Part 7
Except for an essay on Roland Hayes submitted to an _Opportunity_ contest, and occasional poems and reviews, I have published nothing of the voluminous works cluttering my desk.
ODYSSEY OF BIG BOY
Lemme be wid Casey Jones, Lemme be wid Stagolee, Lemme be wid such like men When Death takes hol’ on me, When Death takes hol’ on me....
Done skinned as a boy in Kentucky hills, Druv steel dere as a man, Done stripped tobacco in Virginia fiels’ Alongst de River Dan, Alongst de River Dan;
Done mined de coal in West Virginia Liked dat job jes’ fine Till a load o’ slate curved roun’ my head Won’t work in no mo’ mine, Won’t work in no mo’ mine;
Done shocked de corn in Marylan, In Georgia done cut cane, Done planted rice in South Caline, But won’t do dat again Do dat no mo’ again.
Been roustabout in Memphis, Dockhand in Baltimore, Done smashed up freight on Norfolk wharves A fust class stevedore, A fust class stevedore....
Done slung hash yonder in de North On de ole Fall River Line Done busted suds in li’l New Yawk Which ain’t no work o’ mine-- Lawd, ain’t no work o’ mine;
Done worked and loafed on such like jobs Seen what dey is to see Done had my time with a pint on my hip An’ a sweet gal on my knee Sweet mommer on my knee:
Had stovepipe blonde in Macon Yaller gal in Marylan In Richmond had a choklit brown Called me huh monkey man-- Huh big fool monkey man.
Had two fair browns in Arkansaw And three in Tennessee Had Creole gal in New Orleans Sho Gawd did two time me-- Lawd two time, fo’ time me--
But best gal what I evah had Done put it over dem A gal in Southwest Washington At Four’n half and M-- Four’n half and M....
Done took my livin’ as it came Done grabbed my joy, done risked my life Train done caught me on de trestle Man done caught me wid his wife His doggone purty wife ...
I done had my women, I done had my fun Cain’t do much complainin’ When my jag is done, Lawd, Lawd, my jag is done.
An’ all dat Big Boy axes When time comes fo’ to go Lemme be wid John Henry, steel drivin’ man Lemme be wid ole Jazzbo; Lemme be wid ole Jazzbo....
MAUMEE RUTH
Might as well bury her And bury her deep, Might as well put her Where she can sleep.
Might as well lay her Out in her shiny black; And for the love of God Not wish her back.
Maum Sal may miss her Maum Sal, she only With no one now to scoff Sal may be lonely....
Nobody else there is Who will be caring How rocky was the road For her wayfaring;
Nobody be heeding in Cabin, or town That she is lying here In her best gown.
Boy that she suckled How should he know Hiding in city holes Sniffing the ‘snow’?
And how should the news Pierce Harlem’s din To reach her baby gal, Sodden with gin?
To cut her withered heart They cannot come again, Preach her the lies about Jordan and then
Might as well drop her Deep in the ground Might as well pray for her That she sleep sound....
LONG GONE
I laks yo’ kin’ of lovin’ Ain’t never caught you wrong But it jes ain’ nachal Fo’ to stay here long;
It jes ain’ nachal Fo’ a railroad man With a itch fo’ travellin’ He cain’t understan’....
I looks at de rails An’ I looks at de ties, An I hears an ole freight Puffin’ up de rise,
An’ at nights on my pallet When all is still I listens fo’ de empties Bumpin’ up de hill;
When I oughta be quiet I is got a itch Fo’ to hear de whistle blow Fo’ de crossin’, or de switch,
An’ I knows de time’s a nearin’ When I got to ride Though its homelike and happy At yo’ side.
You is done all you could do To make me stay Tain’t no fault of yours I’se leavin’-- I’se jes dataway.
I is got to see some people I ain’ never seen Gotta highball thu some country Whah I never been....
I don’t know which way I’m travellin’-- Far or near, All I knows fo’ certain is I cain’t stay here.
Ain’t no call at all, sweet woman Fo’ to carry on,-- Jes my name and jes my habit To be Long Gone....
TO A CERTAIN LADY, IN HER GARDEN
(_A. S._)
Lady, my lady, come from out the garden, Clayfingered, dirtysmocked, and in my time I too shall learn the quietness of Arden, Knowledge so long a stranger to my rhyme.
What were more fitting than your springtime task? Here, close engirdled by your vines and flowers Surely there is no other grace to ask, No better cloister from the bickering hours.
