Part 4
Gay little Girl-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 form 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! 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!
MARY EFFIE LEE NEWSOME
Born in Philadelphia January 19, 1885. Daughter of Bishop B. F. and Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Lee. Reared in Ohio, at Wilberforce. Married 1920, Rev. Henry Nesby Newsome. Is a lover of the out-of-doors, and of the beautiful.
MORNING LIGHT[10]
(The Dew-Drier)
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 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!
2
Bathed in the blood of battle, Treading toward a new morning, May not his race-- Its body long bared to the world’s disdain, Its face schooled to smile for a light to come-- May not his race, even as the Dew Boy leads, Bear onward the world to a time When tolerance, forbearance, Such as reigned in the heart of ONE Whose heart was gold Shall shape the world for that fresh dawning After the dews of blood?
PANSY
Oh, the blue blue bloom On the velvet cheek Of the little pansy’s face That hides away so still and cool In some soft garden place! The tiger lily’s orange fires, The red lights from the rose Aren’t like the gloom on that blue cheek Of the softest flower that grows!
SASSAFRAS TEA
The sass’fras tea is red and clear In my white china cup, So pretty I keep peeping in Before I drink it up.
I stir it with a silver spoon, And sometimes I just hold A little tea inside the spoon, Like it was lined with gold.
It makes me hungry just to smell The nice hot sass’fras tea, And that’s one thing I really like That they say’s good for me.
SKY PICTURES
Sometimes a right white mountain Or great soft polar bear, Or lazy little flocks of sheep Move on in the blue air. The mountains tear themselves like floss, The bears all melt away. The little sheep will drift apart In such a sudden way. And then new sheep and mountains come. New polar bears appear And roll and tumble on again Up in the skies so clear. The polar bears would like to get Where polar bears belong. The mountains try so hard to stand In one place firm and strong. The little sheep all want to stop And pasture in the sky, But never can these things be done, Although they try and try!
THE QUILT
I have the greatest fun at night, When casement windows are all bright. I make believe each one’s a square Of some great quilt up in the air.
The blocks of gold have black between, Wherever only night is seen. It surely makes a mammoth quilt-- With bits of dark and checks of gilt-- To cover up the tired day In such a cozy sort of way.
THE BAKER’S BOY
The baker’s boy delivers loaves All up and down our street. His car is white, his clothes are white, White to his very feet. I wonder if he stays that way. I don’t see how he does all day. I’d like to watch him going home When all the loaves are out. His clothes must look quite different then, At least I have no doubt.
WILD ROSES
What! Roses growing in a meadow Where all the cattle browse? I’d think they’d fear the very shadow Of daddy’s big rough cows.
QUOITS
In wintertime I have such fun When I play quoits with father. I beat him almost every game. He never seems to bother.
He looks at mother and just smiles. All this seems strange to me, For when he plays with grown-up folks, He beats them easily.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] (This poem, published in the CRISIS during the World War, was written after reading an account of the little African babies who are sent before the explorer into jungle grasses that tower many feet. The little boys, Dan Crawford says in his THINKING BLACK, who go out to tread down a path and by chance meet the lurking leopard or hyena are “Human Brooms,” and are called DEW-DRIERS.)
JOHN FREDERICK MATHEUS
“I was born September 10, 1887, in Keyser, West Virginia. My early education was received in Steubenville, Ohio, my mother’s home. I was graduated from High School in 1905. For one year thereafter I was bookkeeper and helper in a plumbing shop.
Proceeding to Cleveland, Ohio, I entered Adelbert College of Western Reserve University. In 1910 I won the A.B. degree _cum laude_ and a wife.
I lived for a time in Philadelphia then began service in the Florida Agricultural and Mechanical College at Tallahassee, as teacher, first of Mathematics, then of Latin and English. Later I became Professor of Romance Languages. During the war and after, I served as the college auditor and secretary.
In 1921 I received the M.A. Degree from Columbia University and the Teachers College Diploma as teacher of French. In 1922 I became professor of Romance Languages in the West Virginia Collegiate Institute, Institute, West Virginia.
