCann, Inc., issued his Selected
Poems. Braithwaite is best known, perhaps, for his Anthologies of Magazine
Verse > begun in 1913 and continued until 1929. Edgar Lee Masters's Spoon
River poems, Vachel Lindsay's chants, Carl Sandburg's free verse, and the
early work of many other important American poets were included in the
Braithwaite anthologies before they appeared in other books. Other anthologies
by Braithwaite include The Book of Elizabethan Verse, 1906, The Book of
Georgian Verse, 1908, and The Book of Restoration Verse, 1909. For several
years he worked on the editorial staff of the Boston Transcript, and in 1918 he
was awarded the Spingarn medal for high achievement by an American Negro.
In the same year honorary degrees were conferred on him by Atlanta Uni-
versity and by Talledega College. Later he became a Professor of Creative
Literature at Atlanta University, a position he held until his retirement in 1945.
Since then he has been engaged in a biographical and literary study of the
Brontes.

BENJAMIN GRIFFITH BRAWLEY (Columbia, South Carolina, 1882-1939) was educated
at Morehouse College, the University of Chicago, and at Harvard. He taught
English at Morehouse and at Shaw and Howard universities. His books were
mainly works of literary and social history, such as A Short History of the
American Negro, 1918, A Short History of English Drama, 1921, A New
Survey of English Literature, 1925, The Negro Genius, 1937, and Negro
Builders and Heroes, 1937, But he also wrote poems and short stories which
had not been collected at the time of his death.

JEAN F. BRIERRE (Haiti) (Jeremie, 1909- ) was educated by the Freres de
rinstruction Chretienne and at the Lyc<e. Then he went to France to study
political science and later to Columbia University in New York City. He is
the secretary general of the Union of Haitian Writers and Artists and the
director of. cultural affairs in the Department of Foreign Relations. His
UAdieu & la Marseillaise, three verse tableaux on the life of Toussaint
L'Ouverture, was produced in 1939 and again in 1947. His publications in-
clude Le Petit Soldat, 1933, Nous Garderons le Dieu, poems in memory of
Jacques Roumain, 1945, and Black Soul, a poem, 1947. He is the editor of
Province, an anthology in three volumes.

GWENDOLYN BROOKS (Topeka, Kansas, 1917- ) has lived in Chicago nearly all
her life. Public schools, Englewood High, and Wilson Junior College, from
which she was graduated in June 1936, contributed to her education. Her
poems, which first appeared in magazines, achieved book publication in 1945
in A Street in Bronzebille. Miss Brooks's early poems won prizes in the Mid-
western Writer Conference competition and at Northwestern University, but
her published volume quickly gained more important recognition. Mademoi-
selk selected her as one of the ten women of the year in 1945. The following
year she was given an American Academy of Arts and Letters award. In
1946 she won a Guggenheim Fellowship which was renewed the following
year.



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 391

JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS (near Lexington, Mississippi, 1904-45) was born
on a farm. When his parents separated during his childhood, he remained
with his mother, and together they worked the fields on "half shares" until he
was fourteen. Then began the struggle for an education. Intervals in school
were broken frequently by periods of farm work and teaching, but Brooks
eventually made his way through high school at Jefferson City, Missouri, and
then went to college at Tougaloo, Mississippi. Later he did graduate work at
Columbia University. At the time of his death he was working in the post
office at Corinth, Mississippi, where he had made his home since 1935. A
posthumous book, The Resurrection and Other Poems, achieved publication
as co-winner in the Eighteenth Book Publication Contest of Kaleidograph,
Dallas, Texas, 1948.

STERLING A. BROWN (Washington, D.C., 1901- ) was educated in the Wash-
ington schools and at Williams College and Harvard University. He started
his teaching career at Virginia Seminary. Short periods at Fisk University and
at Lincoln in Missouri followed. Then began his long and distinguished asso-
ciation with Howard University, where he holds a professorship in English.
At intervals he has been visiting professor of English at Vassar College and
at the University of Minnesota and a visiting lecturer at New York's New
School. He served as editor on Negro affairs for the Federal Writers' Project
and was a staff member of the Carnegie-Myrdal Study of the Negro. In 1937
he was given a Guggenheim Fellowship. His published books include Southern
Road, 1932, a volume of poetry; The Negro in American Fiction, 1938; and
Negro Poetry and Drama, 1938. He was an editor of the Negro Caravan, 1941.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (England) (Carlton Hall, Durham, 1806-61)

WITTER BYNNER (Brooklyn, New York, 1881- )

ROUSSAN CAMILLE (Haiti) (Jacmel, 1915- ) began his education in his home
town and continued it at the Tippenhauer Institute and at the Lycee National
Alexandre Petion in Port-au-Prince. In 1935 he joined the staff of the Haiti
Journal. Two years later he was appointed first secretary of the Haitian Lega-
tion in Paris. In 1940 he returned to Port-au-Prince, where he was appointed
to an important post in the Department of National Education. Then followed
periods as editor in chief of the Haiti Journal and an appointment to the post
of vice-consul in the Haitian Consulate in New York, He has traveled widely
and represented his country frequently as a cultural envoy. A collection of his
poems, Assaut a la Nuit, was published in Port-au-Prince in 1940.

GEORGE CAMPBELL (Jamaica) (Panama, 1917- ) attended local schools before
entering St. George's College. He worked as a newspaper reporter on the
Daily Gleaner of Kingston and later migrated to New York City.

DAVID WADSWORTH CANNON, JR. (New Brunswick, New Jersey, 1910-38) wats
educated in public schools, at Hillsdale College in Michigan, from which he
graduated in 1931, and at the University of Michigan, where he was awarded a
master's degree the following year. He was then appointed to the faculty of
Virginia State College at Petersburg. In 1937 he was granted a Rosenwald
Fellowship for further study at Columbia University.

H. D, CARBERRY (Jamaica, B.W.I.) (Montreal, Canada, 1922- ) was educated
in Jamaica at high schools in Spanish Town and Mandeville, at Jamaica Col-



392 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

lege in St. Andrew, and at St. Catherine's College, Oxford University (Eng-
land), where he received a degree in law.

CATHERINE CATER (New Orleans, Louisiana, 1917- ) earned her first college
degree at Talladega in Alabama and later joined the staff of the Fisk University
library. From the University of Michigan she received a professional degree
in Library Science and a doctorate in Language and Literature. She has held
a Rosenwald Fellowship and is now connected with Olivet College in Michigan
as a librarian-instructor.

AIME CESAIRE (Martinique) (Basse-Pointe, 1913- ) attended the Ecole Normale
Superieure de Paris and graduated as one of the youngest agre'ge's of France.
Returning to his native island, he became a professor of literature at the
Scholcher College of Martinique. He has served as representative to two
national legislative assemblies of France, as mayor of Fort-de-France, and as
Consul General. He is at present a Representative from Martinique in the
French Assembly. His published works include Cahier (Tun Retour au Pays
Natal Paris, 1939, (published in translation in the United States in 1947),
L'appel au magicien, 1944, Les Amies Miraculeuses, 1946, Soliel Coup Conge,
1948.

MARCUS B. CHRISTIAN (Houma, Louisiana, 1900- ) was mainly self-educated.
He served as supervisor of the Dillard University Negro History Unit of the
Federal Writers' Project and was later given a Julius Rosenwald Fellowship
to complete a history begun on the project. He was appointed an assistant in
the Dillard Library. His poems and articles have appeared in anthologies and
periodicals.

MASSILLON COICOU (Haiti) (Port-au-Prince, 1865-1908) was educated by the
Freres de llnstruction Chretienne and at the Lycee Petion. He had an active
political Career, serving at one time as a member of the cabinet of President
Thiresias S. Sam and as Haitian minister to Paris. Prior to his death before a
firing squad in 1908, he also held a chair of philosophy in Port-au-Prince. He
was the founder of the revue UOeuvre and the author of two collections of
poetry: Les Poesies Nationales, 1891, and Impression et Passion, 1902. He
wrote several works for the theater, among them Dessalines Liberte, performed
in Paris in 1904 in celebration of the one hundredth anniversary of Haitian
independence.

HELEN JOHNSON COLLINS (Hampton, Virginia, 1918- ) is the daughter of
schoolteacher parents. After several preliminary moves, her family reached
Cleveland, where she attended Central High. Her undergraduate college
work was done at Oberlin College (on a scholarship) and at Flora Stone
Mather College, from which she received an A.B. in 1938. At Western Re-
serve University she studied library science, in which she earned a B.L.S. in
1944. She is an assistant in the Quincy branch of the Cleveland Public Library.

LESLIE MORGAN COLLINS (Alexandria, Louisiana, 1914- ) is indebted to the
Sisters of St. James at Alexandria for his elementary education. He went on
to Straight College and Dillard University in New Orleans, however, gradu-:
ating from the latter in 1936. Then followed graduate work at Fisk, teaching
posts in several Southern schools, and more graduate study leading to a
doctor's degree from Western Reserve University in 1945. He became a



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 393

member of the English faculty at Fisk in the fall of 1945. His poems have
appeared in Poet Lore and other little magazines.

FRANK A. COLLYMORE (Barbados, B.W.I.) (St. Michael, 1893- ) was educated
at the Combemere School, at which he has been teaching since 1910. Recently
he went to England on a British Council scholarship. His verses have been
collected in Thirty Poems, 1944, and Beneath the Casuarinas, 1945. He is
co-editor of the local magazine Bim, in which his short stories and poems
frequently appear with his own illustrations.

ALICE CORBIN (St. Louis, Missouri, 1881- )

JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS (Cass County, Michigan, 1869-1919) was a neglected
orphan. Later he worked in sawmills and lumber camps in Michigan, on the
Great Lakes as a sailor, and elsewhere as a coachman, janitor, and barbershop
bootblack. Then friends encouraged his efforts to get an education, and he
became a minister and continued in that profession the rest of his life. His
poems, first published in the Century magazine, attracted wide attention, partly
for their resemblance to those of Paul Laurence Dunbar's. His verses were
collected in 1907 in Selected Poems and later in The Dream and the Song,
1914.

JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER, JR. (Louisville, Kentucky, 1895-1919) was the precocious
son of a well-known father. His health was frail from childhood, and he had
to end his college work at Fisk University in his second year as a result of
tuberculosis. A year before he died he published a small volume of poems
called The Band of Gideon.

JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER, SR. (Bardstown, Kentucky, 1861- ) was forced by
circumstances to leave school when he was in the third grade, and he was
twenty-two before he resumed his formal education. During the interval he
worked as a ragpicker, tobacco stemmer, brickyard hand, whisky distiller,
teamster, and prize fighter. When he finally completed his education, he be-
came a schoolteacher in Louisville, Kentucky.

