Part 8

I love you for your brownness And the rounded darkness of your breast. I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk And something of the shackled slave Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow’s mate, Keep all you have of queenliness, Forgetting that you once were slave, And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

YOUR SONGS

When first you sang a song to me With laughter shining from your eyes, You trolled your music liltingly With cadences of glad surprise.

In after years I heard you croon In measures delicately slow Of trees turned silver by the moon And nocturnes sprites and lovers know.

And now I cannot hear you sing, But love still holds your melody For silence is a sounding thing To one who listens hungrily.

FANTASY

I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night Where you were the dusk-eyed queen, And there in the pallor of moon-veiled light The loveliest things were seen ...

A slim-necked peacock sauntered there In a garden of lavender hues, And you were strange with your purple hair As you sat in your amethyst chair With your feet in your hyacinth shoes.

Oh, the moon gave a bluish light Through the trees in the land of dreams and night. I stood behind a bush of yellow-green And whistled a song to the dark-haired queen ...

LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF ALEXANDER DUMAS

Cemeteries are places for departed souls And bones interred, Or hearts with shattered loves. A woman with lips made warm for laughter Would find grey stones and roving spirits Too chill for living, moving pulses ... And thou, great spirit, wouldst shiver in thy granite shroud Should idle mirth or empty talk Disturb thy tranquil sleeping.

A cemetery is a place for shattered loves And broken hearts.... Bowed before the crystal chalice of thy soul, I find the multi-colored fragrance of thy mind Has lost itself in Death’s transparency.

Oh, stir the lucid waters of thy sleep And coin for me a tale Of happy loves and gems and joyous limbs And hearts where love is sweet!

A cemetery is a place for broken hearts And silent thought ... And silence never moves, Nor speaks nor sings.

HATRED

I shall hate you Like a dart of singing steel Shot through still air At even-tide. Or solemnly As pines are sober When they stand etched Against the sky. Hating you shall be a game Played with cool hands And slim fingers. Your heart will yearn For the lonely splendor Of the pine tree; While rekindled fires In my eyes Shall wound you like swift arrows. Memory will lay its hands Upon your breast And you will understand My hatred.

SONNET

1

He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black-- A lover come from legends long ago--With silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow, And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back In a carven sheath of Tamarack. He came with footsteps beautifully slow, And spoke in voice meticulously low. He came and Romance followed in his track....

I did not ask his name--I thought him Love; I did not care to see his hidden face. All life seemed born in my intaken breath; All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove. He bent to kiss and raised his visor’s lace ... All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death.

SONNET

2

Some things are very dear to me-- Such things as flowers bathed by rain Or patterns traced upon the sea Or crocuses where snow has lain ... The iridescence of a gem, The moon’s cool opalescent light, Azaleas and the scent of them, And honeysuckles in the night. And many sounds are also dear-- Like winds that sing among the trees Or crickets calling from the weir Or Negroes humming melodies. But dearer far than all surmise Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes.

ARNA BONTEMPS

Arna Bontemps explains that he was just tall enough to see above window sills when the first trolley car came down Lee Street in Alexandria, La. His mother, Marie Pembroke, had been born in this same town but his father had come out of Marksville, a smaller town of that state. Though exceedingly young and very frail, Marie Pembroke had taught school until her marriage, while her husband, Paul Bontemps, was a brick mason, the son and grandson of brick masons.

With Arna Bontemps in his third year and a second child, a girl, just past one, the family left the South for San Francisco. However, they stopped in Los Angeles to visit relatives and have never moved further. Here the boy’s mother died some nine years later and here his father is still living. Here also he received his early education in a rather irregular attendance of a number of schools. He went through the schools rapidly enough and in spite of being out several years received a college degree in his twentieth year.

In the year following that he lost his illusions with reference to a musical career and returned to an original intention to eat bread by the sweat of teaching school. It is to be remembered that he went to college first with the purpose of taking a medical course but it took him only a day or two to decide better.

He lives in New York City and is now twenty-four and married.

THE RETURN

I

Once more, listening to the wind and rain, Once more, you and I, and above the hurting sound Of these comes back the throbbing of remembered rain, Treasured rain falling on dark ground. Once more, huddling birds upon the leaves And summer trembling on a withered vine. And once more, returning out of pain, The friendly ghost that was your love and mine.