In 1924 I traveled in Cuba; in 1925 I studied at the University of Paris during the summer and toured Switzerland, Italy and southern France.
My interest in letters began early in grammar school days. The daily papers of my home town used to print my puerile efforts when copy ran low.
Recently I have been the recipient of prizes and mention in the three annual _Opportunity_ Literary Contests and in the 1926 _Crisis_ contest, for short stories, personal sketches, a play and poems. The 1925 _Opportunity_ prize story ‘Fog’ is published in the _New Negro_, edited by Alain Locke.”
REQUIEM
She wears, my beloved, a rose upon her head. Walk softly angels, lest your gentle tread Awake her to the turmoil and the strife, The dissonance and hates called life.
She sleeps, my beloved, a rose upon her head. Who says she will not hear, that she is dead? The rose will fade and lose its lovely hue, But not, my beloved, will fading wither you.
FENTON JOHNSON
“I came into the world May 7, 1888. No notice was taken of the event save in immediate circles. I presume the world was too busy or preoccupied to note it. It happened in Chicago. I went to school and also college. My scholastic record never attained me any notoriety.
Taught school one year and repented. Having scribbled since the age of nine, had some plays produced on the stage of the old Pekin Theatre, Chicago, at the time I was nineteen. When I was twenty-four my first volume _A Little Dreaming_ was published. Since then _Visions of the Dusk_ (1915) and _Songs of the Soil_ (1916) represent my own collections of my work. Also published a volume of short stories _Tales of Darkest America_ and a group of essays on American politics _For the Highest Good_. Work in poetry appears in the following anthologies: _The New Poetry_ (Monroe and Henderson), _Victory_ (Braithwaite), _Others_ (Kreymborg), _The Chicago Anthology_ (Blanden), _Anthology of Magazine Verse_ (Braithwaite), _Poetry by American Negroes_ (White and Jackson), _Negro Poets and their Poetry_ (Kerlin), _Poets of America_ (Wood), _Book of American Negro Poetry_ (J. W. Johnson), _Today’s Poetry_ (Crawford and O’Neil) and others.
Edited two or three magazines and published one or two of them myself.
My complete autobiography I promise to the world when I am able to realize that I have done something.”
WHEN I DIE
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.
PUCK GOES TO COURT
I went to court last night, Before me firefly light; And there was Lady Mab, On cheek a cunning dab Of rouge the sun sent down, King Oberon with crown Of gold eyed daisy buds Among potato spuds Was dancing roundelay With Lady Chloe and May.
I hid among the flowers And spent the wee young hours In mixing up the punch; For I was on a hunch That sober men are dull And fairy dust will lull To rest the plodding mind Worn down by life’s thick grind.
The nobles drank the brew And called it sweetest dew; But when I left they lay Stunned by the light of day And Oberon had writ Decree that I must flit A hundred leagues from court. (Alas! Where is there sport?)
THE MARATHON RUNNER
If I have run my course and seek the pearls My Psyche fain would drink at Mermelon And rest content in wine and nectar cup Who knows but that the gods have found me whole And in their stewardship of man would bless The sweating lover fickle man once knew?
I know that I might pull the tendon bands That hold my soul together--ay, might bend Each nerve and muscle spirit fain would keep-- That I might hear the maddening cheers of men Who when the morrow dawns forget the games And cast instead the dice in market place.
But I have found sweeter peace than fame; And in the evening dwell on heights divine, Betwixt my lips a rose from Cupid’s hands, Upon my brow the laurel Belvidere Entwines from tree beside the throne of Zeus And flowing from my speech Athene’s words Dipped long in wisdom’s fount to heal the soul.