HART CRANE ( Garrettsville, Ohio, 1899-1932)

COUNTEE CULLEN (New York, N.Y., 1903-46) was educated in the public schools
of New York City. His recognition as a poet began when he was still in high
school. As a student at New York University he won the Witter Bynner Poetry
Prize, open to all undergraduates in American colleges. He received a master's
degree from Harvard in 1926. He later became a teacher in the public schools
of New York City, the work in which he continued till his death. Color,
Cullen's first volume of poetry, appeared in 1925, when the poet was only
twenty-two years old. This book won him the Harmon Gold Award for
literature as well as notable critical approval. It was followed in 1927 by
The Ballad of the Brown Girl and Copper Sun. Then came The Black Christ,
1929, written on a Guggenheim Fellowship; One Way to Heaven, 1932, a
novel; The Medea and other Poems, 1935; The Lost Zoo, 1940; My Nine Lives
and How I Lost Them, 1942; and On These I Stand, published posthumously
in 1947. Cullen edited Caroling Dusk, 1927, an anthology of Negro American
poetry, and collaborated with Arna Bontemps in the dramatization of St. Louis
Woman from the latter's novel.



394 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

WARING CUNEY (Washington, D.C., 1906- ) was educated in the public schools
of Washington, at Howard University, at Lincoln (Pennsylvania), at the New
England Conservatory o Music in Boston, and in Rome, where he studied
singing. While he was still a student at Lincoln Cuney's poem "No Images"
won a first prize in an Opportuniti poetry contest This was hi 1926. Since
then his lyrics have appeared in magazines and anthologies, and some of them
have been set to music and recorded. He served three and one half years in
the Army as a technical sergeant in the South Pacific, receiving the Asiatic
Pacific Theater Ribbon with three Bronze Battle Stars.

WESLEY CURTR1GHT (Brunswick, Georgia, 1910- ) was educated in New York
City and at Pacific Union College, Angwin, California. For a number of years
he was employed by the New York State Civil Service. He now lives on a
farm in Cass County, Michigan.

PIERRE DALCOUR (New Orleans, Louisiana,) was the son of wealthy parents who
sent him to France in the early 1800s to be educated. A member of the free
colored group in Louisiana, he elected to spend much of his adult life abroad.
He returned to New Orleans after completing his education, but by then he
was unable to accept the injustices of racial discrimination. He returned to
France, though not before he had written a number of poems, several of
which were included in the anthology Les Genelles, compiled by Armand
Lanusse in 1845.

LEON DAMAS (French Guiana) was born about the turn of the century. In his youth
he went to Paris where he became a protege* of Andre* Gide and a friend of
the surrealist, Andre Breton. After World War I he returned to his native
land and in 1917 was elected a deputy to the French National Assembly.

FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS (Arkansas City, Kansas, 1905- ) attended school in
Arkansas City until he was ready for Kansas State College. There he studied
journalism, part of the time on a Sigma Delta Chi scholarship. During the
summers he worked on farms and with street-construction gangs. In 1931 he
went to Georgia to help start the Atlanta Daily World. He remained as editor
of the World until 1934. The following year he became feature editor of the
Associated Negro Press in Chicago, of which he later became executive editor.
Meanwhile he has been a Rosenwald Fellow in Poetry, 1937, a lecturer on the
History of Jazz Music at the Abraham Lincoln School in Chicago, and a mem-
ber of the National Board of the Civil Rights Congress. Davis is the author of
Black Mans Verse, 1935, I Am the American Negro, 1937, and of 47th
Street, 1948.

CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY (Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, 1901-27) was the daughter
of Emmett J. Scott, the distinguished secretary of Booker T. Washington. After
a childhood at Tuskegee she went to Bradford Academy in New England and
then to Wellesley College. Three years of teaching in Dunbar High School
in Washington, D.C., followed. She was married to Hubert Delany in 1926.

H. BINGA DISMOND (Richmond, Virginia,' 1891- ) was educated at public
schools, at Howard University Academy, and at the University of Chicago,
where he became a celebrated track star. He entered Rush Medical College
before World War I and later specialized in physical therapy. He is the



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 395

director of this department in the Harlem Hospital in New York City. A book
of his poems, published in 1943, is called We Who Would Die.

OWEN DODSON (Brooklyn, New York, 1914- ) was educated at public schools
and at Bates College. He took graduate studies leading to a Master of Fine
Arts degree at Yale. Two of his plays, Divine Comedy and Garden of Time,
were produced at Yale, and others have been performed by little-theater groups
at various colleges. Talladega College commissioned him to write a play on
the Amistad mutiny. He has taught drama at Spelman College in Atlanta,
Georgia, and at Howard University in Washington, D.C., where he is now a
member of the faculty. His first published book, Powerful Long Ladder, 1946,
was a collection of poems. He has contributed poetry and prose to a number
of magazines and received a Rosenwald Fellowship for Creative Writing.

WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DuBOIS (Great Barrington, Massachusetts, 1868- )
began his education in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. He went to Fisk
University and continued his studies at Harvard and the University of Berlin.
Best known as a scholar and a spokesman for the dark peoples of Africa and
the world, he has always been a poet at heart. The poetic prose of books like
The Souls of Black Folk has already inspired generations of Negro artists and
writers. His first published book, The Suppression of the African Slave Trade,
appeared in 1896. A long list of scholarly volumes has followed. Occasionally,
however, in the course of his work as college professor, editor, and founder of
The Crisis magazine, director of research and publicity for the National Asso-
ciation for the Advancement of Colored People and champion of human
rights, he has written poetry as such. His verses are scattered through periodi-
cals and miscellanies.

ALFRED DUCKETT (Brooklyn, New York, 1918- ) attended the Boys' High School
in Brooklyn. He was a newspaperman for a while and worked on the Amster-
dam News, the New York Age, and the Pittsburgh Courier. He was attached
to Special Services overseas during World War II. His poems have appeared
in Twice a Year, and a piece by him was included in This Is Our War.

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR (Dayton, Ohio, 1872-1906) was the son of former slaves,
one of whom, the father, had escaped by way of the Underground Railroad.
Young Dunbar attended the public schools of Dayton and graduated from high
school in 1891. When he was unable to attend college, he went to work as an
elevator operator. He was employed in this capacity in 1893 when his first
book, Oak and Ivy, was privately printed. A second volume, Majors and
Minors, followed in 1895. Neither of these attracted wide attention but they
won enough approval to assure the success of his Lyrics of Lowly Life, which
came out in 1896. This book soon gained for Dunbar a national reputation
and enabled him to pursue a literary career. In spite of the declining health
which resulted in his early death, Dunbar produced a large quantity of work.
He wrote much prose, and his other books of verse include Lyrics of Love and
Laughter, 1903, Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow, 1905. His Complete Poems
was issued in 1913.

OSWALD DURAND (Haiti) (Cap Haitien, 1840-1906) was one of the best-loved
poets of his country. A prose writer, dramatist, and editor as well as poet, he
held important government offices and traveled abroad. He is remembered as



396 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

"an ardent Nationalist" and as a "man of merry and tempestuous living, who,
in his later days, bore resemblance to Dumas, pere, with his leonine head of
unruly hair, gay flowered shirts, flowing ties." He worked best in the Creole
idiom, and it was in this dialect that his widely popular "Choucoune," 1884,
was written.

JESSIE REDMOND FAUSET (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) was educated in the public
schools of Philadelphia and at Cornell University. She received an A.B. from
Cornell in 1905 and was elected to Phi Beta Kappa. Graduate study, leading
to the M.A. degree, was taken at the University of Pennsylvania, and further
work at the Alliance Frangaise, Paris, earned her a certificate. For several years
she was literary editor of Th'e Crisis, but mainly her work has been teaching.
Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. She is also
the author of four novels: There Is Confusion, 1924, Plum Bun, 1929, The
Chinaberry Tree, 1931, Comedy: American Style, 1933.

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER (Little Rock, Arkansas, 1886- )

LUC GRIMARD (Haiti) (Cap Haitien, 1886- ) received an elementary education
from the Sisters of St. Joseph de Cluny in Cap Haitien before going on to the
secondary TEcole Moderne de Saindoux and then to the Lyce"e National
Philippe-Guerrier. He has since had a notable career as a professor and then
as a director of this institution. His work has also included the practice of law,
a professorship in law in Cap Haitien, service as Consul General of Haiti in
Havre, France ( 1922-26), and a period as curator of the National Museum in
Port-au-Prince. His poems have been collected in Sur ma Flute de Bambous
and Ritournelles, both published in Paris, 1927. He collaborated in the prepa-
ration of the volumes Quelques Poemes, Quelques Poetes, Port-au-Prince, 1934,
and La Corbeille, Port-au-Prince, 1942, and a book of short stories, Du Sable
entre les Doigts, Port-au-Prince, 1941.

ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE (Boston, Massachusetts, 1880- ) was educated at
various northern schools, including the Girls* Latin School and the Boston
Normal School of Gymnastics. She became a teacher in the Armstrong Manual
Training School of Washington, D.C., in 1902. Beginning in 1916 she taught
English for a number of years at Dunbar High School in the same city. Later
she moved to New York City. Rachel, a three-act play by Miss Grimk6, was
published^ 1921.

NICOLAS GUILLEN (Cuba) (Camaguey, 1904- ) graduated from the Institute of
Camaguey in 1920 and the following year entered University of Havana's
School of Law. He soon dropped this course, however, for a career in journal-
ism, politics, and poetry. His books of verse, which began appearing in 1930,
soon won him a place among the foremost poets of Latin America. In 1947 El
Son Entero, a collected edition of his poetical works, was issued by Pleamar
of Buenos Aires. In 1948, Cuba Libre, a volume of his poems translated into
English appeared in the United States.

JUPITER HAMMON (Queens Village, Long Isknd, 1720P-1806?) was the slave of one
Henry Lloyd. The dates of his birth and death are obscure, but the earliest
reference to him is found in a letter dated May 19, 1730, when Hammon was
perhaps a little more than ten years old. He probably did not die before
1806. Hammon was an intelligent and privileged slave, respected by his



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 397

master for his skill with tools and by his fellow slaves for his power as a
preacher. His first published work, sometimes called the first literary effort by
any Negro in the United States, was "An Evening Thought: Salvation by
Christ, with Penitential Cries." It appeared as a broadside in 1760. His next
known work, "A Poetical Address to Phillis Wheatley," appeared eighteen
years later. His "An Essay on the Ten Virgins," of which no extant copy has
been found, was printed in 1779. "A Winter Piece," including also "A Poem
for Children with Thoughts on Death," "An Evening's Improvement/' and a
rhymed dialogue entitled "The Kind Master and Dutiful Servant" appeared
in 1782. Hammon's "An Address to Negroes in the State of New York," his
most substantial literary work, was issued in 1787. It went into three editions.

FRANCES E. W. HARPER (Baltimore, Maryland, 1825-1911) was educated in Balti-
more and later moved to Ohio, where she taught for a while at Union
Seminary in Columbus, but by 1853 she was in Little York, Pennsylvania,,
working in the interest of the Underground Railroad. A year later, as a result
of her growing reputation, Mrs. Harper was engaged by the Anti-Slavery
Society of Maine as a lecturer.- After the Civil War she traveled extensively
as a representative of the Women's Christian Temperance Union. Her first
book, Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects, was published in 1854. Another,
Poems, followed in 1871, and a third, Sketches of Southern Life, in 1872.

