An anthology of Negro poets

This is like 15 years. I'm going to read you the first point of mine to be published in a nationally known magazine the magazine of the crisis. The point is the Negro Speaks of rivers. It was written when I was 18 years old just out of high school. It goes like this. I've known rivers I've known Rivers ancient of the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins my soul has grown deep like the rivers I buried in the Euphrates when Don's were young. I built my heart near the Congo and it allowed me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramid 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.

And the second point is I to this point have perhaps been the most widely reprinted of all of my poems. It's been translated into practically every known language and particularly in Latin America it has been used for great many times in the past there and resided by their recitals and some people tell me that the Latin Americans take it as an expression of their own feeling in that they want to say that they too are a part of America. 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 be at the table when company comes. Nobody will dare say to me eat

in the kitchen. Then besides they'll see how beautiful we are and be ashamed. I too am America. Long gone. I like your kind of love in a never caught you wrong but it just ain't natural for to stay here alone it just a natural for a railroad man would travel and he cain't understand. I looked at the rails and I looked at the tie and I yelled an old freight puffin up to ride and ignites on the pallet when all is still. I listens Foti empted bumping up the hill. When I ought to be quiet I've got to hear the whistle blow put across an order which I don't know the time is in there and when I got to ride Oh it's homelike unhappy edges. You have done all you can do to make me stay. Tain't no fault of yours I was leavin just out away. I've

got to see some people I've never seen. Got a highball through some country where I never have been I don't know which way I'm traveling on. Allah knows for certain is I cain't stay here and I'll call it all sweet woman what a carryon Jesmyn name. And just my have it to be long gone. Ma. When Ma Rainey comes to town folks from any place miles around from Cape Girardeau Poplar Bluff. Flocks in to hear Ma do us stuff comes flivver any and all ride in mew packed in trains picnic and food. That's what it's like for miles on down to New Orleans Delta immobile time when Ma hit anywheres around they comes to hear from the Little River Settlement from Black Bottom

cornrows and from the lumber camp they stumble in the hall just a lap and a cackling cheering like roaring water like wind in river swamps and some jokers keep their laps or going into crowded and some folks would stay awake with their aches and miseries till ma comes out before him a smile and go to and lone boy ripples miners on the black and yellow a key me singing those songs now used back where you belong get away insiders people strong. Oh Ma Rainey little and low sing us about hard luck. Sing us about a lonesome road. We must go. I talk to a fallen fellow say she just catch hold of us some kind of way. She sang backwater blues one day in Rainbow days and the sky was dark as night.

Trouble taken place in the lowlands that night thunder and lightning in the dawn begin to roll thousands of people got no place to go and I went and stood upon somehow lonesome here and looked down on the place where I used to live and then a full and naturally bowed their heads and cry to have a head shut the mouths of Titan and Ma left to stay and fall and some of the folks outside there was a much more of a feller say he jest gets hold of that away. Three poems by Claude McKay St. Isaac's church Leningrad bow down my soul in worship very low and in the hooly Silence is the last bow down before the mob rule. Men often bow

down before the singing Angel host what to do will the glory fills my spirits. What golden grandeur moves the depths of me the soaring arches. Lift me up on high. Taking my breath with their rare symmetry bowed down mice through and to let the wondrous light of beauty bathed the from her lofty throne bowed down before the wonder of men's might bow down in worship. Humble and alone bowed down before the sacred sight of man's divinity. Alive in St.. The tropics in New York. But Nona's ripe and green and ginger root cocoa in pods and alligator tears and tangerines and mangoes and a grapefruit fit

for the highest prize at parish fairs set in the window bringing memories of fruit trees laden by loose singing rails and to Dewey dawns and mystical blue skies in benediction over a nun like heels my eyes grew dim and I could no more gaze a wave of longing. HOO MY BODY swept and hungry for the old familiar ways I turned aside and bowed my head and wept. If we must die is the poem that makes me a poet among colored Americans. Yet frankly I have never regarded myself as a newsgroup poet. I have always felt that my gift of song was something bigger than the narrow confines and limits of any one people and its problems. Even though many of my themes were racial I wrote my poems to make a

universal appeal when if we must die was first published in 1919 it was denounced by many conservative white leaders as evidence of a new spirit among us Senator Henry Cabot Lodge. Read it into the records of Congress. But times change and so I was not at all surprised when during the Nazi blitz Britain an English anthologist requested the use of if we must die for an anthology of verse. But I was surprised by what happened when I turned on my radio one morning in 1944. A commentator was telling about the death of a young white American soldier on the Russian front. The commentator went on to say that the youth was a lover of poetry and he proceeded to read one of five poems which had been discovered on the dead youth's body and he read.

