The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 19

IS IT BECAUSE I AM BLACK?

Why do men smile when I speak, And call my speech The whimperings of a babe That cries but knows not what it wants?

Is it because I am black?

Why do men sneer when I arise And stand in their councils, And look them eye to eye, And speak their tongue?

Is it because I am black?

THE BAND OF GIDEON

The band of Gideon roam the sky, The howling wind is their war-cry, The thunder's roll 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d.

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."

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-- G.o.d, 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 days that are gone, And quiet for the little s.p.a.ce That I must journey on.

Roscoe C. Jamison

THE NEGRO SOLDIERS

These truly are the Brave, These men who cast aside Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide That moves away, to suffer and to die For Freedom--when their own is yet denied!

O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pa.s.s by, Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified!

These truly are the Free, These souls that grandly rise Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs, Who march to war with visions in their eyes Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs, Aforetime, while they front the firing line.

Stand and behold! They take the field to-day, Shedding their blood like Him now held divine, That those who mock might find a better way!

Jessie Fauset

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 gra.s.sy 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.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE

Oh little Christ, why do you sigh As you look down to-night On breathless France, on bleeding France, And all her dreadful plight?

What bows your childish head so low?

What turns your cheek so white?

Oh little Christ, why do you moan, What is it that you see In mourning France, in martyred France, And her great agony?

Does she recall your own dark day, Your own Gethsemane?

Oh little Christ, why do you weep, Why flow your tears so sore For pleading France, for praying France, A suppliant at G.o.d's door?

"G.o.d sweetened not my cup," you say, "Shall He for France do more?"

Oh little Christ, what can this mean, Why must this horror be For fainting France, for faithful France, And her sweet chivalry?

"I bled to free all men," you say "France bleeds to keep men free."

Oh little, lovely Christ--you smile!