ROBERT HAYDEN (Detroit, Michigan, 1913- ) was educated in Michigan. He
went to college at Wayne University in Detroit and then to the University
of Michigan for graduate work. From 1944-46 he held a teaching assistantship
in the department of English at Michigan. He left to accept a position on the
faculty of Fisk University. He is a member of Phi Kappa Phi, scholastic honors
society. The first collection of his poetry, Heartshape in the Dust, 1940, was
published by the Falcon Press of Detroit. Hayden received Hopwood awards
for poetry in 1938 and 1942. He was granted a Fellowship in Creative Writing
by Special Services Committee of Ann Arbor in 1946. In 1947 he received a
Julius Rosenwald Fellowship for Creative Writing. His poems have appeared
in Poetry, Atlantic Monthly, Cross Section, 1945 and 1947, and other peri-
odicals and anthologies. A brochure, The Lion and the Archer, 1948, presented
a group of his poems with some by Myron O'Higgins.

DONALD JEFFREY HAYES (Raleigh, North Carolina, 1904- ). Beyond high school
Hayes's education was gained entirely through private study. His interest was
music, and he studied singing and directing with distinguished teachers. As
a member of singing choruses he appeared in several Broadway productions
in the twenties and thirties. Many of his poems have appeared in such maga-
zines as Harper's Bazaar, Good Housekeeping, and This Week. They have
also been in anthologies. He is employed as a counselor for the mentally and
physically handicapped with the New Jersey State Employment Service.

DU BOSE HEYWARD (Charleston, South Carolina, 1885-1940)

LESLIE P1NCKNEY HILL (Lynchburg, Virginia, 1880- ) was educated in the public
schools of his home town and at Harvard University. He taught at Tuskegee
Institute and later became the principal of the Cheyney Training School for
Teachers in Pennsylvania. He published two volumes of poetry: The Wings of
Oppression, 1922, and Toussaint L'OuvertureA Dramatic History, 1928.



398 BrOGRAPWCAl NOTES

CONSTANCE HOLLAR (Jamaica, B.W.L) (Port Royal, 1880-1945) spent most of her
life on the island where she was born. After completing her education she
traveled in Great Britain and returned to Kingston to conduct a private
kindergarten school. A collection of her poems appeared in 1941 under the
title Flaming June. Her last years were marked by frail health and retirement.

JOHN WESLEY HOLLOWAY (Augusta, Georgia, 1865-1935) was the son of an ex-
slave who had become by his own efforts one of the first Negro schoolteachers
in Georgia. Holloway was educated at Clark in Atknta and at Fisk University,
where he was a member of the famous Jubilee Singers. He became a teacher
and then entered the ministry.

LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS HOLLOWAY (Mobile, Alabama, 1905- ) received her early
education at the Emerson Institute of Mobile and in the high school depart-
ment of Talladega College. She went to Fisk and then to Oberlin Conservatory
to study music. She was for a while the director of music at the North Carolina
College, Durham. Since 1945 she has been supervisor of music in the Negro
public schools of Mobile. Her first recognition as a poet came in 1926 while
she was still a senior at Fisk University. Her "Northboun' " was selected as one
of the winning poems in the Opportunity contest that year.

MOSES CARL HOLMAN (Minter City, Mississippi, 1919- ) was educated in the
public schools of St. Louis, Missouri. He attended Lincoln University in
Jefferson City, majoring in English. Following his graduation he taught school
for a year and then went on to the University of Chicago, where he received
an M.A. in 1944. At Chicago he won a Fiske Poetry Prize. A year later a
Julius Rosenwald Fellowship was awarded to him for further study and
creative writing. He later joined the English faculty at Hampton Institute in
Virginia.

FRANK HORNE (New York, N.Y., 1899- ) was educated in the public schools
and at the College of the City of New York. His professional and graduate
studies were continued at the Northern Illinois College of Ophthalmology, at
Columbia University, and at the University of Southern California. A member
of his college's track team, Frank Home's first poems reflected his athletic
interest and 'achievements. After college he became a Doctor of Optometry and
practiced in Chicago and New York, but he returned to the academic field and
taught at Fort Valley Normal and Industrial School before entering govern-
mental service in Washington with the U.S. Housing Authority. His poems
have been published in magazines and anthologies. The first of his writings
to attract attention, perhaps, was the series called "Letters Found Near a
Suicide," which won a Crisis poetry award in 1925.

GEORGE MOSES MORTON (North Carolina, 1797-1883) was a slave of the Horton
family of Northampton County, North Carolina. During most of his life
he served one member or another of that family. At Chapel Hill he was
permitted to hire himself out, and it was in this way that he gained em-
ployment in the home of the president of the university. Here he learned to
read and write. He also discovered a way to earn pocket change: by com-
posing love poems for the students at the rate of twenty-five to fifty cents
each. In 1829 a volume of his poems was published in Raleigh under the
title The Hope of Liberty. Horton hoped that the sale of this work would



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 399

earn enough money to enable him to purchase his freedom, but, like many
another poet, he was disappointed. When the Northern troops occupied
Raleigh in 1865, Horton was an old man, but he escaped to their lines and
to freedom, and the same year his second work, Naked Genius, appeared. The
remainder of his Me, one gathers, was spent in Philadelphia.

LANGSTON HUGHES (Joplin, Missouri, 1902- ) attended the public schools of
Lawrence, Kansas, but moved with his mother to Cleveland at the age of
fourteen. There he attended Central High and graduated with the class of
1920, which he served as class poet and editor of the yearbook. A year in
Mexico followed, and Hughes returned to enter Columbia University in 1921.
A break with his father ended this phase of his education, however, and he
went to work at odd jobs around New York. Then followed two years of sea-
faring, with voyages along the African coast and to Europe. During this period
his poetry, which had already been appearing in The Crisis and other maga-
zines, began to attract the attention which resulted in the publication of his
first volume. He then entered Lincoln University in Pennsylvania and gradu-
ated in 1929. He has pursued a literary career ever since. Meanwhile awards
and honors accumulated. There was a first prize in the Opportunity poetry
contest in 1925, and another in 1926 in the Witter Bynner undergraduate
poetry competition. He won a Harmon Award in 1931 and later received
Guggenheim and Rosenwald fellowships and a grant from the American
Academy of Arts and Letters. His published works include Not Without
Laughter, 1930, a novel; The Ways of White Folks, 1934, short stories; and
The Big Sea, 1940, an autobiography; in addition to the following collections
of poetry: The Weary Blues, 1926, The Dream Keeper, 1932, Shakespeare in
Harlem, 1942, Fields of Wonder, 1947, and One Way Ticket, 1949. He has
had broad experience as journalist, song lyricist, dramatist, and lecturer, as
represented by a column called "Here to Yonder" in the Chicago Defender,
the lyrics for the Broadway musical version of Elmer Rice's Street Scene and
the libretto for the William Grant Still opera Troubled Island, the Broadway
play Mulatto, and six coast-to-coast poetry-reading tours.

DOROTHY VENA JOHNSON (Los Angeles, California) received her early education
in a convent. She attended the University of California at Los Angeles and
the University of Southern California, earning degrees from each. She is a
junior high school teacher in Los Angeles. Her poems have appeared in
periodicals and anthologies.

FENTON JOHNSON (Chicago, Illinois, 1888- ) was educated in Chicago in the
public schools and at the University of Chicago. At nineteen he produced
original plays at the historically interesting Peldn Theatre of the same city.
A Little Dreaming, his first volume of poetry, appeared in 1914, and in the two
following years came Visions of the Dusk and Songs of the Soil. Tales of
Darkest America, 1920, was a book of short stories. Johnson edited and pub-
lished several small literary magazines,

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON (Atlanta, Georgia, 1886- ) was educated in the
elementary schools of Atlanta, at Atlanta University, and at Oberlin Con-
servatory in Ohio. She prepared herself for a career as a composer but soon
felt that the road to this goal was obstructed. Instead, she became a school-



400 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

teacher. When her husband was appointed Recorder of Deeds under President
William Howard Taft, she moved to Washington, D.C. Later she herself was
employed in government agencies in the capital. The hope of becoming a
composer was replaced by an interest in poetry. The published volumes of her
lyrics include The Heart of a Woman, 1918, Bronze, 1922, and An Autumn
Love Cycle, 1928.

HELENE JOHNSON (Boston, Massachusetts, 1907- ) was educated in public
schools and at Boston University. In 1926 she went to New York to attend
the extension division of Columbia University. She remained long enough to
see her poems published in such magazines as Opportunity and Vanity Fair
and reprinted in a number of anthologies.

HERBERT CLARK JOHNSON (Mattoax, Amelia County, Virginia, 1911- ) was
educated in Virginia and at the Cheyney Training School for Teachers in
Pennsylvania. His poems have been published in magazines and collected in
the volume Poems from Flat Creek, 1943.

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON (Jacksonville, Florida, 1871-1938) received his early
education in Jacksonville, and then attended Atlanta University. A subsequent
career as public school principal, lawyer, diplomat, executive secretary of the
National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and Professor of
Creative Literature at Fisk University paralleled his growth and maturity as
a poet and man of letters. In 1900, with his brother J. Rosamond Johnson, he
wrote "Lift Every Voice and Sing," a song that has become a kind of national
anthem for the Negro people in the United States. His long list of published
works include the following books of poetry: Fifty Years and Other Poems,
1917, God's Trombones, 1927, St. Peter Relates an Incident of the Resurre&
tion Day, 1930, and Book of American Negro Poetry, first issued in 1922.
Johnson wrote the lyrics for several musical shows and put his name on a
number of hit songs in his early writing days. At the time of his death in an
automobile accident in 1938 he was regarded as one of the foremost Negro
Americans of his generation.

AQUAH LALUAH [Gladys May Casely Hayford] (African Gold Coast) (Axim, 1904-

) is a Fanti by birth, but she attended college at Colwyn Bay in Wales.

Returning to Africa after five years in England, she became a teacher in the

Girls' Vocational School of Sierra Leone. Her poems, first published in the

Atlantic Monthly, have also appeared in American anthologies.

ARMAND LANUSSE (New Orleans, Louisiana, 1812-67) was one of the most distin-
guished members of a social group in New Orleans known as free men of
color. He received an excellent education, but it is not clear at this date
whether or not he studied in France, as did so many of the talented colored
youths of his group at that time. Lanusse was best known during his lifetime
as the principal of the Catholic School for Indigent Orphans of color, a position
he held from 1852 to 1866. Earlier than this, however, he was the leader of
a group of young poets writing in French whose work he compiled in a signifi-
cant little volume published in 1845 under the title Les Cenelles.

BETTE DARCIE LAT1MER (Rochester, New York, 1927- ) was educated in Rochester
schools and at Fisk University, from which she graduated in 1948. She was
then given a tuition fellowship for graduate study at the University of Michi-



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 401

gan, mainly on the strength of her creative writing. As an undergraduate she
was an assistant editor and a frequent contributor to the Fisk Herald. Her
poems have also appeared in Phylon and The Crisis.

WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD (Plainfield, New Jersey, 1876-1944)

VACHEL LINDSAY (Springfield, Illinois, 1879-1931)

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (Portland, Maine, 1807-82)

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1819-91)

GEORGE MARION McCLELLAN (Belfast, Tennessee, 1860-1934) was educated at
Fisk University and at Hartford Theological Seminary. The Path of Dreams,
the volume that contains his best poems, was published in 1916.

BASIL McFARLANE (Jamaica, B.W.I.) (Kingston, 1922- ) is the son of J. E. Clare
McFarlane. He attended briefly Jamaica College and Calabar College before
joining the Royal Air Force in 1944, but is mainly self-educated. He served in
England for two years but returned to Jamaica to be demobilized after the
war. He has since been a clerk in the government service of the island. His
poems have appeared in the London Mercury and in Life and Letters.

J. E. CLARE McFARLANE (Jamaica, B.W.I. ) (Spanish Town, 1896- ) was educated
privately and at Cornwall College. He has had a long and distinguished
career in the island's civil service and now holds one of the most important
government posts filled by a Jamaican. He is the deputy financial secretary
and treasurer, and president of the Civil Service Association. Even more im-
portant, in the opinion of some, has been his contribution to the cultural life
of the West Indies. He founded the Poetry League of Jamaica a quarter of a
century ago and is the editor of Voices from Summerland, the first anthology
of Jamaican poetry. Among other honors bestowed upon him, he has been
named a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an officer of the Order of
the British Empire.

CLAUDE McKAY (Jamaica, B.WJ.) (Clarendon, 1891-1948) was the youngest of
eleven children. His father was a farmer, his older brother the schoolmaster
of the village. McKay received his elementary education in his brother's
school, and at the age of seventeen he won a Jamaica Trade Scholarship and
was apprenticed to a cabinetmaker and wheelwright. At nineteen he joined
the Jamaica constabulary, and a year kter he published his first book of
poems, Songs of Jamaica. These dialect verses became popular locally and
earned McKay an award from the Institute of Arts and Sciences. A year later
he came to the United States to attend Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. After
a few months at Tuskegee he went to Kansas State University, where he re-
mained two years as a student in the Department of Agriculture. He then went
to New York City and began contributing poetry to American magazines. In
1919 he went to Europe. During a year in London he published Spring in
New Hampshire, 1920, a volume of poetry. On his return to America he be-
came associate editor of the Liberator under Max Eastman. Harlem Shadows,
his widely known book of poetry, came out in 1922. McKay then went abroad
again and remained on the continent of Europe for about a decade. During
that time, and in the years immediately following, he wrote much prose, in-
cluding such well-known books as Home to Harlem, 1928, Banjo, 1929, Gin-



402 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

gertown, 1932, Banana Bottom, 1933, A Long Way from Home, 1937, and
Harlem: Negro Metropolis, 1940.

ST. CLAIR McKELWAY (Charlotte, North Carolina, 1905- )

A. B. MAGIL (Phikdelphia, Pennsylvania, 1905- )

ROGER MAIS (Jamaica, B.W.I.) (Kingston, 1905- ) has had a varied and
sometimes stormy career in his native Jamaica. His activities have included
planting, clerkship, photography, painting, newspaper reporting, magazine
editing, and several other occupations. One of his articles, "Now We Know,"
provoked a bitter political controversy and resulted in his internment for
eighteen months. He is the author of Face and Other Stories, 1942, and of
And Most of All Man, 1943, in which a group of his stories are collected with
some of his poems.

UNA-M. MARSON (Jamaica, B.W.I.) (Santa Cruz, St. Elizabeth, 1905- ) has
had a brilliant career as a journalist, lecturer, and poet. After serving in
several secretarial and editorial posts on her native island, she went to London
and worked with the League of Colored Peoples from 1933 to 1935. She was
a delegate to the 12th Congress of the International Alliance of Women,
Istanbul. She was given an assignment in connection with the League of
Nations in Geneva the same year, and a year later she was attached to the
staff of the Ethiopian Legation in London. She accompanied H. M. Haile
Selassie to the meeting of the League of Nations at which he undertook to
deal with the Italo-Ethiopian problem. She lectured widely in England and
served as editor and broadcaster in the West Indies Program of the BBC,
London, from 1941 to 1946, when she returned to Jamaica. Her published
books include Tropic Reveries, 1930, Heights and Depths, 1931, The Moth
and the Star, 1937, and Towards the Stars, 1945. She has also written plays,
one of which was produced at the Scala Theatre in London in 1934. Her pkys
have had three Kingston productions.

AGNES MAXWELL-HALL (Jamaica, B.W.I.) (Montego Bay, 1894- ) was educated
in London, Boston, and in New York City, where she studied short-story
writing at Columbia University. Her stories and poems have appeared in little
magazines in the United States and in England. She owns and operates a dairy
in the Jamaica mountains at Kempshot, the site of the observatory of her
father, the late Maxwell Hall, F.R.A.S., F.R.M. et S.

HERMAN MELVILLE (New York, N.Y., 1819-91)

CATULLE MENDES (France) (Bordeaux, 1841-1909)

JOSEPHINE MILES (Chicago, Illinois, 1911- )

IOUIS MORPEAU (Haiti) (Aux Cayes, 1895-1926) studied at the College of St.
Martial and at the Lyc6e National in Port-au-Prince. Later he became a
teacher in the Lycee National and an influential figure in Haitian literature.
He has represented Haiti at various conferences in Paris and elsewhere and
contributed many articles on his country to French periodicals. His publica-
tions include Pages de Jeunesse et de Foi, 1919, Une Oeuvre de Pitie Sociale,
a brochure, Anthologie Haitienne des Poetes Contemporains, 1904-1920, 1920,
and VEnterrement de la Merlasse, Paris, 1924.

BEATRICE M. MURPHY (Harrisburg, Pennsylvania) has spent most of her life in Wash-
ington, D.C., where she is now a stenographer in the Veterans' Administration.



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 403

She also writes for newspapers and has edited two anthologies: Negro Voices,
1938, and Ebony Rhythm, 1948.

PAUL1 MURRAY (Baltimore, Maryland, 1910- ) began her education in the public
schools of Durham, North Carolina, and continued it in the high school at
Richmond Hill, New York, at Hunter College in New York City, in the
Howard University School of Law in Washington, D.C., and at the University
of California School of Jurisprudence, which conferred on her the degree of
LL.M. in 1945. She also attended Brookwood Labor College. She is a member
of the bar of California and of New York, where she is now practicing. She
has held academic fellowships, including one from the Julius Rosenwald
Fund, and won prizes and awards from Howard University, the National
Council of Negro Women, and the magazine Mademoiselle. She has written
articles and pamphlets, and her poems have appeared in such magazines as
Common Ground, South Today, Opportunity, The Crisis, and the Saturday
Review of Literature.

IGNACE NAU (Haiti) (Port-au-Prince, 1812-45) studied in Haiti at ^Institution
Jonathas Granville and then in New York at L'Institut Catholique. On return-
ing to Haiti he was made officer detache of the arsenal but was later-discharged
from his post. An eloquent nationalist orator, he became an authority on
colonial lif e and traveled in France. But he soon retired from the political arena
and withdrew to his country home to write and study at leisure. Earlier he
had a hand in the publication of Revue des Colonies, Paris, 1837.

ALICE DUNBAR NELSON (New Orleans, Louisiana, 1875-1935) was the wife of Paul
Laurence Dunbar. She was educated in the public schools of New Orleans
and at Straight College. Later she attended several Northern universities. She
taught school in New Orleans and in Brooklyn prior to her marriage to Dunbar
in 1898. She published several volumes of prose.

EFFIE LEE NEWSOME (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1885- ) has lived much of her
Me at Wilberforce, Ohio. Most of her writing is for children and deals with
nature lore. She is the author of Gladiola Garden, 1940.

MYRON O'HIGGINS (Chicago, Illinois, 1918- ) was born on Chicago's south
side, where he attended both public and parochial schools. He went to Howard
University for his college work, studying under the guidance of Sterling A.
Brown. As an undergraduate, his literary efforts won him a Lucy Moten Fel-
lowship for travel and study in Mexico and Cuba. O'Higgins remained at
Howard to take the master's degree and then served briefly as an instructor
in English before entering the Army. He was awarded a Julius Rosenwald
Fellowship upon his discharge from the Army. His poems have appeared in
magazines and in a limited collection called The Lion and the Archer, 1948,
issued in collaboration with Robert Hayden.,

BARBARA STEPHANIE ORMSBY (Jamaica, B.W.I.) ( Savanna-la-Mar, 1899- ) was
educated at Colonial High School in Kingston and at Whitelands College,
Putney, England. She has been writing poetry since childhood.

KENNETH PATCHEN (Niles, Ohio, 1911- )

REGINO PEDROSO (Cuba) (Union de Reyes, 1896- ) is of Chinese and Negro
ancestry. His youth was marked by heavy labor in the sugar, railroad, and
steel industries, but later he was employed in the Ministry of Education. He



404 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

is children's librarian at Parque Marti in Havana. He published several vol-
umes of poetry, including Nostros, 1933, Mas Alia Canta el Mar, 1939, which
received the National Literary Prize; and Bolivar: Sinfonia de Libertad, 1945. .

PLACIDO [Gabriel de la Concepcio'n Valdes] (Cuba) (Havana, 1809-44) is one of
Cuba's national heroes. The illegitimate son of a colored father and a white
Spanish dancer, he started life in an orphanage in Havana. Later he was
rescued from this institution by his father and brought up by his paternal
grandmother. At seventeen Placido left Havana and made Matanzas his home.
He was apprenticed to a tortoise-shell craftsman, an occupation which fostered
in him the contemplation of nature. Poetry was the next step. At the age of
thirty-five Placido was executed by the Spanish rulers of the island, a martyr
in Cuba's struggle for liberty.

KENNETH PORTER (Sterling, Kansas, 1905- )

CHARLES FERNAND PRESSOIR (Haiti) (Paris, France, 1910- ) was educated in
France and Engknd up to and including his baccalaureate in Paris in 1928.
He took a law degree in Port-au-Prince in 1931, studied philology in Haiti, and
then went to Columbia University in New York for studies in economics. He
is now attached to the Internal Revenue Service in Haiti. He is also president
of the Creole Academy. He is the author of Au Rythme des Coumbites, 1933,
and Debats sur le Creole et le Folklore, 1947.

TOM REDCAM [Thomas Henry McDermot] (Jamaica) (Clarendon, 1870-1933) was
educated at Falmouth Academy and at the Church of England Grammar
School at Kingston. He started his career as a schoolmaster and gradually
moved into journalism and literature. His patriotic songs have earned him a
high place in the esteem of the island, where his countrymen sometimes called
him "The Uncrowned Laureate of Jamaica."