If we must die. The commentator did not mention the name of the author Claude McGee nor did he state that the poem was the work of a colored man. Perhaps he did not know but I felt profoundly gratified and justified. I felt assurance that if we must die was just what I intended it to be a universal poem and we are ever men pressed with their backs against the wall. Abused. Outraged and murdered. Whether they are minorities our nation's black or brown our yellow or white Catholics Protestants of pagans fighting against the terror. If we must die could be appropriately read. If we must die let it not be like hogs hunted and penned in an inglorious spot while around us by the mad and hungry dogs making their mark.

Christy do a lot if we must die or let us nobody die. So without our precious blood may not be shed in vain. Then even the monsters we defy shall be constrained to honor us though dead kinsmen we must meet the common food the numbered letters show us brave and fall of the thousand blue was a deal one death blow. What before us lies the open grave like men we'll face the murderous cowardly pack pressed to the wall are dying but fighting back. I'd like to read heretic. I don't regard like a form of credit for recruitment. But I've been told that I kind of crime. Can think of a belief in some of my points. And the fifth. Through perhaps. The

appellate. And the way I like to think. I simply know more powerful thing like. There is no stronger than little song. You. Don't really. Want. To make. I'm pretty good way of melody. But I'm digressing. Parity. What is. Africa to me. Copper or. Crack. Already got black women from movie lines I run when the birds are going to bang. One to three removed from the. Fight to grow. Trees. What is Africa to me. I want to know that the.

Very. Goading Matthew Perry. Who got the flex that. Hold the fire and. Where young lovers lie for liking through the. Roadways here. Why cram again. My Yeah my family friends from Ghana. Really. Through the air. Found to pry here to stretch and joy if my collection can look damn good in last night's great things are flying but I fear my friend the fire but thinking not. We have a third. Africa. Look closely. I don't remember to have fact

prickling through the night crowd in the river really Rocky Flats but the river brings no more beautiful throated rock prior that flow leapt from the cabin where they'd left. But one foot here dropped the lovely coat where no provoking your fear left a mark and I did what you know naked next to me. We had noted the pretty flower to bring it up here. Color tinting or he had nobody going to wet dripping the Reagan went to red carpet to measure the young little boys and girls and what do you know to me last year. Anything but three but they must forget how we have started rolling toward. Our one block from now or

even what side bird would mean to wonder how to travel there meekly lay back in it. One of the free time totally removed from the fighting grow. Cinnamon three what is Africa to me. Or my people everywhere bringing their slaves songs repeatedly their dirty dishes and they are dead his and they are blues and you will be praying their prayers might lead to an unknown god bending their knee exam boy to an unseen power. For my people lending their strength to the years were gone years and are now years and maybe years washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending the whole thing plowing digging planting pruning patching dragging along never

gaining never reaping never knowing and never understanding. For my playmates I'm a clay and dust and sand of Alabama backyards playing baptizing and preaching and Dr and JL and soldier and school and mama and cooking and play house and concert and store and hair and Miss chimbley and company for a cramp to be builded years we went to school to learn to know the reasons why and the answers to and the people who did and the places where and the days when in memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we were black and poor and small and different and nobody cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood. For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to be a man and

woman to laugh and dance and sing and play and drink their wine and religion and success to marry their playmates and bear children and then die of consumption and anemia and lynching. For my people thronging Forty seventh Street in Chicago and Lomax Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New Orleans last disinherited defense possessed and the happy people filling the cabarets and taverns and other people's pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and glass and money and something something all our own. For my people walking blindly spreading joy losing time being lazy sleeping when hungry shouting when we're drinking or when hopeless

tired and shackled and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures who towered over us our mission play and laugh. For my people blundering and groping and floundering in the dark of churches and schools and clubs and societies associations and councils and committees and conventions distressed and disturbed and deceived and devoured by money hungry glory craving a leech is preyed on by Fatima a fourth of state and fads are novelty by false prophet and holy believer. For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way from confusion from hypocrisy and misunderstanding trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people all the faith is all the

atoms and the E and there are countless generations. That when you were through I love another world to be born. Let a bloody piece be written in the sky that a second generation full of courage issue for a lot of people loving freedom come to growth that of beauty full of healing and the strength of what I know quenching be the pulsing in our spirits and our blood like the marshal songs be written like a dirge is disappear. Let our race of men now rise and take control. Old Molly means was a Haganah with child of the devil the dark and sit her heavy hair hung thick in ropes and ablaze in eyes was black as pitch. You're back three and when Chad left she counted her husbands to the number seven. Oh Molly