JESSIE FAUSET
“Philadelphia where I was born and educated was once the dear delight of my heart. But everything in my life has contrived to pull me away from it. First I travelled to Cornell University and came back with a Phi Beta Kappa key and a degree of Bachelor of Arts. That launched me. Since then I’ve seen England, Scotland, France, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Austria and Algeria. The College de France and the Alliance Francaise have given me some points on the difference between the French of Stratford-atte-Bowe and that of Paris. And there was a pleasant year too at the University of Pennsylvania when I renewed my acquaintance with Philadelphia and earned a Master’s Degree. So much for education. As to occupations I’ve taught Latin and French in the Dunbar High School in Washington, D. C. And served as Literary Editor on the _Crisis_ in New York.
Wonderful days those! Now I’m teaching French again in the City of New York which at present claims my love and allegiance. Like the French I am fond of dancing, and adore cards and the theatre probably because I am a minister’s daughter. All my life I have wanted to write novels and have had one published. But usually, in spite of myself, I have scribbled poetry.... I should like to see the West Indies, South America and Tunis and live a long time on the French Riviera. Aside from this I have few desires. And I find life perpetually enchanting.”
WORDS! WORDS!
How did it happen that we quarreled? We two who loved each other so! Only the moment before we were one, Using the language that lovers know. And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase That struck at the heart like a poignard’s blow. And you went berserk, and I saw red, And love lay between us, bleeding and dead! Dead! When we’d loved each other so!
How _could_ it happen that we quarreled! Think of the things we used to say! “What does it matter, dear, what you do? Love such as ours has to last for aye!” --“Try me! I long to endure your test!” --“Love, we shall always love, come what may!” What are the words the apostle saith? “In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!” Think of the things we used to say!
TOUCHÉ
Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room, “Loving” and “doving” as all lovers do, Laughing and leaning so close in the gloom,--
What is the change that creeps sharp over you? Just as you raise your fine hand to my hair, Bringing that glance of mixed wonder and rue?
“Black hair,” you murmur, “so lustrous and rare, Beautiful too, like a raven’s smooth wing; Surely no gold locks were ever more fair.”
Why do you say every night that same thing? Turning your mind to some old constant theme, Half meditating and half murmuring?
Tell me, that girl of your young manhood’s dream, Her you loved first in that dim long ago-- Had _she_ blue eyes? Did _her_ hair goldly gleam?
Does _she_ come back to you softly and slow, Stepping wraith-wise from the depths of the past? Quickened and fired by the warmth of our glow?
There I’ve divined it! My wit holds you fast. Nay, no excuses; ’tis little I care. I knew a lad in my own girlhood’s past,-- Blue eyes he had and such waving gold hair!
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
Lolotte, who attires my hair, Lost her lover. Lolotte weeps; Trails her hand before her eyes; Hangs her head and mopes and sighs, Mutters of the pangs of hell. Fills the circumambient air With her plaints and her despair. Looks at me: “May you never know, Mam’selle, Love’s harsh cruelty.”
Love’s dart lurks in my heart too,-- None may know the smart Throbbing underneath my smile. Burning, pricking all the while That I dance and sing and spar, Juggling words and making quips To hide the trembling of my lips. I must laugh What time I moan to moon and star To help me stand the gaff.
What a silly thing is pride! Lolotte bares her heart. Heedless that each runner reads All her thoughts and all her needs. What I hide with my soul’s life Lolotte tells with tear and cry. Blurs her pain with sob and sigh. Happy Lolotte, she! I must jest while sorrow’s knife Stabs in ecstasy.
“If I live, I shall outlive.” Meanwhile I am barred From expression of my pain. Let my heart be torn in twain, Only I may know the truth. Happy Lolotte, blessed she Who may tell her agony! On me a seal is set. Love is lost, and--bitter ruth-- Pride is with me yet!
LA VIE C’EST LA VIE
On summer afternoons I sit Quiescent by you in the park, And idly watch the sunbeams gild And tint the ash-trees’ bark.
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; Fulfilment 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.
THE RETURN
I that had found the way so smooth With gilly-flowers that beck and nod, Now find that same road wild and steep With need for compass and for rod. And yet with feet that bleed, I pant On blindly,--stumbling back to God!
RENCONTRE
My heart that was so passionless Leapt high last night when I saw you! Within me surged the grief of years And whelmed me with its endless rue. My heart that slept so still, so spent, Awoke last night,--to break anew!
