Part 6
Mrs. Maria F. Cotter, my wife, and I held both children back. We refused to allow them to be promoted in several instances. Both were graduated from the Louisville Central High School under 16; Florence Olivia won first honor of her class and Joseph the second. He was graduated June 1911. After a year and a half at Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn., Florence Olivia wrote us that Joseph had tuberculosis and must leave school. He returned home and was put under a doctor. The 16th of the following December, Florence Olivia returned from Fisk with tuberculosis, and one year from that day she died. It was grieving over his sister’s death that discovered to Joseph his poetic talent. He died February 3rd, 1919, leaving his published poems,--_The Band of Gideon_ and two other unpublished works--one of poems and one of one-act plays.”
_Joseph S. Cotter, Sr._
RAIN MUSIC
On the dusty earth-drum Beats the falling rain; Now a whispered murmur, Now a louder strain.
Slender, silvery drumsticks. On an ancient drum, Beat the mellow music Bidding life to come.
Chords of earth awakened, Notes of greening spring, Rise and fall triumphant Over every thing.
Slender, silvery drumsticks Beat the long tattoo-- God, the Great Musician, Calling life anew.
SUPPLICATION
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.
AN APRIL DAY
On such a day as this I think, On such a day as this, When earth and sky and nature’s whole Are clad in April’s bliss; And balmy zephyrs gently waft Upon your cheek a kiss; Sufficient is it just to live On such a day as this.
THE DESERTER
I know not why or whence he came Or how he chanced to go; I only know he brought me love And going, left me woe.
I do not ask that he turn back, Nor seek where he may rove; For where woe rules can never be The dwelling place of love.
For love went out the door of hope, And on and on has fled; Caring no more to dwell within The house where faith is dead.
AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY?
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?
THE BAND OF GIDEON
The band of Gideon roam the sky, The howling wind is their war-cry, The thunder’s role is their trump’s peal, And the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
And men below rear temples high And mock their God with reasons why, And live in arrogance, sin and shame, And rape their souls for the world’s good name. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The band of Gideon roam the sky, And view the earth with baleful eye; In holy wrath they scourge the land With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, And “Lord have mercy on my soul,” Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, In agony searching for their God. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
And men repent and then forget That heavenly wrath they ever met, The band of Gideon yet will come And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”
BLANCHE TAYLOR DICKINSON
I was born on a farm near Franklin, Kentucky, April 15, 1896, and received my education variously ... public schools, Bowling Green Academy, Simmon’s University and Summer schools.
No degree. Taught for several years in my native state. I am a lover of music and divide my time between the typewriter and piano. First published in _Franklin Favorite_, later, _Louisville Leader_, _Chicago Defender_, _Pittsburgh Courier_, _Crisis_, _Opportunity_ and _Wayfarer_. My favorite poets are Countee Cullen, Georgia Douglas Johnson and Edna St. Vincent Millay; my favorite past-time, walking along a crowded street. I have a hunch that I shall become a short story writer and my favorite exertion is trying to perfect my “technique.”
At present I am living in Sewickley, Penna.
THE WALLS OF JERICHO
Jericho is on the inside Of the things the world likes best; “We want in,” the dark ones cried, “We will love it as the rest.”
“Let me learn,” the dark ones say. They have learned that Faith must do More than meditate and pray That a boulder may fall through Making one large man size entrance Into wondrous Jericho. They have learned: forget the distance, Count no steps, nor stop to blow.
Jericho still has her high wall, Futile barrier of Power.... Echoed with the dark ones’ footfall Marching around her every hour; Knowledge strapped down like a knapsack Not cumbersome, and money Not too much to strain the back.... Dark ones seeking milk and honey.
Over in the city staring Up at us along the wall Are the fat ones, trembling, swearing There is no room there for us all! But there’ve been too many rounds Made to give the trip up here. Shout for joy ... hear how it sounds.... The very walls echo with cheer!
POEM
Ah, I know what happiness is...! It is a timid little fawn Creeping softly up to me For one caress, then gone Before I’m through with it ... Away, like dark from dawn! Well I know what happiness is...! It is the break of day that wears A shining dew decked diadem ... An aftermath of tears. Fawn and dawn, emblems of joy ... I’ve played with them for years, And always they will slip away Into the brush of another day.