WALTER ADOLPHE ROBERTS (Jamaica) (Kingston, 1886- ) grew up in the town
of Mandeville and became a reporter on the Daily Gleaner at the age of
sixteen. Two years later he arrived in the United States and began a jour-
nalistic career that has since included work on newspapers and magazines
from New York to San Francisco. When World War I broke out, Roberts was
sent to France as a war correspondent by the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Between
1918 and 1921 he served as editor of Ainslee's Magazine. A year later he be-
came associate editor of Hearst's International Magazine, and this was followed
by other editorships. His books include novels, biographies, and such vivid
historical works as The Caribbean, and The French in the West Indies. His
books of verse are Pierrot Wounded and Other Poems, 1919, and Pan and
Peacocks, 1928.

EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON (Head Tide, Maine, 1869-1935)

SELDEN RODMAN (New York, N.Y., 1909- )

JACQUES ROUMAIN (Haiti) (Port-au-Prince, 1907-44) was educated largely in
Europe. He was a prominent member of the group of young Haitian writers
who founded the influential Revue Indigene in the late twenties, and he con-
tributed some of its most distinguished poems. The first of his published works
was a volume of short stories, La Proie et L'Ombre. It was followed in 1931
by La Montagne Ensorcelee and Les Fantoches. Gouverneurs de la Ros6e
appeared in 1944. Roumain's name became widely known internationally as



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 405

a result of his political imprisonment and exile and his subsequent return to his
native knd and a post in the foreign service of the government. He died soon
afterward, but the posthumous publication in English of his novel Masters of
the Dew, New York, 1947, added to his literary stature.

EMILE ROUMER (Haiti) (Jer<mie, 1903- ) attended the Institute of St. Louis
de Gonzague and later studied in France and England before entering the
practice of law. He was one of the group that founded the Revue Indigene.
His publications include Poemes d'Haiti et de France, 1925, and Nouveaux
Poemes, 1945.

MURIEL RUKEYSER (New York, N.Y., 1913- )

CARL SANDBURG (Galesburg, Illinois, 1878- )

A. J. SEYMOUR (British Guiana) (1914r- ) was educated at Queen's College,
Georgetown, and is now an assistant public information officer for British
Guiana. He also edits Kykoveral, a twice-a-year literary and critical magazine,
and serves the British Guiana Writers' Association and the British Guiana
Union of Cultural Clubs as president and home secretary respectively. His
published works include Verse, 1937, More Poems, 1940, Over Guiana Clouds,
1944, Sun's in My Blood, 1945, and Six Songs, 1946. He is, moreover, married
and the father of six children.

KARL SHAPIRO (Baltimore, Maryland, 1913- )

PHILLIP M. SHERLOCK (Jamaica) (Portland, 1902- ) was educated at Calabar
High School on the island and in London, where he received his college
degree. He has had a long career as schoolmaster, librarian, and education
officer in Jamaica. He has written and published a number of books for use
in schools and is considered an authority on Jamaican folklore.

EDWARD S. SILVERA (Jacksonville, Florida, 1906-37) was graduated from the Orange
High School in 1924 and then went on to Lincoln University in Pennsylvania.
At Lincoln he participated in athletics and wrote poems, some of which were
included in a pamphlet called Four Lincoln Poets, 1930. His verses also ap-
peared in magazines and anthologies before his early death.

LOUIS SIMPSON (Kingston, Jamaica) (1923- ) came to the United States to
enter Columbia University. During the war he served in Europe with distinc-
tion. His studies, interrupted at Columbia, were resumed in Paris at the end
of the hostilities.

ANNE SPENCER (Bramwell, West Virginia, 1882- ) was educated in the Virginia
Seminary in Lynchburg, Virginia, the city in which she has spent most of her
life. She is the librarian of the Dunbar High School there. Recently she de-
veloped a pink candy-striped Chinese peony, eight years from seed. This fact,
perhaps, tells as much about her life as anything with the exception of her
poems. Though these have appeared in magazines and anthologies for a
number of years, they have not been collected in a book.

EDMOND CLARENCE STEDMAN (Hartford, Connecticut, 1883-1908)

NORMIL G. SYLVAIN (Haiti) (Port-au-Prince, 1901-29) was educated first in Paris
at llnstitution Ste. Marie de Monceau and then at the College St. Martial in
Port-au-Prince. He studied medicine in Haiti and entered the medical pro-
fession in 1926. He was associated with the group of young writers who
founded the Revue Indigene in their search for an idiom native to their own



406 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Haitian background. He was equally interested in medical affairs of the island,
and he was among the founders of FAssociation de Medecine Haitienne. He
founded the Annales de la Medecine Haitienne.

HAROLD MILTON TELEMAQUE (Trinidad, B.W.I.) (Plymouth, Tobago, 1911- )
is the son of a captain of a sailing schooner which operated among the islands
of the West Indies. He was educated by Moravian ministers at Bethesda, at
Bishop's High School at Scarborough, and at the Government Training College
for Teachers. His work as a schoolteacher on the island led finally to the head
mastership of the large Fyzabad Intermediate E. C. School, his present posi-
tion. Burnt ~Bush y 1947, presents the first published collection of his poems.

LUCY TERRY (Eighteenth century) was the slave of Ensign Ebenezer Wells of Deer-
field, Massachusetts. Her "Bars Fight" recounts 'the events of a bloody Indian
raid on the settlers of that town on August 25, 1746. George A. Sheldon, his-
torian of Deerfield and student of the Indian wars in the Connecticut Valley,
says that her description of that episode during King George's War is the best
and most colorful version extant.

PHILIPPE THOBY-MARCELLIN (Haiti) (Port-au-Prince, 1904- ) was educated in
the Petit Seminaire and the College of St. Martial. He is a professional
journalist, but from the first his interest has been in the literary reviews and
newer kinds of writing. He was associated with La Nouvelle Ronde ( 1925-26),
the Revue Indigene (1927-28), La Revue Europeene (1928), La Revue
Caraire (1931), La Releve (1932-1940), Les Criots (1938-39), France-
Amtrique (1934), and Gaceta del Caribe (1944), Conjunction (1947-48). He
was in charge of "Studio No. 3," bulletin of the Centre D'Art (1945-46). He
has published several books of poems, including La Negresse Adolescente,
1932, Dialogue avec la Femme Endormie, 1941, and Lago-Lago, 1943. Two
novels by him, written in collaboration with Pierre Marcellin, are known in
the United States. CanapS Vert, New York, 1944, won the Farrar & Rinehart
prize for a Latin-American novel. La "Bete de Musseau was brought out in
New York by the same publishers in 1946 under the title The Beast of the
Haitian Hills.

MELVIN BEAUNEARUS TOLSON (Moberly, Missouri, 1898- ) completed under-
graduate college work at Lincoln University and then went to Columbia for
an M.A. For twenty-two years he was a member of the faculty of Wiley
College in Marshall, Texas, where he became widely known for his debating
teams and his work with the drama club and the English department. His
poem, "Dark Symphony," won a prize at the Negro American Exposition in
Chicago and later appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, before being included
in a collected volume of his poetry, Rendezvous With America, 1944. From
Wiley he went to Langston University as professor of English.

JEAN TOOMER (Washington, D.C., 1894- ) was educated at the University of
Wisconsin and the College of the City of New York. In 1918 he decided on a
literary career, and his poems, short stories, and sketches began appearing in
magazines. These were collected in 1923 in the book Cane.

RIDGELY TORRENCE (Xenia, Ohio, 1875- )

ISAAC TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE (Haiti) (Ennery, 1782-1854) was the son of the
Haitian liberator and governor of Santo Domingo. He was educated in a



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 407,

military school in France. An eloquent prose writer as well as poet, Isaac
Toussaint L'Ouverture left memoirs unpublished in Bordeaux at the time of
his death. He is sometimes credited with authorship of L'Haitiade > a poem
in the epic tradition, published in Paris in 1828. He was one of those unusual
individuals who combine the qualities of charm, bravery, good looks, and
physical prowess with the ability to write well.

PERIENT TROTT (McKeesport, Pennsylvania, 1910- )

H. A. VAUGHAN (Barbados, B.W.I.) (1901- ) continued his education in Eng-
land, where he studied law. He has been a member of the Barbados House of
Assembly, but is now a district magistrate on the island. His special interest is
the history of Barbados, in which connection he is working on a biography of
Sir Conrad Reeves. He published Sandy Land and Other Poems in 1945.

DURACINE VAVAL (Haiti) (Aux Cayes, 1879- ) studied in Paris and went on to
qualify for the practice of law. He has been a teacher as well as a civil judge
in his home city and in Port-au-Prince. He was at one time the chief of the
Haitian Legation in London. His publications include Vart Dans la Vie, 1900;
Conferences Historiques, 1907; Coup d'Oeil sur TEtat Financier de la Repub-
lique, a brochure, 1907; Litterature Haitienne, critical essays, Paris, 1911;
Les Stances Haitiennes, Paris, 1912; and L'Ame Noire, 1933, also published in
Paris.

VIVIAN L VIRTUE (Jamaica, B.W.I.) (Kingston, 1911- ) was educated at King-
ston College. The first collection of his poems appeared in 1938 under the title
Wings of the Morning. He has contributed to such British magazines as Life
and Letters and the London Mercury. He is an officer of the Poetry League
of Jamaica and a member of the Royal Society of Literature of England.

MARGARET ABIGAIL WALKER (Birmingham, Alabama, 1915- ). A minister's
daughter, Margaret Walker attended Methodist church schools in Mississippi
and Alabama before enrolling at Gilbert Academym-New Orleans, from which
she graduated in 1930. She graduated from Northwestern University in 1935.
In 1940 she received a master's degree from ,the State University of Iowa and
two years later became an instructor in English at Livingstone College, Salis-
bury, North Carolina. From 1942-43 she taught English at West Virginia
State College. Her first book of poems, For My People, was published in 1942
after winning the Yale University Younger Poets competition. A Rosenwald
Fellowship for creative writing followed in 1944.

IRMA WASSAL (Amarillo, Texas, 1909- ) ^

CHRISTIAN WERLEIGH (Haiti) (Cap Haitien, 1895-1945) was educated by the
Freres de rinstruction Chretienne and at the Lyc^e National Philippe
Guerrier in Cap Haitien. He later became a professor of rhetoric in the same
institution and remained in this post the rest of his life. His best-known work,
perhaps, is Le Palmiste Dans I'Ouragan, Cap Haitien, 1930 (but two earlier
collections of his verse were Contre la Balustrade, published in France, and
La Halte au Bord du Fleuve). Later came Le Palmiste Dans la Lumiere, 1934,
publication of which was sponsored by President Stenio Vincent of Haiti, and
finally Ma Ville, Mon Pays, Port-au-Prince, 1944. For the theatre Werleigh
wrote two verse plays, La Fleu du Sacrifice and Tout Pour le Hoi. He left in



408 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

manuscript a five-act drama dedicated to Toussaint L'Ouverture, La Mort
Couronne.