FRAGMENT
The breath of life imbued those few dim days! Yet all we had was this,-- A flashing smile, a touch of hands, and once A fleeting kiss.
Blank futile death inheres these years between! Still naught have you and I But frozen tears, and stifled words, and once A sharp caught cry.
ALICE DUNBAR NELSON
Born Alice Ruth Moore, in New Orleans, Louisiana. Educated in public schools and Straight College in New Orleans. Afterwards studied at University of Pennsylvania, Cornell University and School of Industrial Art. Married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898. Taught school prior to marriage in New Orleans, and Brooklyn. One of the founders of the White Rose Industrial Home in New York, and the Industrial School for Colored Girls in Delaware. At present teaching in Delaware.
Published _Violets and Other Tales_, _The Goodness of St. Rocque_, _Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence_, _The Dunbar Speaker_, and _The Negro in Louisiana_. Contributor to magazines and newspapers, as short story writer and columnist.
Married to Robert John Nelson, 1916.
SNOW IN OCTOBER
Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty: A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow, Bending beneath a weight of early snow, Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk, And spread a heavy white chilly afghan Over its crested leaves. Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing, Claiming the right to live another fortnight, Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come, Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched Long chill fingers into the brown, streaming hair Of fleeing October.
The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree, As premature grief grays the strong head Of a virile, red-haired man.
SONNET
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. 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 now--unwittingly, you’ve made me dream Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.
I SIT AND SEW
I sit and sew--a useless task it seems, My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams-- The panoply of war, the martial tread of men, Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath-- But--I must sit and sew.
I sit and sew--my heart aches with desire-- That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things Once men. My soul in pity flings Appealing cries, yearning only to go There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe-- But--I must sit and sew.--
The little useless seam, the idle patch; Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch, When there they lie in sodden mud and rain, Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain? You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream That beckons me--this pretty futile seam, It stifles me--God, must I sit and sew?
GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON
Many years ago a little yellow girl in Atlanta, Georgia, came across a poem in a current paper that told of a rose struggling to bloom in a window in New York City. A child tended this flower and her whole life was wrapt up in its fate. This poem was written by William Stanley Braithwaite, years before the world knew how marvellous was his mind. Some one told the reader of these lines that the writer was colored and straightway she began to walk upward toward him.
This little girl grew up, went to Atlanta University, Oberlin Conservatory, taught school, then married Henry Lincoln Johnson, always looking forward toward the light of the poet Braithwaite.
Then her husband was appointed Recorder of Deeds under Taft and she was moved by circumstances to the capital--Washington.
Dean Kelly Miller at Howard University saw some of her poetic efforts and was pleased. Stanley Braithwaite was his friend and he directed her to send something to him at Boston. She did so, and then began a quickening and a realization that she could do!
Following this happy event, Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois of the _Crisis_ brought out two poems from her pen that awakened the interest of readers.
At this time Jessie Fauset, the novelist, was teaching French in Washington and very generously helped her to gather together material for her first book _The Heart of A Woman_ with an introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite. This was followed by _Bronze_, a book of color with an introduction by W. E. B. Du Bois. Her third attempt in poetry was _An Autumn Love Cycle_ with an introduction by Alain Locke, the editor of _The New Negro_.
At present she is connected with the Department of Labor at Washington, as Commissioner of Conciliation. At her home there you may find the young writers gathered together almost any Saturday night exchanging ideas, reciting new poems or discussing plans for new creations.
SERVICE
When we count out our gold at the end of the day, And have filtered the dross that has cumbered the way, Oh, what were the hold of our treasury then Save the love we have shown to the children of men?
HOPE
Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through, The world has its motion, all things pass away, No night is omnipotent, there must be day.
The oak tarries long in the depth of the seed, But swift is the season of nettle and weed, Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade, And rise with the hour for which you were made.
The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man Revolve in the orb of an infinite plan, We move to the rhythm of ages long done, And each has his hour--to dwell in the sun!
THE SUPPLIANT