REVELATION
1
She walked along the crowded street Forgetting all but that she Was walking as the other girls And dressed as carefully.
The windows of the stores were frilled To lure femininity, To empty little pocketbooks And assuage queen vanity.
And so my walker liked a dress Of silver and of gold, Draped on a bisque mannequin So blond and slim and bold.
She took the precious metal home And waved her soft black hair; Powder, rouge and lipstick made Her very neat and fair.
She slipped the dress on carefully, Her vain dream fell away.... The mirror showed a brownskin girl She hadn’t seen all day!
2
“You have classic features, Something like Cleopatra. Eyes like whirlpools And as dangerous.... Weeping willow eyelashes Shade the mighty depth Of your eyes. Your lips Are danger signals Which a fool like me Will not regard.... But go dashing past them To gain a kiss ... or Death.” That is what he said to me, I filled with a sweet and vain regret That Beauty, the stranger, and I had met. His praise was heat to drink me dry. So I found a stream, and with a sigh I stooped to drink ... ah, to see The cruel water reflecting me! Dark-eyed, thick-lipped, harsh, short hair ... But Lucifer saw himself, too, fair.
THAT HILL
It crawled away from ’neath my feet And left me standing there; A little at a time, went up An atmospheric stair.
I couldn’t go for watching it, To see where it would stop; A tree sprang out and waved to me When it had reached the top.
The tree kept nodding friendly like, Beckoning me to follow; And I went crawling up and up, Like it did from the hollow.
Then I saw why the thing would go A-soaring from the dell-- ’Twas nearing Heaven every bound, And fleeing fast from Hell!
TO AN ICICLE
Chilled into a serenity As rigid as your pose You linger trustingly, But a gutter waits for you. Your elegance does not secure You favors with the sun. He is not one to pity fragileness. He thinks all cheeks should burn And feel how tears can run.
FOUR WALLS
Four great walls have hemmed me in. Four strong, high walls: Right and wrong, Shall and shan’t. The mighty pillars tremble when My conscience palls And sings its song-- I can, I can’t.
If for a moment Samson’s strength Were given me I’d shove Them away from where I stand; Free, I know I’d love To ramble soul and all, And never dread to strike a wall.
Again, I wonder would that be Such a happy state for me ... The going, being, doing, sham-- And never knowing where I am. I might not love freedom at all; My tired wings might crave a wall-- Four walls to rise and pen me in This conscious world with guarded men.
FRANK HORNE
“Born in New York City, August 18, 1899, I have lived all but about six years in Brooklyn. I studied at the College of the City of New York, and was guilty there of my first sonnet; but am ever so much more proud of my varsity letters won on the track--once ran a “10 flat” hundred and a 51 sec. quarter. Went to the Northern Illinois College of Ophthalmology--took degree “Doctor of Optometry.” Have practiced in Chicago and New York. At present writing, am doing some teaching and publicity work at the Fort Valley High and Industrial School, Georgia, while recovering from a mean illness. Have had a hankering to write as long as I can remember, but Charles Johnson, Editor of _Opportunity_ and a certain Gwendolyn Bennett are responsible for my trying it openly. My “published works” are limited to the indulgence of _Opportunity_, _The Crisis_, and _Braithwaite’s Anthology_. It is the perversity of my nature to crave the ability to write good prose, and yet my attempts at poetry are the only things to which any notice is given.”
ON SEEING TWO BROWN BOYS IN A CATHOLIC CHURCH
It is fitting that you be here Little brown boys With Christ-like eyes And curling hair.
Look you on yon crucifix Where He hangs nailed and pierced With head hung low And eyes a’blind with blood that drips From a thorny crown ... Look you well, You shall know this thing.
Judas’ kiss will burn your cheek And you shall 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 little 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.
TO A PERSISTENT PHANTOM
I buried you deeper last night You with your tears And your tangled hair You with your lips That kissed so fair I buried you deeper last night.
