Part 10

Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite Who smiles from dawn till dark, As lovely as a summer night And carefree as a lark.

RICHARD BRUCE

I was born in Washington, D. C., on the second of July, 1906, and have never ceased to marvel at the fact. After attending public school with very good marks (I was thrashed if I did not lead my class), I attended Dunbar High School of the same city. When I was thirteen my father died, my greatest impression being the crowded church and the vault. Mother left Washington for New York where my brother and I joined her in a few months. New York was an adventure and still is. A glorious something torn from a novel. Even the first hard winter with mother ill and my feet on the ground was just a part of it. My gathering bits of fur to paste on newspaper to cut out for inner soles for my shoes, the walking to work to save carfare, and getting lunch as best I could, all seemed romantic and highly colored. Weren’t there theatres and lights, Broadway, Fifth Avenue ... and lights? Noise and bustle and high silk hats and flowers in pots in the Bowery. Hobble cars creeping like caterpillars up Broadway. Taxis and people and forty-second street. Traffic towers and tall buildings. Wasn’t this New York? A year later I discovered Harlem. I was at that time an art apprentice at seven fifty a week. But that was too little money. So I became in turn errand boy for ten dollars, bell hop in an all-women’s hotel for eleven fifty-five, eighteen with tips, secretary and confidence man for a modiste for twenty-five, ornamental iron-worker and designer for twenty-eight, and elevator operator for thirty. Then I had the mumps and despite the glamor of New York, I wanted to go, just go somewhere. So I went to Panama working my way. Then New York again and a costume design class. A visit home to D. C. where I met Langston Hughes. _Opportunity_ accepted my first poem. Washington for eleven months then New York again. I arrived penniless and have remained so. Dilatory jobs, trips to New England, Florida, California and Canada, but always New York again. The few drawings and sketches made on these trips were either destroyed, lost, or given away en route. I began to write seriously and to paint just as seriously; I entered contests but never won. I am still penniless and happy and planning to go to Paris and Vienna by hook or crook.

SHADOW

Silhouette On the face of the moon Am I. A dark shadow in the light. A silhouette am I On the face of the moon Lacking color Or vivid brightness But defined all the clearer Because I am dark, Black on the face of the moon. A shadow am I Growing in the light, Not understood as is the day, But more easily seen Because I am a shadow in the light.

CAVALIER

Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine, Prepare the feast and pearl the wine. Bring on the best! Bring on the bard, Bring on the rest. Let nought retard Nor yet distress with putrid breath, My new mistress, My Lady Death.

WARING CUNEY

Waring Cuney was born in Washington, D. C., May 6, 1906. He received his education in the public schools of that city and at Howard University. Later he attended Lincoln University, and while there sang in the Glee Club and the quartet. His work with these groups encouraged him to study music and he is now studying voice at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. His first published poem was “No Images” which won first award in the _Opportunity_ contest of 1926. Since then he has continued to write and his poems have appeared in _Opportunity_, Braithwaite’s _Anthology_, _The Forum_, and _Palms_.

THE DEATH BED

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 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.

A TRIVIALITY

Not to dance with her Was such a trivial thing

There were girls more fair than she,--

To-day Ten girls dressed in white. Each had a white rose wreath.

They made a dead man’s arch And ten strong men Carried a body through.

Not to dance with her Was a trivial thing.

I THINK I SEE HIM THERE

I think I see Him there With a stern dream on his face

I see Him there--

Wishing they would hurry The last nail in place.

And I wonder, had I been there, Would I have doubted too

Or would the dream have told me, What this man speaks is true.

DUST

Dust,

Through which Proud blood Once flowed.

Dust,

Where a civilization Flourished.

Dust, The Valley of the Nile, Dust,

You proud ones, proud of the skill With which you play this game--Civilization; Do not forget that it is a very old game. Men used to play it on the banks Of the Tigris and the Euphrates When the world was a wilderness.

There is a circle around China Where once a wall stood. Carthage is a heap of ashes. And Rome knew the pomp and glory You know now.

The Coliseum tells a story The Woolworth Building may repeat.

Dust, Pharaohs and their armies sleep there.

Dust, Shall it stir again?

Will Pharaohs rise and rule And their armies march once more?

_Civilization continually shifts Upon the places of the earth._

NO IMAGES

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 RADICAL

Men never know What they are doing. They always make a muddle Of their affairs, They always tie their affairs Into a knot They cannot untie. Then I come in Uninvited. They do not ask me in; I am the radical, The bomb thrower, I untie the knot That they have made, And they never thank me.

TRUE LOVE

Her love is true I know, Much more true Than angel’s love; For angels love in heaven Where a thousand harps Are playing.

She loves in a tenement Where the only music She hears Is the cry of street car brakes And the toot of automobile horns And the drip of a kitchen spigot All day. Her love is true I know.