II

Darkness brings the jungle to our room: The throb of rain is the throb of muffled drums. Darkness hangs our room with pendulums Of vine and in the gathering gloom Our walls recede into a denseness of Surrounding trees. This is a night of love Retained from those lost nights our fathers slept In huts; this is a night that must not die. Let us keep the dance of rain our fathers kept And tread our dreams beneath the jungle sky.

III

And now the downpour ceases. Let us go back once more upon the glimmering leaves And as the throbbing of the drums increases Shake the grass and dripping boughs of trees. A dry wind stirs the palm; the old tree grieves.

_Time has charged the years: the old days have returned._

Let us dance by metal waters burned With gold of moon, let us dance With naked feet beneath the young spice trees. What was that light, that radiance On your face?--something I saw when first You passed beneath the jungle tapestries?

A moment we pause to quench our thirst Kneeling at the water’s edge, the gleam Upon your face is plain: you have wanted this. Let us go back and search the tangled dream And as the muffled drum-beats throb and miss Remember again how early darkness comes To dreams and silence to the drums.

IV

Let us go back into the dusk again, Slow and sad-like following the track Of blowing leaves and cool white rain Into the old gray dream, let us go back. Our walls close about us we lie and listen To the noise of the street, the storm and the driven birds. A question shapes your lips, your eyes glisten Retaining tears, but there are no more words.

A BLACK MAN TALKS OF REAPING

I have sown beside all waters in my day. I planted deep, within my heart the fear That wind or fowl would take the grain away. I planted safe against this stark, lean year.

I scattered seed enough to plant the land In rows from Canada to Mexico But for my reaping only what the hand Can hold at once is all that I can show.

Yet what I sowed and what the orchard yields My brother’s sons are gathering stalk and root, Small wonder then my children glean in fields They have not sown, and feed on bitter fruit.

TO A YOUNG GIRL LEAVING THE HILL COUNTRY

The hills are wroth; the stones have scored you bitterly Because you looked upon the naked sun Oblivious of them, because you did not see The trees you touched or mountains that you walked upon.

But there will come a day of darkness in the land, A day wherein remembered sun alone comes through To mark the hills; then perhaps you’ll understand Just how it was you drew from them and they from you.

For there will be a bent old woman in that day Who, feeling something of this country in her bones, Will leave her house tapping with a stick, who will (they say) Come back to seek the girl she was in these familiar stones.

NOCTURNE AT BETHESDA

I thought I saw an angel flying low, I thought I saw the flicker of a wing Above the mulberry trees; but not again. Bethesda sleeps. This ancient pool that healed A host of bearded Jews does not awake. This pool that once the angels troubled does not move. No angel stirs it now, no Saviour comes With healing in His hands to raise the sick And bid the lame man leap upon the ground.

The golden days are gone. Why do we wait So long upon the marble steps, blood Falling from our open wounds? and why Do our black faces search the empty sky? Is there something we have forgotten? some precious thing We have lost, wandering in strange lands?

There was a day, I remember now, I beat my breast and cried, “Wash me God, Wash me with a wave of wind upon The barley; O quiet One, draw near, draw near! Walk upon the hills with lovely feet And in the waterfall stand and speak.

“Dip white hands in the lily pool and mourn Upon the harps still hanging in the trees Near Babylon along the river’s edge, But oh, remember me, I pray, before The summer goes and rose leaves lose their red.”

The old terror takes my heart, the fear Of quiet waters and of faint twilights. There will be better days when I am gone And healing pools where I cannot be healed. Fragrant stars will gleam forever and ever Above the place where I lie desolate.

Yet I hope, still I long to live. And if there can be returning after death I shall come back. But it will not be here; If you want me you must search for me Beneath the palms of Africa. Or if I am not there then you may call to me Across the shining dunes, perhaps I shall Be following a desert caravan.

I may pass through centuries of death With quiet eyes, but I’ll remember still A jungle tree with burning scarlet birds. There is something I have forgotten, some precious thing. I shall be seeking ornaments of ivory, I shall be dying for a jungle fruit.

You do not hear, Bethesda. O still green water in a stagnant pool! Love abandoned you and me alike. There was a day you held a rich full moon Upon your heart and listened to the words Of men now dead and saw the angels fly. There is a simple story on your face; Years have wrinkled you. I know, Bethesda! You are sad. It is the same with me.

LENGTH OF MOON

Then the golden hour Will tick its last And the flame will go down in the flower.

A briefer length of moon Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune.

Then we may think of this, yet There will be something forgotten And something we should forget.

It will be like all things we know: The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go.

It will be quiet then and we may stay As long at the picket gate But there will be less to say.

