The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 18

O whisper, O my soul!--the afternoon Is waning into evening--whisper soft!

Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon From out its misty veil will swing aloft!

Be patient, weary body, soon the night Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite To rest thy tired hands and aching feet.

The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast.

But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine?

O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest!

Weary my veins, my brain, my life,--have pity!

No! Once again the hard, the ugly city.

THE BARRIER

I must not gaze at them although Your eyes are dawning day; I must not watch you as you go Your sun-illumined way;

I hear but I must never heed The fascinating note, Which, fluting like a river-reed, Comes from your trembling throat;

I must not see upon your face Love's softly glowing spark; For there's the barrier of race, You're fair and I am dark.

TO O. E. A.

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, s.h.i.+ning 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, All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your birth: O I love you so much, not recking of pa.s.sion, that I feel it is wrong, But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with flesh, Forever, life-long.

FLAME-HEART

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; Forgotten is the special, startling season Of some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting, 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 gra.s.s, But I cannot bring back to mind just 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 bye road mazing from the main, Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple: I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

What weeks, what months, what time o' 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 pa.s.sion 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.

TWO-AN'-SIX

Merry voices chatterin', Nimble feet dem patterin', Big an' little, faces gay, Happy day dis market day.

Sateday, de marnin' break, Soon, soon market-people wake; An' de light s.h.i.+ne from de moon While dem boy, wid pantaloon Roll up ober dem knee-pan, 'Tep across de buccra lan'

To de pastur whe' de ha.r.s.e Feed along wid de jacka.s.s, An' de mule cant' in de track Wid him tail up in him back, All de ketchin' to defy, No ca' how dem boy might try.

In de early marnin'-tide, When de c.o.c.ks crow on de hill An' de stars are s.h.i.+nin' still, Mirrie by de fireside Hots de coffee for de lads Comin' ridin' on de pads T'rown across dem animul-- Donkey, ha.r.s.e too, an' de mule, Which at last had come do'n cool.

On de bit dem hol' dem full: Racin' ober pastur' lan', See dem comin' ebery man, Comin' fe de steamin' tea Ober hilly track an' lea.

Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road Trottin' wid him ushal load, Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain, Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane.

Cous' Sun sits in hired dray, Drivin' 'long de market way; Whole week grindin' sugar cane T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain, Now, a'ter de toilin' hard, He goes seekin' his reward, While he's thinkin' in him min'

Of de dear ones lef behin', Of de loved though ailin' wife, Darlin' treasure of his life, An' de picknies, six in all, Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall: Seben lovin' ones in need, Seben hungry mouths fe feed; On deir wants he thinks alone, Neber dreamin' of his own, But gwin' on wid joyful face Till him re'ch de market-place.

Sugar bears no price to-day, Though it is de mont' o' May, When de time is h.e.l.lish hot, An' de water cocoanut An' de cane bebridge is nice, Mix' up wid a lilly ice.

Big an' little, great an' small, Afou yam is all de call; Sugar tup an' gill a quart, Yet de people hab de heart Wantin' brater top o' i', Want de sweatin' higgler fe Ram de pan an' pile i' up, Yet sell i' fe so-so tup.

Cousin Sun is lookin' sad, As de market is so bad; 'Pon him han' him res' him chin, Quietly sit do'n thinkin'

Of de loved wife sick in bed, An' de children to be fed-- What de laborers would say When dem know him couldn' pay; Also what about de mill Whe' him hire from ole Bill; So him think, an' think on so, Till him t'oughts no more could go.

Then he got up an' began Pickin' up him sugar-pan: In his ears rang t'rough de din "Only two-an'-six a tin'."

What a tale he'd got to tell, How bad, bad de sugar sell!

Tekin' out de lee amount, Him set do'n an' begin count All de time him min' deh doubt How expenses would pay out; Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks, Sugar sell fe two-an'-six!

So he journeys on de way, Feelinl sad dis market day; No e'en buy a little cake To gi'e baby when she wake,-- Pa.s.sin' 'long de candy-shop 'Douten eben mek a stop To buy drops fe las'y son, For de lilly cash nea' done.

So him re'ch him own a groun', An' de children scamper roun', Each one stretchin' out him han', Lookin' to de poor sad man.

Oh, how much he felt de blow, As he watched dem face fall low, When dem wait an' nuttin' came An' drew back deir han's wid shame!

But de sick wife kissed his brow: "Sun, don't get down-hearted now; Ef we only pay expense We mus' wuk we common-sense, Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut, Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut; We mus' try mek two ends meet Neber mind how hard be it.

We won't mind de haul an' pull, While dem pickny belly full."

An' de shadow lef' him face, An' him felt an inward peace, As he blessed his better part For her sweet an' gentle heart: "Dear one o' my heart, my breat', Won't I lub you to de deat'?

When my heart is weak an' sad, Who but you can mek it glad?"

So dey kissed an' kissed again, An' deir t'oughts were not on pain, But was 'way down in de sout'

Where dey'd wedded in deir yout', In de marnin' of deir life Free from all de grief an' strife, Happy in de marnin' light, Never thinkin' of de night.

So dey k'lated eberyt'ing; An' de profit it could bring, A'ter all de business fix', Was a princely two-an'-six.

Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.

A PRAYER

As I lie in bed, Flat on my back; There pa.s.ses across my ceiling An endless panorama of things-- Quick steps of gay-voiced children, Adolescence in its wondering silences, Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve, Women in the holy glow of Motherhood, Old men gazing silently thru the twilight Into the beyond.

O G.o.d, give me words to make my dream-children live.

AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY?

Brother, come!

And let us go unto our G.o.d.

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?