DON WEST (Ellijay, Georgia, 1909- )

PHttLIS WHEATLEY (Senegal, West Africa, 1753-84) was captured and sold into
slavery in early childhood and brought to Boston in 1761. She became the
property of John Wheatley of Boston whose wife and daughter soon noted
the alert sensitivity of the young African girl and encouraged Phillis's efforts
to acquire learning. Within a few years she was completely at home in the
language and literature of her captors. She began writing poetry, and in 1770,
at the age of seventeen, published "A Poem, by Phillis, A Negro Girl in Boston,
on the Death of the Reverend George Whitefield." When her health began to
fail, Phillis was advised by doctors to take a sea voyage. This was arranged by
the kindly mistress, who also gave the girl her freedom before she sailed for
England. In London, Phillis was a success. It was there that her only collected
volume of verse was first issued under the title Poems on Various Subjects,
Religious and Moral, 1773. Then one by one the patrons of this talented ex-
slave girl died and she returned to Boston. Her marriage was unhappy, and
she died as a servant in a cheap lodging house at the age of thirty-one.
CHARLES ENOCH WHEELER (Augusta, Georgia, 190&- ) attended private schools
in Augusta and the Henry George School in New York. He has been published
in The Crisis and other periodicals, and a book of his poems, Prelude, was
privately issued in 1943.

WALT WHITMAN (near Huntington, Long Island, N.Y., 1819-92)
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (Haverhill, Massachusetts, 1807-92)
NAOMI LONG WITHERSPOON (Norfolk, Virginia, 1923- ) is the youngest of
three children of a Baptist minister. She attended elementary school in East
Orange, New Jersey, and high school in St. Louis, Missouri. She graduated
from Virginia State College in 1945 and in the following year enrolled at New
York University. A brochure of her poems was issued in 1941 under the title
Songs to a Phantom Nightingale. Her work has also appeared in magazines.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (England) ( Cockennouth, Cumberland, 1770-1850)
BRUCE McM, WRIGHT (Princeton, New Jersey, 1918- ) attended college at Lin-
coln University in Pennsylvania. After a period of army service overseas during
World War II, he entered Fordham University's School of Law. While he was
abroad, a collection of his poems achieved publication in Wales under the
title From the Shaken Tower, 1944.

RICHARD WRIGHT (near Natchez, Mississippi, 1908- ) was born on a plantation.
His family moved frequently and his education didn't get far. At fifteen he left
home to work as a porter and messenger in Memphis. It was there he began
to read and educate himself. The urge to write followed quickly. He made his
way to Chicago, and in 1935 got on the Federal Writer's Project. By this time
he had published poetry, articles, and stories in the little magazines. He then
began working on the stories which finally went into his first book, Uncle
Tom's Children, 1938. This book won a contest open to all WPA writers and
led to a Guggenheim Fellowship for its author. Wright was thus enabled to
quit the project and complete his first novel. Native Son, 1940, was not only a
Book-of-the-Month Club selection but an outstanding critical and popular



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 409

success. From the point of view of the Negro in American literature it became
a significant milepost. It was followed by Twelve Million Black Voices, 1941, a
folk history, and by Black Boy, 1945, an autobiographical book which re-
peated in nearly every way the success of Wright's Native Son. A dramatiza-
tion of Native Son by Wright and Paul Green was produced in 1940 and later
included among the best plays of the year.



TRANSLATORS



L. A. Lionel Able

J. P. B. John Peale Bishop

B. F. C. Ben F. Carruthers

M. C. Mercer Cook

I. G. Ivan Goll

L. H. Langston Hughes

J. W. J. James Weldon Johnson

J. F. M. John F. Matheus

E. W. U. Edna Worthley Underwood

D. D. W. Donald Devenish Walsh



AUTHOR INDEX



AUTHOR INDEX

Alexander, Lewis, 84, 85
Alexander, Sidney, 294, 304-6
Allen, Hervey, 285
Atkins, Russell, 208

Barrow, Raymond, 345

Benet, Stephen Vincent, 243-45

Benet, William Rose, 295

Bennett, Gwendolyn B., 109, 110

Bishop, Elizabeth, 288-92

Blake, William, 215

Bodenheim, Maxwell, 272-75

Bontemps, Arna, 110-20

Boyle, Kay, 275-79

Braithwaite, William Stanley, 42-45

Brawley, Benjamin Griffith, 50

Brierre, Jean F., 369

Brooks, Gwendolyn, 188-92

Brooks, Jonathan Henderson, 133-36

Brown, Sterling A., 86-93

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 216-26

Bynner, Witter, 295

Camille, Roussan, 366-68

Campbell, George, 317

Cannon, David Wadsworth, Jr., 160

Carberry, H. D., 335-38

Cater, Catharine, 192

C6saire, Aime, 370

Christian, Marcus B., 83, 84

Coicou, Massillon, 67

Collins, Helen Johnson, 193

Collins, Leslie Morgan, 172

Collymore, Frank A., 347

Corbin, Alice, 247

Corrothers, James David, 21, 22

Cotter, James Seamon, Jr., 71, 72

Cotter, James Seamon, Sr., 14

Crane, Hart, 254

Cullen, Countee, 121-33

Cuney, Waring, 145-49

Curtright, Wesley, 159



4\6 AUTHOR INDEX

Dalcour, Pierre, 12

Damas, Lex>n, 371

Davis, Frank Marshall, 141-44

Dekny, Clarissa Scott, 94-96

Dismond, H. Binga, 67, 68

Dodson, Owen, 172-76

DuBois, William Edward Burghardt,

Duckett, Alfred, 202

Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 33-41

Durand, Oswald, 350-53

Fauset, Jessie Redmond, 65-67
Fletcher, John Gould, 255-57

Grimard, Luc, 355

Grimke, Angelina Weld, 47-49

Guillen, Nicolas, 374r-83

Hammon, Jupiter, 4
Harper, Frances E. W., 10, 11
Hayden, Robert E., 163-71
Hayes, Donald Jeffrey, 137-40
Heyward, Du Bose, 286
Hill, Leslie Pinckney, 46
Hollar, Constance, 322
Holloway, John Wesley, 17
Holloway, Lucy Ariel Williams, 144
Holman, Moses Carl, 203-7
Home, Frank, 76-83
Horton, George Moses, 9
Hughes, Langston, 97-108

Johnson, Dorothy Vena, 120
Johnson, Fenton, 61-64
Johnson, Georgia Douglas, 57-60
Johnson, Helene, 150-54
Johnson, Herbert Clark, 161, 162
Johnson, James Weldon, 23-33

Laluah, Aquah, 384r-86
Lanusse, Armand, 12
Latimer, Bette Darcie, 208
Leonard, William Ellery, 259-71
Lindsay, Vachel, 250-54
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 234
Lowell, James Russell, 238



AUTHOR INDEX 417



McClellan, George Marion, 22
McFarlane, Basil, 320
McFarlane, J. E. Claire, 321
McKay, Claude, 327-35
McKelway, St. Clair, 300-4'
Magil, A. B., 282
Mais, Roger, 323
Marson, Una M., 324, 325
MaxweU-HaU, Agnes, 310, 311
Melville, Herman, 246
Mendes, Catulle, 68
Miles, Josephine, 300
Morpeau, 'Louis, 354
Murphy, Beatrice M., 162
Murray, Pauli, 159

Nau, Ignace, 355
Nelson, Alice Dunbar, 41
Newsome, Effie Lee, 55, 56

O'Higgins, Myron, 194-99
Ormsby, Stephanie, 309

Patchen, Kenneth, 272

Pedroso, Regino, 372

Placido, 383

Porter, Kenneth, 299

Pressoir, Charles Fernand, 361-64

Redcam, Tom, 309

Roberts, Walter Adolphe, 311-17

Robinson, Edwin Arlington, 227-34

Rodman, Selden, 245, 292-94

Roumain, Jacques, 364-66

Roumer, Emile, 361

Rukeyser, Muriel, 280

Sandburg, Carl, 287

Seymour, A. J., 338-44

Shapiro, Karl, 283-85

Sherlock, Phillip M,, 320

Silvera, Edward S., 150

Simpson, Louis, 319

Spencer, Anne, 50-55

Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 239-43

Sylvain, Normil G., 359



418 AUTHOR INDEX

Telemaque, Harold Milton, 348-50
Terry, Lucy, 3

Thoby-Mareellin, PMHppe, 856-58
Token, Melvin Beaunearus, 72
Toomer, Jean, 68-71
Torrence, Ridgely, 257
Toussaint-L'Ouverture, Isaac, 353
Trott, Perient, 248

Vaughan, H. A., 346
Vaval, Duracine, 360
Virtue, Vivian L., 325-27

Walker, Margaret Abigail, 176-88
Wassal, Irma, 292
Werleigh, Christian, 358
West, Don, 297
Wheatley, PMlKs, 6, 7
Wheeler, Charles Enoch, 158
Whitman, Walt, 213-15
Whittier, John Greenleaf , 236
Witherspoon, Naomi Long, 207
Wordsworth, William, 226
Wright, Bruce McM., 200-2
Wright, Richard, 154-58



FIRST LINE INDEX



FIRST LINE INDEX

A blind girl singing on the radio, 292

A boy should have an open fireplace, 161

A Fancy halts my feet at the way-side well, 14

A glamor of regret is on the brown, 312

A silence slipping around like death, 47

A washing hangs on the line, 288

Above a rough altar, coarse cement all, 361

Against this wrong of the Teutonic might, 45

Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze, 154

Alarm and time clock still intrude too early, 205

Alas! and am I born for this, 9

All the time they were praying, 147

All through an empty place I go, 131

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, 331

Am I alone or is it you, my friend, 227

An angel, robed in spotless white, 34

And God stepped out on space, 28

And in strange lands, 336

And it's fare you well, fare you well, 168

And one morning while in the woods I stumbled suddenly upon the thing;

156

And so, when the time came, 347
As Lise however my mother was white, 352
At early mom the telephone, 68
At Lagos you knew sad faced girls, 364
At nine o'clock the bus snouts cityward, 319
August 'twas the twenty-fifth, 3

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root, 327

Because I had loved so deeply, 41

Because somewhere there was a man in a candystripe silk shirt, 164

Bend willow, willow bend down deep, 161

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 234

Black Crispus Attacks taught, 72

Black is what the prisons are, 201

Blackbird, blackbird in the cage, 257

Block the cannon; let no trumpets sound, 197

Bow down my soul in worship very low, 334

Brother come, 72

Brother to the firefly, 55

But in the crowding darkness not a word did they say, 190



422 FIRST UNE INDEX

Call it neither love nor spring madness, 159
Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light, 6
Cemeteries are places for departed souls, 110
Christ washed the feet of Judas!, 13
Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away, 60
Cuba, disheveled, naked to the waist, 316