A step beyond, the dingy streets begin With all their farce, and silly tragedy--But here, unmindful of the futile din You grow your flowers, far wiser certainly,
You and your garden sum the same to me, A sense of strange and momentary pleasure, And beauty snatched--oh, fragmentarily Perhaps, yet who can boast of other seizure?
Oh, you have somehow robbed, I know not how The secret of the loveliness of these Whom you have served so long. Oh, shameless, now You flaunt the winnings of your thieveries.
Thus, I exclaim against you, profiteer.... For purpled evenings spent in pleasing toil, Should you have gained so easily the dear Capricious largesse of the miser soil?
Colorful living in a world grown dull, Quiet sufficiency in weakling days, Delicate happiness, more beautiful For lighting up belittered, grimy ways--
Surely I think I shall remember this, You in your old, rough dress, bedaubed with clay, Your smudgy face parading happiness, Life’s puzzle solved. Perhaps, in turn, you may.
One time, while clipping bushes, tending vines, (Making your brave, sly mock at dastard days,) Laugh gently at these trivial, truthful lines-- And that will be sufficient for my praise.
SALUTAMUS
(O Gentlemen the time of Life is short--Henry IV)
The bitterness of days like these we know; Much, much we know, yet cannot understand What was our crime that such a searing brand Not of our choosing, keeps us hated so. Despair and disappointment only grow, Whatever seeds are planted from our hand, What though some roads wind through a gladsome land? It is a gloomy path that we must go.
And yet we know relief will come some day For these seared breasts; and lads as brave again Will plant and find a fairer crop than ours. It must be due our hearts, our minds, our powers; These are the beacons to blaze out the way. _We must plunge onward; onward, gentlemen_....
CHALLENGE
I said, in drunken pride of youth and you That mischief-making Time would never dare Play his ill-humoured tricks upon us two, Strange and defiant lovers that we were. I said that even Death, Highwayman Death, Could never master lovers such as we, That even when his clutch had throttled breath, My hymns would float in praise, undauntedly.
I did not think such words were bravado. Oh, I think honestly we knew no fear, Of Time or Death. We loved each other so. And thus, with you believing me, I made My prophecies, rebellious, unafraid.... And that was foolish, wasn’t it, my dear?
RETURN
I have gone back in boyish wonderment To things that I had foolishly put by.... Have found an alien and unknown content In seeing how some bits of cloud-filled sky Are framed in bracken pools; through chuckling hours Have watched the antic frogs, or curiously Have numbered all the unnamed, vagrant flowers, That fleck the unkempt meadows, lavishly.
Or where a headlong toppling stream has stayed Its racing, lulled to quiet by the song Bursting from out the thickleaved oaken shade, There I have lain while hours sauntered past-- I have found peacefulness somewhere at last, Have found a quiet needed for so long.
CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY
“I was born at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, in the Twentieth Century, and spent my early years in what is known as the ‘Black Belt.’ This was followed by seven years in New England (1916-1923), three at Bradford Academy, and four at Wellesley College, where my southern blood became tinged with something of the austerity of that section. Three years of teaching in the Dunbar High School of Washington, D. C., convinced me that though the children were interesting, teaching was not my _metier_. In the fall of 1926 I was married. Since completing a study of Delinquency and Neglect among Negro children in New York City, my career has been that of a wife, and as careers go, that is an interesting and absorbing one.”
JOY
Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail, Like the roistering wind That laughs through stalwart pines. It floods me like the sun On rain-drenched trees That flash with silver and green.
I abandon myself to joy-- I laugh--I sing. Too long have I walked a desolate way, Too long stumbled down a maze Bewildered.
SOLACE
My window opens out into the trees And in that small space Of branches and of sky I see the seasons pass Behold the tender green Give way to darker heavier leaves. The glory of the autumn comes When steeped in mellow sunlight The fragile, golden leaves Against a clear blue sky Linger in the magic of the afternoon And then reluctantly break off And filter down to pave A street with gold. Then bare, gray branches Lift themselves against the Cold December sky Sometimes weaving a web Across the rose and dusk of late sunset Sometimes against a frail new moon And one bright star riding A sky of that dark, living blue Which comes before the heaviness Of night descends, or the stars Have powdered the heavens. Winds beat against these trees; The cold, but gentle rain of spring Touches them lightly The summer torrents strive To lash them into a fury And seek to break them-- But they stand. My life is fevered And a restlessness at times An agony--again a vague And baffling discontent Possesses me. I am thankful for my bit of sky And trees, and for the shifting Pageant of the seasons. Such beauty lays upon the heart A quiet. Such eternal change and permanence Take meaning from all turmoil And leave serenity Which knows no pain.