Molly Molly me there goes the ghost of Molly means. Some say she was born with a veil on her face so she could look to our natural face to the future and to the pay and charm a body or an evil place. And every man could well despise the evil look in her coal black eyes. Old Molly Molly Molly dog is the ghost of Molly. And when the tale begun to spread of evil and of holy dread her black arts and her evil powers actually cast spells and call the day the young ones was afraid at night and the farmers fear their crops would blight. Old Molly Molly Molly says Coello movies is The Ghost. Of Marley Me. Then one dark day she put us spare our young gal bride just come to dwell in the lady. Just that I'm from Olive shack and

what husband come riding back. His wife was barking like a dog and almost was like a common all. Oh Molly Molly Molly means where is the ghost of Molly means. The neighbors come and they went away and said she died before break of day. But her husband held her in his arms and swore he'd break the wicked charms he'd search all up and down the land and turn the fellow on Molly's hair. Oh Molly Molly Molly means showup is the ghost of Molly means so he rode all day and he rode all night and at the dawn he come in sight of a man who said he could move the sparrow and cause the awful thing to do well on Molly means to bark and bleed but she died at the hands of her evil deed.

Molly Molly Molly me this is the ghost of Molly I mean sometimes that night through the shadowy tree she rides along on a winter breeze you can hear haha. And. Uncool. VOICE OF. This guy. And a cackling laugh rocking coal to bring terror to the younger I'm the one. Oh Molly Molly Molly me beneath is the ghost of Molly in this. Travis gal I ever did see was a gal babba name up carefully the toughest gal God ever made and she drew a dirty wicked boy. Now did she again I want always tough. Nobody dreamed she'd turn out rough but our grandma Mamie had the name of B in the town's CNN

chain. When we were young and good did nobody treat her like the huge Armageddon be bar no good shine and always quick to cry. And won. Tell our grandma said now listen to me. I'm tired of your whining and has to leave. People don't never treat you right and you all a scrap and all in a fight. When I was a gal was no soul could do me wrong and still stay whole. I got me a razor the top for me and after that they let me be. Well kissing Lee took her advice and after that he didn't speak twice. Because when she learned to stab and Ron she got herself a little gun And from that time that gal was mean mean if Mama you have a theme. She could hold her leg up and hold up man and she went to live just raisins right. One night she walked in

gems among them. And seen a guy what spoke to slim. He done had died long time ago when he was good and feelin low. Keirsey bought her drink. And she paid her back. Watchin this guy what be her passion. And he was making for the outside no. One cares if I'm to the low. Not a word she spoke. But she switched her blade. And passion than the low baby paid. Every livin guy got out of her way. Because Kilby was drawing her pay. She called Hugh Glass. Those. Are the hands that. She could take her arse out on the wildest binges and she died with our boots on. Switching blades on Talladega mountain in the liquor raids. That's that really was an alright glad to hear that carpenter and our band though

some do say to this very day he Kilmore feel that way. But anyhow the tailor. Asked Bakaly just happens to a big policeman on level streets. And all he noted was we do we do we. Or our. Or aspect he done some to bad night with that lady want any fish. And it may be incendiary but he coulda had a dyke in his pocket called the show one day. But one thing is for him and two things you know. His bullets made a hole no doc could Kyon. And that their crap was good Im done with the meth stack only and that blue boy is gone. But the funny thing about that job was he never got caught by no mob. And he missed the mention men for years had called Nobody knows half Bakaly died. Bad man stack only a normal. Bad man stack

early and no mo. But is go still walks up and down a show of Omar and river round New Orleans with gumbo rice and good rib. This here is a tale of a sho nuff man who at least one time in the Delta lay in his hand was big as a horse that ham. And used to work Bronco fam. His gums was blue and his voice was mellow. And he talked to me you know there was a fella. The day he was born in the Mississippi bottoms. He made a meal on buttermilk and Saddam. MSA pee and abated clams and when he finished he smacked his lips and went outside to a pick carton. And he growed up taller than a six foot childre skin. The kitchen barracuda and stronger than a team of oxen