Dark is the face of Harriet, 181

Dead men are far the wisest, for they know, 126

Deep in the woods well go, 159

Delphy's breast was wide and deep, 247

Dey was hard times jus f o* Christmas round our neighborhood one year, 22

Do you mind the news while we eat?, 320

"Do you not wish to renounce the Devil?, 12

Doubt no longer miracles, 111

Dressed up in my melancholy, 203

Drifting scent of the Georgia pines, 163

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, 98

Drum on your drums, batter on your banjoes, 287

Dry Gap a dingy general store, 160

Eagerly, 141

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, 39

Everything was wrong; the local slaves wore smiles, 245

Fade in the sound of summer music, 203

Faiths washed away, 356

Far from your native hills although you roam, 326

Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, 250

Father Missouri takes his own, 89

Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa, 53

Flushed with the hope of high desire, 50

For I am a rightful fellow of their band, 191

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs repeatedly, 186

Fo'ty acres jes' fo* me, 160

Full moon rising on the waters of my heart, 70

Gay little Girl-of-tfie-Diving-Tank, 52

Gleaning she goes down the far golden ways, 325

Go through the gates with closed eyes, 116

Golgotha is a mountain, a purple mound, 117

Gone, gonesold and gone, 236

Great Amazon of God behold your bread, 188

G'way an* quit that noise, Miss Lucy, 35

Have you dug the spill, 101

Having attained success in business, 143



FIRST LINE INDEX 423

He came, a youth, singing in the dawn, 21

He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black, 109

He entered with the authority of politeness, 284

He never spoke a word to me, 125

He snuggles his fingers, 86

He was born in Alabama, 189

He who has rolled his pants up to his knee, 161

Hello dar, Miss Melerleel, 17

Here at the crossroads is the night so black, 259

Here is the way the white man's heaven felt, 292

Here lies the street of the three balls, 193

Here where the pirate chieftains sailed, 309

Here's to your eyes, 78

HIGH-YELLOW of my heart, with breasts like tangerines, 361

His friends went off and left him dead, 133

Honey, 92

Honey, pepper, leaf -green limes, 310

How cool beneath this stone the soft moss lies, 174

How like the consummation and despair, 167

How tender the heart grows, 325

I am black and I have seen black hands, millions and millions of them, 154

I am so tired and weary, 71

I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's civilization, 62

I came as a shadow, 84

I closed my shutters fast last night, 59

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, 132

I dreamed all my fortitude screamed, 204

I greet you, son, with joy and winter rue, 135

I grieve to think of you alone, 137

I had no thought of violets of late, 41

I have a river in my mind, 172

I have a story fit to tell, 295

I have awakened from the unknowing to the knowing, 208

I have just seen a beautiful thing, 49

I have seen you suffer in the midst of winters, 369

I have sown beside all waters in my day, 110

I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, 125

I hear the halting footsteps of a lass, 331

I hold the splendid daylight in my hands, 317

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie, 67

I knock at the door of a romance, 381

I know what the caged bird feels, alas, 33

I ply with all the cunning of my art, 83

I remember distinctly the tired tumult of my urges, 200

I remember Wednesday was the day, 196

I, remembering how light love, 323



424 FIRST LINE INDEX

I return the bitterness, 85

I see her on a lonely forest track, 317

I see you in the silver, 56

I stand on the mark, beside the shore, 216

I stood in a meadow, 120

I talked to old Lem, 87

I thought I saw an angel flying low, 111

I, too, sing America, 97

I watched them playing there upon the sand, 294

If ever a garden was Gethsemane, 54

If ever I'd known Italy, 353

If here and now be but a timely span, 192

If the unfortunate fate engulfing me, 383

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, 66

If we must die, let it not be like hogs, 333

111 build a house of arrogance, 138

I'm folding up my little dreams, 60

In an envelope marked, 100

In the high, high grass of Guin6e, 363

In the narrow street, 338

In the tender spreading tropical mornings, 318

Into the furnace let me go alone, 333

Is it yourself he loves, 206

Tse got religion an* I doan care, 248

It is dangerous for a woman to defy the gods, 51

It is fitting that you be here, 76

It is said that many a king in troubled Europe would sell his crown for a

day of happiness, 61

It was water I was trying to think of all the time, 138
It's the long road to Guinea, 365
IVe known rivers, 105

Jesus* mother never had no man, 145 i

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, 239

Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail, 96

Lame man said to the blind man, 149

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, 39

Lazy petals of magnolia-bloom float down the sluggish river, 255

Let America be America again, 106

Let Bourbons fight for status quo, 67

Let de peoples know (unnh), 194

Let me be buried in the rain, 153

Let the knowing speak, 158

Let's build bridges here and there, 59

Let's not be slow in knowing, 162

Liberals raised this in their finest hour, 294



FIRST LINE INDEX 425

Life to the bigot is a whip, 120

Lif e-long, poor Browning never knew Virginia, 50

Lift every voice and sing, 32

"Light! more light I the shadows deepen, 11

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, 37

Long have I beat with timid hands upon life's leaden door, 58

Look at me. I am Ishmael, 346

Look, look! Day dies and the evening has come, 355

Looks like to me, 99

Lord, who am I to teach the way, 46

Lullaby, 290

Men! whose boast it is that ye, 238

My father is a quiet man, 129

My galleon of adventure, 313

My little stone, 79

My mother bore me in the southern wild, 215

My old man's a white old man, 103

My verses dream-rich and tender you've read, 358

My window opens out into the trees, 94

Negro, 374

Neither the teacher of the class nor the priest with his catechism can, 370

Night is a curious child, wandering, 141

Night's brittle song, silver-thin, 142

No rock along the road but knows, 137

None in the Land can say, 75

Not quite sixteen, 366

Not with my hands, 140

Now that our love has drifted, 146

Now the dead past seems vividly alive, 328

O black and unknown bards of long ago, 23

O brothers mine, today we stand, 25

O' de wurl' ain't flat, 144

O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears

an-hungered in these fearful days, 18
O, what would people say if you, 311
Oh, Captain of wide western seas, 309
Oh, full and soft, upon the orange trees, 311
Oh, let's fix us a julep and kick us a houn', 300
Oh! Little Girl!, 359

Oh My Beauty of Night! close, close quick your robe, 355
Oh, my mother's moaning by the river, 63
Oh soft flowing rivers, 297
Old Molly Means was a hag and a witch, 178
Old Uncle Jim was as blind as a mole, 247



426 FIRST LIKE INDEX

Omnipotent and steadfast God, 243

On a snug evening I shall watch, her fingers, 192

On a street in Knoxville, 299

On a train in Texas German prisoners eat, 295

On summer afternoons I sit, 65

Once I cried for new songs to sing, 142

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister^ wife, 61

Once more, listening to the wind and rain, 114

Once riding in old Baltimore, 128

Out of abysses of Illiteracy, 76

Outside wind heavy and wet, 356

Over Guiana, clouds, 338

Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake, 314

Peddling, 141

Please excuse this letter, 162

Poplars are standing there still as death, 113

Porgy, Maria, and Bess, 286

Pour O pour that parting soul in song, 68

Quadroon mermaids, Afro angels, saints, 165

Really I know, 371

Remember not the promises we made, 153

Sable is my throat, 248

Salvation comes by Christ alone, 4

Say, bud, ya got a cigarette, 207

Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright, 31

Seen my lady home las* night, 34

She does not know, 145

She even thinks that up in heaven, 128

She said, "Not only music; brave men marching, 136

She was a little girl who smelled, 379

Shores of my native land, 353

Since men grow diffident at last, 130

Sleep late with your dream, 176

Slowly the night blooms, unfurling, 143

Slowly we learn; the oft repeated line, 321

So detached and cool she is, 94

So long, 102

So much have I forgotten in ten years, 334

Some are teethed on a silver spoon, 128

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves, 327

Some things are very dear to me, 109

Somebody, 196



FIRST LINE INDEX 427

State Street is lonely today. Aunt Jane Allen has driven her chariot to

heaven, 62

Still, it is dear defiance now to carry, 190
Summer comes, 152
Summer matures. Brilliant Scorpion, 150

Terror does not belong to open day, 174

That bright chimeric beast, 126

That night my angel stooped and strained, 134

The bloodhounds look like sad old judges, 272

The calabash wherein she served my food, 385

The centuries-old pathos in our voices, 73

The cotton blouse you wear, your mother said, 84

The dew is on the grasses, dear, 57

The dream is a cocktail at Sloppy Joe's, 100

The elevator rises. Negro men, 274

The evening star that in the vaulted skies, 12

The glory of the day was in her face, 30

The god spoke once that made your girdle fall, 293

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, 57

The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, covered
with sweat, 213

The House of Falling Leaves we entered in, 42

The hunted hare seeks out some dark retreat, 324

The interests of a black man in a cellar, 254

The judge who lives impeccably upstairs, 285

The little birches haunt the hills, 56

The loose eyes of an old man, 272

The moonlight breaks upon the city's domes, 330

The morning's moist and fog-veiled, 358

The Negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags under-
neath on its tied-over chain, 214

The New Negro strides upon the continent, 74

The new-washed moon drew up from the sea's dark rim, 326

The night was made for rest and sleep, 96

The Philippines were drenched in sun, 202

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, 213

The sale beganyoung girls were there, 10

The scent of jasmines in the sultry air, 312

The season of love, 357

The siren cries that ran like mad and naked screaming women, 167

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue, 70

The sky was blue, so blue, that day, 47

The snow cannot melt too soon for the birds left behind, 173

The soft gray hands of sleep, 150

The souls of black and white were made, 385

The South is green with coming spring: revival, 280



428 FIRST LINE INDEX

The starshine on the Arch is silver white, 313

The sufferance of her race is shown, 246

The time has come to call a halt, 289

The wind is blowing from the hill, 346

The wise guys, 77

Then the golden hour, 114

There is a mystic splendor that one feels, 345

There is a tree, by day, 49

There is music in me, the music of a peasant people, 61

There is no peace with you, 65

There was a man, 14

These are not words set down for the rejected, 275

They are ours; we claim them and we claim, 282

They came from Persia to the Sacred Way, 315

They have dreamed as young men dreamed, 58

They hunt chameleon worlds with cameras, 349

They say La Jac Brite Pink Skin Bleach avails not, 300

They tell us to forget, 73

This city is the child of France and Spain, 316

This is no dreamworld, no nightmare country, no landscape, 164

This is the final man, 320

This is the song I rested with, 287

Though he hung dumb upon her wall, 135

Thy various works, imperial queen, we see, 7

To climb a hill that hungers for the sky, 151

To fling my arms wide, 97

To intoxicate you with the wine of things, 360

Tonight, 380

Too green the springing April grass, 329

Tourists in the courtyard, 374

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men, 226

Traveller take heed for journeys undertaken in the dark of the year, 176

Twas Summer I recall, 357

Two women on the lone wet strand, 42

Until yesterday I was polite and peaceful, 372

Until your laughter, 158

Upstood upstaffed passing sinuously away over an airy arch, 208

Walk with the sun, 85

Way Down South in Dixie, 103

We are not come to wage a strife, 119

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan, 188

We have been believers believing in the black gods of an old land, 180

We have neither Summer nor Winter, 335

We saw a bloody sunset over Courtland, once Jerusalem, 90

We shall not always plant while others reap, 132



FIRST LINE INDEX 429



We waged a war within a war, 283

Weep not, 146

Weeps out of Kansas country something new, 191

Well, son, 111 teU you, 104

What bullet killed him?, 376

What is Africa to me, 121

What's that shining in the leaves, 291

When all our hopes are sown on strong ground, 119

When I am in my grave, 148

When I come down to sleep death's endless night, 32

When I die my song shall be, 63

When I think of it all I am so sad, 350

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful, 171

When love's brief dream is done, 57

When the green lies over the earth, my dear, 48

When you dance, 172

Where are we to go when this is done?, 202

Where is the Jim Crow section, 104

Wherefore this busy labor without rest, 46

White magic of the silences of snow, 43

Who are these among you, 175

Who are you dusky women, so ancient hardly human, 214

Who danced Saturday mornings, 348

Who is that a-walking in the corn?, 64

With the hooves of a doe, 304

Within a native hut, ere stirred the dawn, 384

Within the cage he ramped and raged, 322

Within this black hive tonight, 69

You burned the dawn, 377

You came like the dawn, 150

You have been good to me, I give you this, 116

You will come back to me, 380

Your door is shut against my tightened face, 332

Your downcast, harlequin, defenceless face, 273

Your heart trembles in the shadows, like a face, 364

Your park's like a Gothic Cathedral to me, 354

Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, 329




c z






128636

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Full text of "The Poetry Of The Negro 1746 1949"