LANCELOT

The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine, And leaves are crisping on the garden wall. Leaves on the garden path are wet and rain Drips from the low shrubs with a steady fall.

It is long, so long since I was here, Elaine, Moles have gnawed the rose tree at its root; You did not think that I would come again, Least of all in the day of falling fruit.

GETHSEMANE

All that night I walked alone and wept. I tore a rose and dropped it on the ground. My heart was lead; all that night I kept Listening to hear a dreadful sound.

A tree bent down and dew dripped from its hair. The earth was warm; dawn came solemnly. I stretched full-length upon the grass and there I said your name but silence answered me.

A TREE DESIGN

A tree is more than a shadow Blurred against the sky, More than ink spilled on the fringe Of white clouds floating by. A tree is more than an April design Or a blighted winter bough Where love and music used to be. A tree is something in me, Very still and lonely now.

BLIGHT

I have seen a lovely thing Stark before a whip of weather: The tree that was so wistful after spring Beating barren twigs together.

The birds that came there one by one, The sensuous leaves that used to sway And whisper there at night, all are gone, Each has vanished in its way.

And this whip is on my heart; There is no sound that it allows, No little song that I may start But I hear the beating of dead boughs.

THE DAY-BREAKERS

We are not come to wage a strife With swords upon this hill. It is not wise to waste the life Against a stubborn will. Yet would we die as some have done: Beating a way for the rising sun.

CLOSE YOUR EYES!

Go through the gates with closed eyes. Stand erect and let your black face front the west. Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies; A woodman on the hill must have his rest.

Go where leaves are lying brown and wet. Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you, And every face you ever loved forget. Close your eyes; walk bravely through.

GOD GIVE TO MEN

God give the yellow man An easy breeze at blossom time. Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover Every land and dream Of afterwhile.

Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs To whirl in tall buildings. Allow them many ships at sea, And on land, soldiers And policemen.

For black man, God, No need to bother more But only fill afresh his meed Of laughter, His cup of tears.

God suffer little men The taste of soul’s desire.

HOMING

Sweet timber land Where soft winds blow The high green tree And fan away the fog! Ah fragrant stream Where thirsty creatures go And strong black men Hew the heavy log!

Oh broken house Crumbling there alone, Wanting me! Oh silent tree Must I always be A wild bird Riding the wind And screaming bitterly?

GOLGOTHA IS A MOUNTAIN

Golgotha is a mountain, a purple mound Almost out of sight. One night they hanged two thieves there, And another man. Some women wept heavily that night; Their tears are flowing still. They have made a river; Once it covered me. Then the people went away and left Golgotha Deserted. Oh, I’ve seen many mountains: Pale purple mountains melting in the evening mists and blurring on the borders of the sky. I climbed old Shasta and chilled my hands in its summer snows. I rested in the shadow of Popocatepetl and it whispered to me of daring prowess. I looked upon the Pyrenees and felt the zest of warm exotic nights. I slept at the foot of Fujiyama and dreamed of legend and of death. And I’ve seen other mountains rising from the wistful moors like the breasts of a slender maiden. Who knows the mystery of mountains! Some of them are awful, others are just lonely.

* * * * *

Italy has its Rome and California has San Francisco, All covered with mountains. Some think these mountains grew Like ant hills Or sand dunes. That might be so-- I wonder what started them all! Babylon is a mountain And so is Ninevah, With grass growing on them; Palaces and hanging gardens started them. I wonder what is under the hills In Mexico And Japan! There are mountains in Africa too. Treasure is buried there: Gold and precious stones And moulded glory. Lush grass is growing there Sinking before the wind. Black men are bowing. Naked in that grass Digging with their fingers. I am one of them: Those mountains should be ours. It would be great To touch the pieces of glory with our hands. These mute unhappy hills, Bowed down with broken backs, Speak often one to another: “A day is as a year,” they cry, “And a thousand years as one day.” We watched the caravan That bore our queen to the courts of Solomon; And when the first slave traders came We bowed our heads. “Oh, Brothers, it is not long! Dust shall yet devour the stones But we shall be here when they are gone.” Mountains are rising all around me. Some are so small they are not seen; Others are large. All of them get big in time and people forget What started them at first. Oh the world is covered with mountains! Beneath each one there is something buried: Some pile of wreckage that started it there. Mountains are lonely and some are awful.

* * * * *

One day I will crumble. They’ll cover my heap with dirt and that will make a mountain. I think it will be Golgotha.