I buried you deeper last night With fuller breasts And stronger arms With softer lips And newer charms I buried you deeper last night.
Deeper ...... aye, deeper And again tonight Till that gay spirit That once was you Will tear its soul In climbing through ... Deeper ...... aye, deeper I buried you deeper last night.
LETTERS FOUND NEAR A SUICIDE
_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 Lewellyn_
You have borne full well The burden of my friendship-- I have drunk deep At your crystal pool, And in return I have polluted its waters With the bile of my hatred. I have flooded your soul With tortuous thoughts, I have played Iscariot To your Pythias....
_To Mother_
I came In the blinding sweep Of ecstatic pain, I go 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 That you will grieve And want me back....
_To B----_
You have freed me-- In opening wide the doors Of flesh You have freed me Of the binding leash. I have climbed the heights Of white disaster My body screaming In the silver crash of passion ... Before you gave yourself To him I had chained myself For you. But when at last You lowered your proud flag In surrender complete You gave me too, as hostage-- And I have wept my joy At the dawn-tipped shrine Of many breasts.
_To Jean_
When you poured your love Like molten flame Into the throbbing mold Of her pulsing veins Leaving her blood a river of fire And her arteries channels of light, I hated you ... Hated with that primal hate That has its wells In the flesh of me And the flesh of you And the flesh of her I hated you-- Hated with envy Your mastery of her being ... With one fleshy gesture You pricked the iridescent bubble Of my dreams And so to make Your conquest more sweet I tell you now That I hated you.
_To Catalina_
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....
_To Mariette_
I sought consolation In the sorrow of your eyes. You sought reguerdon In the crying of my heart ... We found that shattered dreamers Can be bitter hosts....
_To_ ----
You call it Death of the Spirit And I call it Life ... The vigor of vibration, The muffled knocks, The silver sheen of passion’s flood, The ecstasy of pain ... You call it Death of the Spirit And I call it Life.
_To Telie_
You have made my voice A rippling laugh But my 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 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, 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?...
NIGGER
A Chant for Children
Little Black boy Chased down the street-- “Nigger, nigger never die Black face an’ shiney eye, Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”
Hannibal ... Hannibal Bangin’ thru the Alps Licked the proud Romans, Ran home with their scalps-- “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”
Othello ... black man Mighty in war Listened to Iago Called his wife a whore-- “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”
Crispus ... Attucks Bullets in his chest Red blood of freedom Runnin’ down his vest “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”
Toussant ... Toussant Made the French flee Fought like a demon Set his people free-- “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”
Jesus ... Jesus Son of the Lord --Spit in his face --Nail him on a board “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger ...”
Little Black boy Runs down the street-- “Nigger, nigger never die Black face an’ shiney eye, Nigger ... nigger ... nigger ...”
LEWIS ALEXANDER
Lewis Alexander was born July 4, 1900, at Washington, D. C. He was educated in the public schools of Washington and at Howard University where he was a member of the Howard Players. He has also studied at the University of Pennsylvania. He was a member of the Ethiopian Art Theatre for the season 1922-1923 playing in _Salome_ and _The Comedy of Errors_ on Broadway. As the result of a recent tour of North and South Carolina he edited in May 1927 the Negro Number of the _Carolina Magazine_. He has been writing poetry since 1917, specializing in Japanese forms. Two Little Theatre groups in Washington, The Ira Aldridge Players of the Grover Cleveland School and the Randall Community Center Players have been under his direction.
NEGRO WOMAN
The sky hangs heavy tonight Like the hair of a Negro woman. The scars of the moon are curved Like the wrinkles on the brow of a Negro woman.
The stars twinkle tonight Like the glaze in a Negro woman’s eyes, Drinking the tears set flowing by an aging hurt Gnawing at her heart.
The earth trembles tonight Like the quiver of a Negro woman’s eye-lids cupping tears.
AFRICA
Thou art not dead, although the spoiler’s hand Lies heavy as death upon thee; though the wrath Of its accursed might is in thy path And has usurped thy children of their land; Though yet the scourges of a monstrous band Roam on thy ruined fields, thy trampled lanes, Thy ravaged homes and desolated fanes; Thou art not dead, but sleeping,--Motherland.