and even could be a champion boxer and a narrow man index's forgotten how he could raise two bales of cotton while one hand anchored down the steamboat. Although no trail was ever wrote by Big John Henry that could start to tell all the things that big bore no world so well. How he learned to whistle from the whip poor will and turn the wheels what rare in the media. How to which is taught him how to conjure and cure all the karmic and ride the thunder. And I have made friends with along with me. Now. Then is just John Henry a gift in ROM but a ten pound hammer. Done killed John Henry. Yeah a ten pound hammer kill John Henry bust him open wide law rapped him over wide law told John Henry he and they.

Kitchenette building we are doing the dry hours and the involuntary plant grade is angry. Green makes a giddy sound not strong like rent feeding a wife satisfying a man. But could a dream send up through onion wind and violent fight with fried potatoes and yesterday's garbage ripening in the hall. Water. Or sing an aria down these. Even if we were willing to let it in and had time to warm it keep it very clean. Anticipate a message and let it begin. We wonder. But not well not for a minute since Number five is out of the bathroom now we think of lukewarm water. Hope to get in it.

A song in the front yard. I've stayed in the front yard all my life. I want to peek at the back door is rough and untended and hungry we grow. A girl gets sick of the room. I want to go in the backyard now and maybe down the alley to where the charity children play. I want a good time today. They do some wonderful things. They have some wonderful fun. My mother sneers but I say it's funny how they don't have to go in a corner to know my mother she tells me that Johnny may well grow up to be a bag woman that George will be taken to jail soon or late on account of last winter he sold her back gate. But I say it's fine honest I do and I'd like to be a bad woman too and wear the brave stockings of night black lady and stripe down the street with paint on

that day. The preacher ruminated behind a sermon I think it must be lonely to be God nobody loves the master. No. Despite the bright hold and bright dear Lord and bright determined reverence of Sandia picture Jehovah striding through the hall of his and more creatures running out from servant corners to a climb to shout appreciation of his merits glare. But who walk with dares to take his turn. Just slap him on the shoulder to ear his ear buy him a Coca-Cola or a beer who his politics call him or perhaps who know he tires of looking down those eyes are never lifted never straight. Perhaps sometimes he tires of being great in the fall or two without a hand to hold.

The children of the poor planet too. What shall I give my children who are poor who are the least wise of the world. Who are my students workers who demand Nobel and Nobel but who have begged me for a bridge crime to crime that they are quite say contraband because I'm finished graven by a hand less than angelic admirable or sure my hand is stocked with mold design devise but I lack access to my proper stone and learned to reply and shall not fight nor Greek nor life shall be enough alone to ratify my little head to bear a cross in our home re-using. All life to the men and women long ago and Africa

and Africa knew all there was of joy to know and sunny Africa the spices from tree to tree and spices trying to put in the air that carelessly fondled the twisted here the men and women richly thing in land of gold and green and red the bells of merriment. Rich they were but richness is long dead. All laughter chill old music down in bright bewildered act. The bamboo and the cinnamon are fair enough. Beverly Hill Chicago. The Dr. Brown coughing many there be only a while for the handy man is on his way. These people walk their Golden Girls. We say ourselves fortunate to be driving by today that we may look at them in their gardens where the former rightness route but

not regularly. Even the leaves fall down and love their patterns here and the rescue the refuse is a neat trillions when they fall sweetly into their houses to thaw and aloneness touched by that everlasting gold. We know what they go to to teach but that does not mean they will grow from little black dots into some water and add sugar and the juice of the cheap is why I'm a better soul while downstairs that woman baby Phonogram believe not me a kid and a living all to be made again. And I'm wondering as a physical man or tomorrow I'm not going anybody is saying that these people have no trouble merely that it is trouble with a goal like beautiful banner. Nobody is saying that these people do not also mean they cease to be and sometimes they're panting they're even more painful than ours. It is just that so often they live to their hair and fight they make excellent court among the expensive flowers.

Nobody is furious Nobody hates these people at least nobody driving by in this car. It is only natural however that it should occur to us how much more fortunate they are than we are. It is only natural that we should look at and look at their wood and brick and down and think while a breath of pine. How different these are from our own. We do not want them to have left but it is only natural that we should think we have not enough. We drive on we drive on. When we speak to each other our voices are a little gruff.