EDWARD S. SILVERA

I was born in Florida in the year 1906--moved to Orange, N. J., at an early age--graduated from Orange High School in 1924--am now a Junior at Lincoln University, Pennsylvania. Here I am a member of the varsity basket-ball and tennis teams and a member of Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity.

I get a great deal of pleasure out of observing life and then writing about it just as I see it.

SOUTH STREET

(Philadelphia, Pa.)

South Street is not beautiful, But the songs of people there Hold the beauty of the jungle, And the fervidness of prayer.

South Street has no mansions, But the hands of South Street men Built pyramids along the Nile That Time has failed to rend.

South Street is America, Breast of the foster mother Where a thousand ill-kept children Vie for suck, with one another.

JUNGLE TASTE

There is a coarseness In the songs of black men Coarse as the songs Of the sea, There is a weird strangeness In the songs of black men Which sounds not strange To me.

There is beauty In the faces of black women, Jungle beauty And mystery Dark hidden beauty In the faces of black women, Which only black men See.

HELENE JOHNSON

Helene Johnson was born twenty years ago in Boston, Mass., where she received her early education and attended Boston University for a short time. A year ago she came to New York to attend the Extension Division of Columbia University. Her work has appeared in _Opportunity_, _Vanity Fair_ and several New York dailies; and has been reprinted in _Palms_, _The Literary Digest_, and Braithwaite’s _Anthology_.

WHAT DO I CARE FOR MORNING

What do I care for morning, For a shivering aspen tree, For sun flowers and sumac Opening greedily? What do I care for morning, For the glare of the rising sun, For a sparrow’s noisy prating, For another day begun? Give me the beauty of evening, The cool consummation of night, And the moon like a love-sick lady, Listless and wan and white. Give me a little valley Huddled beside a hill, Like a monk in a monastery, Safe and contented and still, Give me the white road glistening, A strand of the pale moon’s hair, And the tall hemlocks towering Dark as the moon is fair. Oh what do I care for morning, Naked and newly born-- Night is here, yielding and tender-- What do I care for dawn!

SONNET TO A NEGRO IN HARLEM

You are disdainful and magnificent-- Your perfect body and your pompous gait, Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate, Small wonder that you are incompetent To imitate those whom you so despise-- Your shoulders towering high above the throng, Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song, Palm trees and mangoes stretched before your eyes. Let others toil and sweat for labor’s sake And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold. Why urge ahead your supercilious feet? Scorn will efface each footprint that you make. I love your laughter arrogant and bold. You are too splendid for this city street!

SUMMER MATURES

Summer matures. Brilliant Scorpion Appears. The Pelican’s thick pouch Hangs heavily with perch and slugs. 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.

POEM

Little brown boy, Slim, dark, big-eyed, Crooning love songs to your banjo Down at the Lafayette-- Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head, High sort of and a bit to one side, Like a prince, a jazz prince. And I love Your eyes flashing, and your hands, And your patent-leathered feet, And your shoulders jerking the jig-wa. And I love your teeth flashing, And the way your hair shines in the spotlight Like it was the real stuff. Gee, brown boy, I loves you all over. I’m glad I’m a jig. I’m glad I can Understand your dancin’ and your Singin’, and feel all the happiness And joy and don’t care in you. Gee, boy, when you sing, I can close my ears And hear tom toms just as plain. Listen to me, will you, what do I know About tom toms? But I like the word, sort of, Don’t you? It belongs to us. Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head, And the way you sing, and dance, And everything. Say, I think you’re wonderful. You’re Allright with me, You are.

FULFILLMENT

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.

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.

THE ROAD

Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze, A leaping clay hill lost among the trees, The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrush Caught in a drowsy hush 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!

BOTTLED

Upstairs on the third floor Of the 135th Street library In Harlem, I saw a little Bottle of sand, brown sand Just like the kids make pies Out of down at the beach. But the label said: “This Sand was taken from the Sahara desert.” Imagine that! The Sahara desert! Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand.

And yesterday on Seventh Avenue I saw a darky dressed fit to kill In yellow gloves and swallow tail coat And swirling a cane. And everyone Was laughing at him. Me too, At first, till I saw his face When he stopped to hear a Organ grinder grind out some jazz. Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face! It just shone. Gee, he was happy! And he began to dance. No Charleston or Black Bottom for him. No sir. He danced just as dignified And slow. No, not slow either. Dignified and _proud_! You couldn’t Call it slow, not with all the Cuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him.

The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear, Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane And yellin’ out loud every once in a while. I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo. But say, I was where I could see his face, And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle, A real honest-to-cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t have on them Trick clothes--those yaller shoes and yaller gloves And swallow-tail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing. And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane. He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point Like the bayonets we had “over there.” And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and gleaming. And he’d have rings in his ears and on his nose And bracelets and necklaces of elephants’ teeth. Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right. No one would laugh at him then, I bet. Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library, That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him. Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything--all glass-- But inside-- Gee, that poor shine!