INTERIM
The night was made for rest and sleep, For winds that softly sigh; It was not made for grief and tears; So then why do I cry?
The wind that blows through leafy trees Is soft and warm and sweet; For me the night is a gracious cloak To hide my soul’s defeat.
Just one dark hour of shaken depths, Of bitter black despair-- Another day will find me brave, And not afraid to dare.
THE MASK
So detached and cool she is No motion e’er betrays The secret life within her soul, The anguish of her days.
She seems to look upon the world With cold ironic eyes, To spurn emotion’s fevered sway, To scoff at tears and sighs.
But once a woman with a child Passed by her on the street, And once she heard from casual lips A man’s name, bitter-sweet.
Such baffled yearning in her eyes, Such pain upon her face! I turned aside until the mask Was slipped once more in place.
LANGSTON HUGHES
Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, on the first of February, 1902. His mother was a school teacher, his father a lawyer. During most of his childhood he lived with his grandmother in Lawrence, Kansas, where he went to school. This old lady, Mary Sampson Patterson Leary Langston, was the last surviving widow of John Brown’s Raid, her first husband having been one of the five colored men to die so gloriously at Harper’s Ferry. She had then married Charles Langston, brother of the Negro senator, John M. Langston, and in the seventies they came to Kansas where the mother of the poet was born.
When Langston Hughes was thirteen this grandmother died and the boy went to live with his mother in Lincoln, Illinois. A year later they moved to Cleveland where he attended and was graduated from the Central High School. Then followed fifteen months in Mexico where his father had been located for some years. Here the young man learned Spanish, taught English, and attended bull-fights. Here, too, he wrote “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” his first poem to be published in the magazines.
In 1921 he went to New York for a year at Columbia University. A break with his father followed and he secured work for the summer on a truck farm on Staten Island. Then for almost two years he travelled as a member of the crew of freight steamers voyaging to the West Coast of Africa and Northern Europe. In February, 1924, he went to Paris. When he arrived he had seven dollars in his pockets; so he soon found a job as doorman in a Montmartre cabaret. Later he became second cook and pan-cake maker at the Grand Duc, a Negro night club where Buddy Gilmore sometimes played and Florence sang. That summer he went to Italy, and September found him stranded in Genoa. He worked his way back to New York on a tramp steamer, painting and scrubbing decks.
A year in Washington followed where he worked in the office of the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History, and later as a bus boy at the Wardman Park Hotel. There Vachel Lindsay read some of his poems and he was discovered by the newspapers. Then his first book, _The Weary Blues_, appeared. He has now resumed his formal education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, which he says is a place of beauty and the ideal college for a poet. His second book of poems, _Fine Clothes for the Jew_, is a study in racial rhythms.
Lincoln University April 13, 1927
I, TOO[16]
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.
Tomorrow, I’ll sit at the table When company comes. Nobody’ll dare Say to me, “Eat in the kitchen,” Then.
Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed,--
I, too, am America.
PRAYER[17]
I ask you this: Which way to go? I ask you this: Which sin to bear? Which crown to put Upon my hair? I do not know, Lord God, I do not know.
SONG FOR A DARK GIRL[18]
Way down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) They hung my black young lover To a cross roads tree.
Way down South in Dixie (Bruised body high in air) I asked the white Lord Jesus What was the use of prayer.
Way down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) Love is a naked shadow On a gnarled and naked tree.
HOMESICK BLUES[19]
De railroad bridge’s A sad song in de air. De railroad bridge’s A sad song in de air. Ever time de trains pass I wants to go somewhere.
I went down to de station. Ma heart was in ma mouth. Went down to de station. Heart was in ma mouth. Lookin’ for a box car To roll me to de South.
Homesick blues, Lawd, ’S a terrible thing to have. Homesick blues is A terrible thing to have. To keep from cryin’ I opens ma mouth an’ laughs.
FANTASY IN PURPLE[20]
Beat the drums of tragedy for me. Beat the drums of tragedy and death. And let the choir sing a stormy song To drown the rattle of my dying breath.
Beat the drums of tragedy for me, And let the white violins whir thin and slow, But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun To go with me to the darkness where I go.