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
s 811,08 H893p * 55-01^58 ' public This Volime is for REFERENCE USE ONLY If t At l^rlr^wwfwf^^^ KANSAS CITY. MO PUBLIC LIBRARY a DDOi ^s^fl7^ THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO 1746-1949 THE POETRY OF THE NEGRO 1746-1949 AN ANTHOLOGY EDITED BY LANGSTON HUGHES AND ARNA BONTEMPS DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC, 1951 GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1949, BY LANGSTON HUGHES AND ARNA BONTEMPS ALL PJGHTS RESERVED PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.

# data[].attributes.body
This was a lullaby called Go to Sleepy which was part of the Southern Mosaic, which was a collection of about 700 sound recordings all from the Harlem Renaissance.  These songs represent the traditional music from the south during the time period.  (Casey Ryan)

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Rights assessment is your responsibility.

The Library of Congress is providing access to these materials for educational and research purposes and makes no warranty with regard to their use for other purposes. The written permission of the copyright owners and/or other rights holders (such as holders of publicity and/or privacy rights) is required for distribution, reproduction, or other use of protected items beyond that allowed by fair use or other statutory exemptions. There may be content that is protected as "works for hire" (copyright may be held by the party that commissioned the original work) and/or under the copyright or neighboring-rights laws of other nations.

Responsibility for making an independent legal assessment of an item and securing any necessary permission ultimately rests with persons desiring to use the item. Users should consult the bibliographic information that accompanies each item for specific information. This catalog data provides the details known to the Library of Congress regarding the corresponding items and may assist users in making independent assessments of the legal status of these items as related to their desired uses.

Items included here with the permission of the rights holders are indicated as such in the bibliographic record for each item.

In some cases, the Library was unable to identify a possible rights holder and has elected to place some of those items online as an exercise of fair use for strictly non-commercial educational uses. The Library of Congress would like to learn more about these materials and would like to hear from individuals or institutions that have any additional information or know of their history. Please contact: Performing Arts Reading Room.

Suggested credit line: Library of Congress.

The Library of Congress is not aware of any U.S. copyright protection (see Title 17, U.S.C.) or any other restrictions in the material in this collection, except as noted below. Users should keep in mind that the Library of Congress is providing access to these materials strictly for educational and research purposes. The written permission of the copyright owners and/or other holders of rights (such as publicity and/or privacy rights) is required for distribution, reproduction, or other use of protected items beyond that allowed by fair use or other statutory exemptions. Responsibility for making an independent legal assessment of an item and securing any necessary permissions ultimately rests with persons desiring to use the item. See our Legal Notices and Privacy and Publicity Rights for additional information and restrictions.

The Center asks that researchers approach the materials in this collection with respect for the culture and sensibilities of the people whose lives, ideas, and creativity are documented here. Researchers are also reminded that privacy and publicity rights may pertain to certain uses of this material.

A small subset the sound recordings in this collection are not included in this online presentation because there is a strong possibility that there may be underlying rights in musical lyrics or compositions. Researchers with an interest or need to review the entire body of material are encouraged to contact the American Folklife Center: Those song titles not included are:

Bull-Cow Blues

Don't You Leave Me Here

Everybody's Down on Me

Little Log Cabin

Louise

Maria

Springtime in the Rockies

Credit line
John and Ruby Lomax 1939 southern states recording trip (AFC 1939/001), American Folklife Center, Library of Congress

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Rights assessment is your responsibility. The Library of Congress is providing access to these materials for educational and research purposes and makes no warranty with regard to their use for other purposes.

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During his lifetime, Langston Hughes was a leader in all art forms regarding  the daily struggles that African Americans faced. He produced  poetry, plays , and literature.

Liam Campanile

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Olivia Carnevale-
This picture is of the restored stairway at the Lincoln Theater in Washington, DC. This theater was very important as many famous artists preformed there regularly such as Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday. The theater was built in 1922 and was a very important place that was significant to the African- American cultural renaissance.

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Rights assessment is your responsibility.

The Library of Congress does not own rights to material in its collections. Therefore, it does not license or charge permission fees for use of such material and cannot grant or deny permission to publish or otherwise distribute the material.

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For information about reproducing, publishing, and citing material from this collection, as well as access to the original items, see: Carol M. Highsmith - Rights and Restrictions Information

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Rights Advisory: No known restrictions on publication.

Reproduction Number: LC-DIG-highsm-18250 (digital file from original) LC-HS503-6751 (color film transparency)

Call Number: LC-HS503- 6751 (ONLINE) [P&P]

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# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Stairway at the restored Lincoln Theatre, Washington, D.C.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Rights assessment is your responsibility. The Library of Congress does not own rights to material in its collections. Therefore, it does not license or charge permission fees for use of such material and cannot grant or deny permission to publish or otherwise distribute the material.

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Born on May 25, 1878, in Richmond, Virginia, Robinson invented a new way to tap, transforming it from a flat-footed dance to a style that pushed the performer to his toes. Many of Robinson's steps, including the famous "stair dance," are commonly used today.Posted by Joe Lotano

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Robert Blackburn was an artist who studied under Charles Alston and was influenced by Mexican muralists. He created this piece with charcoal, ink, and graphite in 1936. Blackburn made this piece with the theme of African Americans historically being "burden carriers."

Jessica Fritz

# data[].attributes.headline
W.E.B. DuBois, an African-American sociologist, writer and activist during this time period, insisted that the focus of art in Harlem should solely be used for political agenda (in reference to the Civil Rights Movement). He once said, "I do not give a damn for any art that is not used for political propaganda."

# data[].attributes.subject
W.E.B. DuBois, an African-American sociologist, writer and activist during this time period, insisted that the focus of art in Harlem should solely be used for political agenda (in reference to the Civil Rights Movement). He once said, "I do not give a damn for any art that is not used for political propaganda."

# data[].attributes.body
-Dean Pucciarelli

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Published in 1900 by Lyman Frank Baum is the first American fairy tale to enjoy immediate success upon publication. When Baum died in 1919, the series lived on under the authorship of Ruth Plumly Thompson and others who themselves had loves the stories as a child.
Sean Dwyer

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Imagination Gallery B - American Treasures of the Library of Congress | Exhibitions - Library of Congress

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American Treasures selections on literature, fine art, book art and typography, domestic arts, popular literature, recreation and sports.

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Hurston was a novelist of the Harlem Renaissance concerned with accurately representing and preserving Southern black culture. This is a recording she made of a blues song by Gabriel Brown (Florida, 1935).

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About this Item

Title

John Henry

Contributor Names

Brown, Gabriel (performer)

Hurston, Zora Neale (recordist)

Lomax, Alan -- 1915-2002 (recordist)

Barnicle, Mary Elizabeth -- 1891-1978 (recordist)

Subject Headings

- Blues (Music)

- Ballads

- Songs, American

- African Americans

- Folk songs--United States

- Florida

Notes

- Alan Lomax, Zora Neale Hurston, and Mary Elizabeth Barnicle Expedition Collection. (source)

- 1935. (date)

Form

sound recording

Extent

1 disc.

Repository

American Folklife Center

LC Classification

AFC 2935/001: AFS 00355 A and B

Online Format

audio

Description

Sung and played on guitar by Gabriel Brown. Long blues instrumental, with only one verse of the ballad sung. Recorded by Zora Neale Hurston, Eatonville, Florida, 1935. Alan Lomax, Zora Neale Hurston, and Mary Elizabeth Barnicle Expedition Collection. sound recording | 1 disc. | Alan Lomax, Zora Neale Hurston, and Mary Elizabeth Barnicle Expedition Collection. (Source). 1935. (Date). Sound Recording (Form).

Additional Metadata Formats

METSXML Record

Rights assessment is your responsibility.

The Library of Congress is providing access to these materials for educational and research purposes and makes no warranty with regard to their use for other purposes. The written permission of the copyright owners and/or other rights holders (such as holders of publicity and/or privacy rights) is required for distribution, reproduction, or other use of protected items beyond that allowed by fair use or other statutory exemptions. There may be content that is protected as "works for hire" (copyright may be held by the party that commissioned the original work) and/or under the copyright or neighboring-rights laws of other nations.

Responsibility for making an independent legal assessment of an item and securing any necessary permission ultimately rests with persons desiring to use the item. Users should consult the bibliographic information that accompanies each item for specific information. This catalog data provides the details known to the Library of Congress regarding the corresponding items and may assist users in making independent assessments of the legal status of these items as related to their desired uses.

Items included here with the permission of the rights holders are indicated as such in the bibliographic record for each item.

In some cases, the Library was unable to identify a possible rights holder and has elected to place some of those items online as an exercise of fair use for strictly non-commercial educational uses. The Library of Congress would like to learn more about these materials and would like to hear from individuals or institutions that have any additional information or know of their history. Please contact: Performing Arts Reading Room.

Suggested credit line: Library of Congress.

More about Copyright and other Restrictions

For guidance about compiling full citations consult Citing Primary Sources.

Citations are generated automatically from bibliographic data as a convenience, and may not be complete or accurate.

Chicago citation style:

Brown, Gabriel, Zora Neale Hurston, Alan Lomax, and Mary Elizabeth Barnicle. John Henry. Audio. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200196392/. (Accessed April 17, 2017.)

APA citation style:

Brown, G., Hurston, Z. N., Lomax, A. & Barnicle, M. E. John Henry. [Audio] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200196392/.

MLA citation style:

Brown, Gabriel, et al. John Henry. Audio. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200196392/>.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Sung and played on guitar by Gabriel Brown. Long blues instrumental, with only one verse of the ballad sung. Recorded by Zora Neale Hurston, Eatonville, Florida, 1935. Alan Lomax, Zora Neale Hurston, and Mary Elizabeth Barnicle Expedition Collection. sound recording | 1 disc. | Alan Lomax, Zora Neale Hurston, and Mary Elizabeth Barnicle Expedition Collection.