A mighty country, valorous and free, Thou shalt outlive this terror and this pain; Shall call thy scattered children back to thee, Strong with the memory of their brothers slain; And rise from out thy charnel house to be Thine own immortal, brilliant self again!
TRANSFORMATION
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.
THE DARK BROTHER
“Lo, I am black but I am comely too, Black as the night, black as the deep dark caves. I am the scion of a race of slaves Who helped to build a nation strong that you And I may stand within the world’s full view, Fearless and firm as dreadnoughts on rough waves; Holding a banner high whose floating braves The opposition of the tried untrue.
Casting an eye of love upon my face, Seeing a newer light within my eyes, A rarer beauty in your brother race Will merge upon your visioning fullwise. Though I am black my heart through love is pure, And you through love my blackness shall endure!”
TANKA I-VIII
I
Could I but retrace The winding stairs fate built me. They fell from my feet. Now I stand on the high round. Down beneath height above depth--
II
Through the eyes of life I looked in at my own heart: A long furrowed field Grown cement waiting for seed Baking in desolation.
III
Drink in moods of joy! Why should the sky be lonely? Neither sun nor moon-- How my heart is shy of night Like Autumn’s leaf brown pendants.
IV
Cold against the sky The blue jays cried at dawning. The larks where are they? Heavily upon the air My ears tuned in to listen.
V
So this is the reed? The very pipes for singing-- Life plays me new songs. Wistfully from out the dawn The crows broke across the sky!
VI
And now Spring has come Blossoming up my garden. I alone unchanged. Moving in my house of Autumn. One leaf alone saves a tree.
VII
By the pool of life Willows are drooping tonight I can see no stars. What dances in the water? O my clouds dripping with tears.
VIII
Could I hear your voice O but this silence is sweet Words mar all beauty. Turn then into your own heart And pluck the roots from the soil--
JAPANESE HOKKU
O apple blossoms Give me your words of silence, Yes, your charming speech.
* * * * *
If you would know me, Do not regard this display; Mingle with my speech.
* * * * *
Why sit like the sphinx, Watching the caravan pass? Join in the parade.
* * * * *
What if the wind blows? What if the leaves are scattered, Now that they are dead?
* * * * *
While trimming the plants I saw some flowers drooping. I am a flower.
* * * * *
This is but my robe, His Majesty gave to me. Garments will decay.
* * * * *
On the flowering twig, Lo! the robin is singing. It must be spring.
* * * * *
Looking up the hill The road was long before me. This road is longer.
* * * * *
Death is not cruel From what I have seen of life; Nothing else remains.
* * * * *
Life is history. Turn not away from the book. Write on every page!
* * * * *
If you had not sung Then what would I imitate, Happy nightingale?
* * * * *
Sitting by the pool, I looked in and saw my face. O that I were blind!
DAY AND NIGHT
The day is a Negro Yelling out of breath. The night is a Negro Laughing up to death.
The day is a jazz band Blasting loud and wild. The night is a jazz band Moaning Blues songs, child.
The day is the sunshine Undressed in the street. The night is the sunshine Dressed from head to feet.
I am like a rainbow Arched across the way. Yes, I am a rainbow Being night nor day.
STERLING A. BROWN
I was born in Washington, D. C., the first of May, 1901. I received primary and secondary education in the Public Schools of that city, and on a farm near Laurel, Md.; entered Williams College in 1918, was elected to Phi Beta Kappa in 1921, graduated in 1922; and received my Master of Arts Degree at Harvard in 1923. Since that time I have been seeking a more liberal education teaching school. I have been inflicted on unsuspecting, helpless students; teaching diverse things at Manassas Summer School in Virginia, Rhetoric and Literature at Virginia Seminary and College, Lynchburg, Va., and Literature at Lincoln University, Jefferson City, Mo.
From early years I have _lisped in numbers_ but the numbers seem improper fractions. I have always been interested in people, particularly and generally, and in books. The list runs from Homer to Housman.