The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 20

What guerdon is in store For gallant France, for glorious France, And all her valiant corps?

"Behold I live, and France, like me, Shall live for evermore."

DEAD FIRES

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.

Better the wound forever seeking balm Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath Than pa.s.sion's death!

ORIFLAMME

"I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!'"--_Sojourner Truth_.

I think I see her sitting bowed and black, Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet Still looking at the stars.

Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, Still visioning the stars!

OBLIVION

_From the French of Ma.s.sillon Coicou (Haiti)_

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why, But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot Unknown to every one, by every one forgot.

There lying I should taste with my dead breath The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, The tribute paid by pa.s.sersby to tombs of state.

To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears; There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness.

Anne Spencer

BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN

Garden of Shushan!

After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye; Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when Drowsy, s.h.i.+fting palm-shade enspells the brain; And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to Stir all dark, and dear, and pa.s.sionate desire, till mine Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind-- Slave, send Vashti to her King!

The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame The marbled towers of Shushan: So at each day's wane, two peers--the one in Heaven, the other on earth--welcome with their Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.

Cus.h.i.+oned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee Finding glory for mine head,--still, nearly shamed Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; Then--Sharon's Rose in my arms.

And I am hard to force the petals wide; And you are fast to suffer and be sad.

Is any prophet come to teach a new thing Now in a more apt time?

Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine; How to the altar may not come to break and drink, Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit!

I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn; I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger.

I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list.

No woman in all Persia sets out strange action To confuse Persia's lord-- Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; I, thy King, so say!

AT THE CARNIVAL

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 a.s.signations, and lied To call it dancing; There, too, were games of chance With chances for none; But oh! 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 G.o.d.

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!

THE WIFE-WOMAN

Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things From earth to star; Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and Over the border the bar.

Though rank and fierce the mariner Sailing the seven seas, He prays, as he holds his gla.s.s to his eyes, Coaxing the Pleiades.

I cannot love them; and I feel your glad Chiding from the grave, That my all was only worth at all, what Joy to you it gave.

These seven links the _Law_ compelled For the human chain-- I cannot love _them_; and _you_, oh, Seven-fold months in Flanders slain!

A jungle there, a cave here, bred six And a million years, Sure and strong, mate for mate, such Love as culture fears; I gave you clear the oil and wine; You saved me your hob and hearth-- See how _even_ life may be ere the Sickle comes and leaves a swath.

But I can wait the seven of moons, Or years I spare, h.o.a.rding the heart's plenty, nor spend A drop, nor share-- So long but outlives a smile and A silken gown; Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, And you, glory-clad, reach down.

TRANSLATION

We trekked into a far country, My friend and I.

Our deeper content was never spoken, But each knew all the other said.

He told me how calm his soul was laid By the lack of anvil and strife.

"The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note To please the harmony of this sweet silence."

And when at the day's end We laid tired bodies 'gainst The loose warm sands, And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; When star after star came out To guard their lovers in oblivion-- My soul so leapt that my evening prayer Stole my morning song!

DUNBAR

Ah, how poets sing and die!

Make one song and Heaven takes it; Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; Chatterton, Sh.e.l.ley, Keats and I-- Ah, how poets sing and die!