DREAM VARIATION[21]
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.
THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS[22]
I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
POEM[23]
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.
SUICIDE’S NOTE[24]
The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.
MOTHER TO SON[25]
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor-- Bare. But all the time I’s been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now-- For I’s still goin’, honey, I’s still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
A HOUSE IN TAOS
_Rain_ Thunder of the Rain God: And we three Smitten by beauty.
Thunder of the Rain God: And we three Weary, weary.
Thunder of the Rain God: And you, she and I Waiting for nothingness.
Do you understand the stillness Of this house in Taos Under the thunder of the Rain God?
_Sun_ That there should be a barren garden About his house in Taos Is not so strange, But that there should be three barren hearts In this one house in Taos,-- Who carries ugly things to show the sun?
_Moon_ Did you ask for the beaten brass of the moon? We can buy lovely things with money, You, she and I, Yet you seek, As though you could keep, This unbought loveliness of moon.
_Wind_ Touch our bodies, wind. Our bodies are separate, individual things. Touch our bodies, wind, But blow quickly Through the red, white, yellow skins Of our bodies To the terrible snarl, Not mine, Not yours, Not hers, But all one snarl of souls. Blow quickly, wind, Before we run back into the windlessness,-- With our bodies,-- Into the windlessness Of our house in Taos.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[17] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf. Inc., authorized publishers.
[18] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[19] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[20] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[21] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[22] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[23] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[24] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
[25] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers.
GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT
Gwendolyn B. Bennett was born in Giddings, Texas, on July 8th, 1902. Her father was a lawyer and her mother was a school teacher. She received her elementary training in the Public Schools of Washington, D. C., and Harrisburg, Pa. She was graduated from the Girls’ High School in Brooklyn, New York, during January, 1921. While she was in attendance there she was a member of the Felter Literary Society and the Girls’ High School Dramatic Society, being the first Negro girl to have been elected to either of these societies. In an open contest she was awarded the first prize for a poster bearing the slogan _Fresh Air Prevents Tuberculosis_.
She matriculated in the Fine Arts Department of Teachers’ College, Columbia University, where she remained for two years. She then entered the Normal Art Course at Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York. She was the author of her class play each of the two years she was there. In her Junior Year she played the leading part in the play which she had herself written. She was graduated from Pratt Institute June 1924.
She then became a member of the Howard University Faculty in Fine Arts as Instructor in Design, Water-color and Crafts. During the Christmas holidays of the school year 1924-25 Miss Bennett was awarded the Thousand Dollar Foreign Scholarship by the Alpha Sigma Chapter of the Delta Sigma Theta Sorority at its Annual Convention held in New York City.
She sailed for Cherbourg, France on June fifteenth, 1925. While in Paris she studied at the Académie Julian, The Académie Coloraossi and the École de Pantheon. Through the influence of Konrad Bercovici she was thrown in contact with the artist, Frans Masereel, one of France’s best known modern painters. M. and Mme. Masereel offered Miss Bennett the hospitality of their home and together with their circle of friends did much to encourage her in her work while in Paris. She returned to America during June 1926.
For the summer of 1926 she was employed at the _Opportunity_ magazine where she acted in the capacity of Assistant to the Editor. September 1926 she returned to Howard University where she resumed her classroom work after a year’s leave of absence.
QUATRAINS
1
Brushes and paints are all I have To speak the music in my soul-- While silently there laughs at me A copper jar beside a pale green bowl.
2
How strange that grass should sing-- Grass is so still a thing.... And strange the swift surprise of snow So soft it falls and slow.
SECRET
I shall make a song like your hair ... Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged, And I shall play with my song As my fingers might play with your hair. Deep in my heart I shall play with my song of you, _Gently_.... I shall laugh At its sensitive lustre ... I shall wrap my song in a blanket, Blue like your eyes are blue With tiny shots of silver. I shall wrap it caressingly, _Tenderly_.... I shall sing a lullaby To the song I have made Of your hair and eyes ... And you will never know That deep in my heart I shelter a song of you _Secretly_....
ADVICE
You were a sophist, Pale and quite remote, As you bade me Write poems-- Brown poems Of dark words And prehistoric rhythms ... Your pallor stifled my poesy But I remembered a tapestry That I would some day weave Of dim purples and fine reds And blues Like night and death-- The keen precision of your words Wove a silver thread Through the dusk softness Of my dream-stuff....
TO A DARK GIRL