ALBERT RICE

I am a native of our Capital City, born in the Mauve Decade (1903). My schooling has been in the Washington grammar and high schools. It was while a student at Dunbar High School that I felt a restless urge to write something other than dull formal paragraphs in English. I made several attempts at verse but found them so poor that I hastily put such ideas behind me.

After leaving high school I entered the government service in Washington, but my radical views could not become reconciled to the conservative bourgeoise ideals around me; so I left the government service and journeyed to New York in the winter of 1926. Here I served an apprenticeship in literary vagabondage with the bizarre and eccentric young vagabond poet of High Harlem, Richard Bruce. It was here that I felt inspired to write “The Black Madonna.” I was one evening at vespers down at St. Mary’s the Virgin, and while lost in contemplation before Our Lady, I thought of a Madonna of swart skin, a Madonna of dark mien.

Despite my radicalism I am religious. I admire the socialist form of government, and my favorite poet is Claude McKay. And some day I hope to flee the shores of this exquisite hell. My temperament is Latin. I abhor all things Anglo-Saxon. I’d rather live in the squalor of Mulberry Street, N. Y. (Little Italy) than at Irvington-on-the-Hudson. I love bull fights and dislike baseball games. I like dancing and dislike prayer meetings. I love New York because it is crowded and noisy and an outpost of Europe. Of my home here in Washington I have not much to offer. I like Washington because it has such a large share of Babbitts, both white and black. And I like it because Georgia Douglas Johnson lives there and on Saturday nights has an assembly of likable and civilized people, and because it was from this Saturday night circle that Jean Toomer, Richard Bruce, and Richard Goodwin, the artist, went forth to fame and infamy.

THE BLACK MADONNA

Not as the white nations know thee O Mother!

But swarthy of cheek and full-lipped as the child races are.

Yet thou art she, the Immaculate Maid, and none other,

Crowned in the stable at Bethlehem, hailed of the star.

See where they come, thy people, so humbly appealing,

From the ancient lands where the olden faiths had birth.

Tired dusky hands uplifted for thy healing.

Pity them, Mother, the untaught of earth.

COUNTEE CULLEN

Born in New York City, May 30, 1903, and reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage, Countee Cullen’s chief problem has been that of reconciling a Christian upbringing with a pagan inclination. His life so far has not convinced him that the problem is insoluble. Educated in the elementary and high schools of New York City, with an A.B. degree and a Phi Beta Kappa Key from New York University, an M.A. from Harvard, arrantly opposed to any form of enforced racial segregation, he finds it a matter of growing regret that no part of his academic education has been drawn from a racial school. As a poet he is a rank conservative, loving the measured line and the skillful rhyme; but not blind to the virtues of those poets who will not be circumscribed; and he is thankful indeed for the knowledge that should he ever desire to go adventuring, the world is rife with paths to choose from. He has said, perhaps with a reiteration sickening to some of his friends, that he wishes any merit that may be in his work to flow from it solely as the expression of a poet--with no racial consideration to bolster it up. He is still of the same thought. At present he is employed as Assistant Editor of _Opportunity, A Journal of Negro Life_.

His published works are _Color_, _The Ballad of the Brown Girl_, and _Copper Sun_.

LINES TO OUR ELDERS

You too listless to examine If in pestilence or famine Death lurk least, a hungry gamin Gnawing on you like a beaver On a root, while you trifle Time away nodding in the sun, Careless how the shadows crawl Surely up your crumbling wall, Heedless of the Thief’s footfall, Death’s, whose nimble fingers rifle Your heartbeats one by weary one,-- Here’s the difference in our dying: You go dawdling, we go flying. Here’s a thought flung out to plague you: Ours the pleasure if we’d liever Burn completely with the fever Than go ambling with the ague.

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH LIFE

(With apologies to the memory of Alan Seeger)

I have a rendezvous with Life In days I hope will come Ere youth has sped and strength of mind, Ere voices sweet grown dumb; I have a rendezvous with Life When Spring’s first heralds hum. It may be I shall greet her soon, Shall riot at her behest; It may be I shall seek in vain The peace of her downy breast; Yet I would keep this rendezvous, And deem all hardships sweet, If at the end of the long white way, There Life and I shall meet. Sure some will cry it better far To crown their days in sleep, Than face the wind, the road, and rain, To heed the falling deep; Though wet, nor blow, nor space I fear, Yet fear I deeply, too, Lest Death shall greet and claim me ere I keep Life’s rendezvous.

PROTEST