Poetry

epub:type="title">The Last Feast of Belshazzar

The jeweled entrails of pomegranates bled on the marble floor.
The jewel-heart of a virgin broke at the golden door.
The laughter of a drunken lord hid the sob of a silken whore.

Mene,
Wrote a strange hand,
Mene Tekel Upharsin⁠—
And Death stood at the door.

Young Prostitute

Her dark brown face
Is like a withered flower
On a broken stem.
Those kind come cheap in Harlem
So they say.

Jazzonia

Oh, silver tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

In a Harlem cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.

Oh, singing tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

Were Eve’s eyes
In the first garden
Just a bit too bold?
Was Cleopatra gorgeous
In a gown of gold?

Oh, shining tree!
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!

In a whirling cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.

Shadows

We run,
We run,
We cannot stand these shadows!
Give us the sun.

We were not made
For shade,
For heavy shade,
And narrow space of stifling air
That these white things have made.
We run,
Oh, God,
We run!
We must break through these shadows,
We must find the sun.

Cabaret

Does a jazz-band ever sob?
They say a jazz-band’s gay.
Yet as the vulgar dancers whirled
And the wan night wore away,
One said she heard the jazz-band sob
When the little dawn was grey.

Winter Moon

How thin and sharp is the moon tonight!
How thin and sharp and ghostly white
Is the slim curved crook of the moon tonight!

Young Singer

One who sings “chansons vulgaires”
In a Harlem cellar
Where the jazz-band plays
From dark to dawn
Would not understand
Should you tell her
That she is like a nymph
For some wild faun.

Prayer Meeting

Glory! Halleluiah!
De dawn’s a-comin’!
Glory! Halleluiah!
De dawn’s a-comin’!
A black old woman croons
In the amen-corner of the
Ebecanezer Baptist Church.
A black old woman croons⁠—
De dawn’s a-comin’!

Poem

The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people.

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

The Little Frightened Child

A little southern colored child comes to a northern school and is afraid to play with the white children.

At first they are nice to him, but finally they taunt him and call him “nigger.”

The colored children hate him after a while, too.

He is a little dark boy with a round black face and a white embroidered collar.

One might make a story out of this tiny frightened child.

My Beloved

Shall I make a record of your beauty?
Shall I write words about you?
Shall I make a poem that will live a thousand years and paint you in the poem?

The White Ones

I do not hate you,
For your faces are beautiful, too.
I do not hate you,
Your faces are whirling lights of loveliness and splendor, too.
Yet why do you torture me,
O, white strong ones,
Why do you torture me?

Grant Park

The haunting face of poverty,
The hands of pain,
The rough, gargantuan feet of fate,
The nails of conscience in a soul
That didn’t want to do wrong⁠—
You can see what they’ve done
To brothers of mine
In one back-yard of Fifth Avenue.
You can see what they’ve done
To brothers of mine⁠—
Sleepers on iron benches
Behind the Library in Grant Park.

Gods

The ivory gods,
And the ebony gods,
And the gods of diamond and jade,
Sit silently on their temple shelves
While the people
Are afraid.
Yet the ivory gods,
And the ebony gods,
And the gods of diamond-jade,
Are only silly puppet gods
That the people themselves
Have made.

Fire-Caught

The gold moth did not love him
So, gorgeous, she flew away.
But the gray moth circled the flame
Until the break of day.
And then, with wings like a dead desire,
She fell, fire-caught, into the fire.

Song for a Suicide

Oh, the sea is deep
And a knife is sharp
And a poison acid burns;
But they all bring rest
In a deep, long sleep
For which the tired soul yearns⁠—
They all bring rest in a nothingness
From where no road returns.

Prayer for a Winter Night

O, Great God of Cold and Winter,
Wrap the earth in an icy blanket
And freeze the poor in their beds.
All those who haven’t enough cover
To keep them warm,
Nor food enough to keep them strong⁠—
Freeze, dear God.
Let their limbs grow stiff
And their hearts cease to beat,
Then tomorrow
They’ll wake up in some rich kingdom of nowhere
Where nothingness is everything and
Everything is nothingness.

Lament for Dark Peoples

I was a red man one time,
But the white men came.
I was a black man, too,
But the white men came.

They drove me out of the forest.
They took me away from the jungles.
I lost my trees.
I lost my silver moons.

Now they’ve caged me
In the circus of civilization.
Now I herd with the many⁠—
Caged in the circus of civilization.

Fascination

Her teeth are as white as the meat of an apple,
Her lips are like dark ripe plums.
I love her.
Her hair is a midnight mass, a dusky aurora.
I love her.
And because her skin is the brown of an oak leaf in autumn, but a softer color,
I want to kiss her.

Poem

We have tomorrow
Bright before us
Like a flame.

Yesterday, a night-gone thing,
A sun-down name.

And dawn-today
Broad arch above the road we came.

We march.

Mammy

I’m waiting for ma mammy⁠—
She is Death.

Say it very softly.
Say it very slowly if you choose.

I’m waiting for ma mammy⁠—
Death.

Dream Variation

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

Afraid

We cry among the skyscrapers
As our ancestors
Cried among the palms in Africa
Because we are alone,
It is night,
And we’re afraid.