The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 7

"Here 'tis Christmas-time, an', folkses, I's indignant 'nough to choke.

Whah's our Christmas dinneh comin' when we's 'mos' completely broke?

I can't hahdly 'fo'd a toothpick an' a gla.s.s o' water. Mad?

Say, I'm desp'ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!"

Well, dey 'bused de white folks scan'lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris, Leanin' on his cane to s'pote him, on account his rheumatis', An' s' 'e: "Chilun, whut's dat wintry wind a-sighin' th'ough de street 'Bout yo' wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus' eat.

"Now, I seed a beau'ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun's fahm.

He's a-growin' fat an' sa.s.sy, an' a-struttin' to a chahm.

Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters--all de c.r.a.ps is fine dis year; All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here."

Well, we lit right in an' voted dat it was a gran idee, An' de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin' miles to see; An' we eat a full an' plenty, big an' little, great an' small, Not beca'se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat's all.

DREAM AND THE SONG

So oft our hearts, beloved lute, In blossomy haunts of song are mute; So long we pore, 'mid murmurings dull, O'er loveliness unutterable.

So vain is all our pa.s.sion strong!

The dream is lovelier than the song.

The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn Wan ashes. Still, from memory's urn, The lingering blossoms tenderly Refute our wilding minstrelsy.

Alas! we work but beauty's wrong!

The dream is lovelier than the song.

Yearned Sh.e.l.ley o'er the golden flame?

Left Keats for beauty's lure, a name But "writ in water"? Woe is me!

To grieve o'er flowerful faery.

My Phasian doves are flown so long-- The dream is lovelier than the song!

Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, The golden-winged bird is gone, And morn may gild, through s.h.i.+mmering leaves, Only the swallow-twittering eaves.

What art may house or gold prolong A dream far lovelier than a song?

The lilting witchery, the unrest Of winged dreams, is in our breast; But ever dear Fulfilment's eyes Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize, My lute, must to the G.o.ds belong.

The dream is lovelier than the song.

Daniel Webster Davis

'WEH DOWN SOUF

O, de birds ar' sweetly singin', 'Weh down Souf, An' de banjer is a-ringin', 'Weh down Souf; An' my heart it is a-sighin', Whil' de moments am a-flyin', Fur my hom' I am a-cryin', 'Weh down Souf.

Dar de pickaninnies 's playin', 'Weh down Souf, An' fur dem I am a-prayin', 'Weh down Souf; An' when I gits sum munny, Yo' kin bet I'm goin', my hunny, Fur de lan' dat am so sunny, 'Weh down Souf.

Whil' de win' up here's a-blowin', 'Weh down Souf De corn is sweetly growin', 'Weh down Souf.

Dey tells me here ub freedum, But I ain't a-gwine to heed um, But I'se gwine fur to lebe um, Fur 'weh down Souf.

I bin up here a-wuckin', From 'weh down Souf, An' I ain't a bin a-shurkin'-- I'm frum 'weh down Souf; But I'm gittin' mighty werry, An' de days a-gittin' drerry, An' I'm hongry, O, so berry, Fur my hom' down Souf.

O, de moon dar s.h.i.+nes de brighter, 'Weh down Souf, An' I know my heart is lighter, 'Weh down Souf; An' de berry thought brings pledjur, I'll be happy dar 'dout medjur, Fur dar I hab my tredjur, 'Weh down Souf.

HOG MEAT

Deze eatin' folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam', An' de toofsumnis ub tuckey et wid cel'ry an' wid jam; Ub beef-st'ak fried wid unyuns, an' sezoned up so fine-- But you' jes' kin gimme hog-meat, an' I'm happy all de time.

When de fros' is on de pun'kin an' de sno'-flakes in de ar', I den begin rejoicin'--hog-killin' time is near; An' de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams, Fur de time is fas' a-comin' fur de 'lishus pork an' beans.

We folks dat's frum de kuntry may be behin' de sun-- We don't like city eatin's, wid beefsteaks dat ain' done-- 'Dough mutton chops is splendid, an' dem veal cutlits fine, To me 'tain't like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine.

Jes' talk to me 'bout hog-meat, ef yo' want to see me pleased, Fur biled wid beans tiz gor'jus, or made in hog-head cheese; An' I could jes' be happy, 'dout money, cloze or house, Wid plenty yurz an' pig feet made in ol'-fashun "souse."

I 'fess I'm only humun, I hab my joys an' cares-- Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar' fair; But I forgib my in'miz, my heart is free frum hate, When my bread is filled wid cracklins an' dar's chidlins on my plate.

'Dough 'possum meat is glo'yus wid 'taters in de pan, But put 'longside pork sa.s.sage it takes a backward stan'; Ub all yer fancy eatin's, jes gib to me fur mine Sum souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine.

William H.A. Moore

DUSK SONG

The garden is very quiet to-night, The dusk has gone with the Evening Star, And out on the bay a lone s.h.i.+p light Makes a silver pathway over the bar Where the sea sings low.

I follow the light with an earnest eye, Creeping along to the thick far-away, Until it fell in the depths of the deep, dark sky With the haunting dream of the dusk of day And its lovely glow.

Long nights, long nights and the whisperings of new ones, Flame the line of the pathway down to the sea With the halo of new dreams and the hallow of old ones, And they bring magic light to my love reverie And a lover's regret.

Tender sorrow for loss of a soft murmured word, Tender measure of doubt in a faint, aching heart, Tender listening for wind-songs in the tree heights heard When you and I were of the dusks a part, Are with me yet.

I pray for faith to the n.o.ble spirit of s.p.a.ce, I sound the cosmic depths for the measure of glory Which will bring to this earth the imperishable race Of whom Beauty dreamed in the soul-toned story The Prophets told.

Silence and love and deep wonder of stars Dust-silver the heavens from west to east, From south to north, and in a maze of bars Invisible I wander far from the feast As night grows old.

Half blind is my vision I know to the truth, My ears are half deaf to the voice of the tear That touches the silences as Autumn's ruth Steals thru the dusks of each returning year A goodly friend.

The Autumn, then Winter and wintertime's grief!

But the weight of the snow is the glistening gift Which loving brings to the rose and its leaf, For the days of the roses glow in the drift And never end.

The moon has come. Wan and pallid is she.

The spell of half memories, the touch of half tears, And the wounds of worn pa.s.sions she brings to me With all the tremor of the far-off years And their mad wrong.