MAGALU

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. 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?

WESLEY CURTWRIGHT

Wesley Curtwright was born in Brunswick, Georgia, on November 30, 1910, but he knows as little about Georgia, perhaps, as about any state in the South. Immediately after his father’s death in 1913, he began a disjointed tour of the land. He has “broken out in spots” of a dozen states both South and North, attending at intervals various schools. He lives in New York at present and has lived there three years. He is attending Harlem Academy, a small private school. He has contributed to _Opportunity_ and _The Messenger_.

THE CLOSE OF DAY

“To meet and then to part,” and that is all, To slowly turn an album’s crusty leaves, To see the faces and the scenes recall, Are things that in a lifetime one achieves.

To wander down a broad-arch gallery, Viewing the scenes from life on either side, Pressed forward with the force of years to see But part of every picture when espied.

The big sun in its blue dome keeps its course, Without a falter moves upon its way. So human life, returning to its source, Is overtaken by the close of day. To dream, and being rudely waked from thought, Return to peaceful dreaming dearly bought.

LULA LOWE WEEDEN

Lula Lowe Weeden was born in Lynchburg, Va., Feb. 4, 1918. Her mother, Mrs. Lula L. Weeden, herself a poet of ability, writes of this youngest of Negro singers: “She is a very close observer. Each flower in my garden she knows. Sometimes she counts each bloom, lingering over those she likes most.

“Each one of my children is very distinct in her make up. Lula is quiet, sweet and unselfish, a decided contrast to the second. This gives each a chance for moral development while trying to adjust her little mind to the other. A few nights ago, Iola the second child slapped Mary the baby. Lula said to Iola, ‘You are not being a good citizen when you strike back even if Mary did slap you.’ Another time, Iola was saying what her teacher had said about her. Lula remarked, ‘It is not what she says you do, it is what you do do.’ Neither statement meant much to Iola.

“I have always mixed my night time stories with ‘Home spun ones.’ All seem to like them best. I asked Lula since Christmas why she liked my stories. She said because they seemed to be true, and criticized fairy stories.

“I have emphasized racial stories for this reason--I was born on a big farm. There were many employed by my father, also tenants. With these we were not allowed to mingle. On the edge of the farm there was a white school. There was a barrier also. Those little girls with golden locks looked like little angels to me. How I wished to be like them with their shrill voices and laughter. They seemed so happy. I just thought of them as things apart. It took much to get this false conception out of me. They were just God sent. This I have tried not to have my children to fight. Now neither one wishes to be white or dislikes them. To them, they all seem like people.

“Lula does most of her writing at night. It is a privilege to remain a few minutes after the other children to finish something. Some nights she will write several. She mumbles them to herself before she begins to write and then keeps saying the words softly. She will finish this and will draw figures and flowers or people. This she does very well for a child until she says, ‘I am going to write something else.’ Interruptions don’t seem to bother her very much as the little ones are always saying something to make her laugh. I usually attempt to quiet them, but some of her best things are written with many around.

“When she shows them to me, she watches for a favorable expression. I always try to be pleased, but somehow she knows from my face that that was not so good, then remarks, ‘I am going to write something else.’

“The amusing part about it all is that she feels as she has begun to write at a mature age, but consoles herself with this statement, ‘Stevenson did not begin to write until he was fifteen and wrote very skillful things.’

“Lula is just a little girl and is very talkative if anyone appeals to her and will talk with her. You can’t explain anything too minutely for her--whether it is her Sunday school lesson or a star, it matters little.”

ME ALONE

As I was going to town, I saw a King and a Queen. Such ringing of bells you never heard, The clerks ran out of the stores; You know how it was, Me alone. I was standing as the others were, “Oh! you little girl,” some one said, “The King wants you,” I became frightened Wondering what he had to say, Me alone. Here’s what he wanted: He wanted me to ride in his coach, I felt myself so much riding in a King’s coach, Me alone.

HAVE YOU SEEN IT

Have you ever seen the moon And stars stick together? Have you ever seen it? Have you ever seen bad? Have you ever seen good And bad stick together? Have you ever seen it?

ROBIN RED BREAST

Little Robin red breast, I hear you sing your song. I would love to have you put it into my little cage, Into my little mouth.

THE STREAM

It was running down to the great Atlantic. I called it back to me, But it slyly looked and said, “I have not time to waste,” And just went arunning running on.

THE LITTLE DANDELION

The dandelion stares In the yellow sunlight. How very still it is! When it is old and grey, I blow its white hair away, And leave it with a bald head.

DANCE

Down at the hall at midnight sometimes, You hear them singing rhymes. These girls are dancing with boys. They are too big for toys.

INDEX

_Absence_, 91

Across the dewy lawn she treads, 195

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, 5

_Advice_, 156

A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well, 15

_Africa_, 123

_After All_, 191

_After the Quarrel_, 5

Ah, how poets sing and die, 50