Part 2

Crisp lightning flashed; a wave of thunder shook My wing; a pause, and then a speaking, “Look.”

I scarce dared trust my ears or eyes for awe Of what they heard, and dread of what they saw; For, privileged beyond degree, this flesh Beheld God and His heaven in the mesh Of Lucifer’s revolt, saw Lucifer Glow like the sun, and like a dulcimer I heard his sin-sweet voice break on the yell Of God’s great warriors: Gabriel, Saint Clair and Michael, Israfel and Raphael. And strange it was to see God with His back Against a wall, to see Christ hew and hack Till Lucifer, pressed by the mighty pair, And losing inch by inch, clawed at the air With fevered wings; then, lost beyond repair, He tricked a mass of stars into his hair; He filled his hands with stars, crying as he fell, “A star’s a star although it burns in hell.” So God was left to His divinity, Omnipotent at that most costly fee.

There was a lesson here, but still the clod In me was sycophant unto the rod, And cried, “Why mock me thus? Am I a god?”

“_One trial more: this failing, then I give You leave to die; no further need to live._”

Now suddenly a strange wild music smote A chord long impotent in me; a note Of jungles, primitive and subtle, throbbed Against my echoing breast, and tom-toms sobbed In every pulse-beat of my frame. The din A hollow log bound with a python’s skin Can make wrought every nerve to ecstasy, And I was wind and sky again, and sea, And all sweet things that flourish, being free.

Till all at once the music changed its key.

And now it was of bitterness and death, The cry the lash extorts, the broken breath Of liberty enchained; and yet there ran Through all a harmony of faith in man, A knowledge all would end as it began. All sights and sounds and aspects of my race Accompanied this melody, kept pace With it; with music all their hopes and hates Were charged, not to be downed by all the fates. And somehow it was borne upon my brain How being dark, and living through the pain Of it, is courage more than angels have. I knew What storms and tumults lashed the tree that grew This body that I was, this cringing I That feared to contemplate a changing sky, This that I grovelled, whining, “Let me die,” While others struggled in Life’s abattoir. The cries of all dark people near or far Were billowed over me, a mighty surge Of suffering in which my puny grief must merge And lose itself; I had no further claim to urge For death; in shame I raised my dust-grimed head, And though my lips moved not, God knew I said, “Lord, not for what I saw in flesh or bone Of fairer men; not raised on faith alone; Lord, I will live persuaded by mine own. I cannot play the recreant to these; My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.”

With the whiz of a sword that severs space, The wing dropped down at a dizzy pace, And flung me on my hill flat on my face; Flat on my face I lay defying pain, Glad of the blood in my smallest vein, And in my hands I clutched a loyal dream, Still spitting fire, bright twist and coil and gleam, And chiselled like a hound’s white tooth. “Oh, I will match you yet,” I cried, “to truth.”

Right glad I was to stoop to what I once had spurned, Glad even unto tears; I laughed aloud; I turned Upon my back, and though the tears for joy would run, My sight was clear; I looked and saw the rising sun.

_Heritage_

(_For Harold Jackman_)

What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? _One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?_

So I lie, who all day long Want no sound except the song Sung by wild barbaric birds Goading massive jungle herds, Juggernauts of flesh that pass Trampling tall defiant grass Where young forest lovers lie, Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie, who always hear, Though I cram against my ear Both my thumbs, and keep them there, Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie, whose fount of pride, Dear distress, and joy allied, Is my somber flesh and skin, With the dark blood dammed within Like great pulsing tides of wine That, I fear, must burst the fine Channels of the chafing net Where they surge and foam and fret.

Africa? A book one thumbs Listlessly, till slumber comes. Unremembered are her bats Circling through the night, her cats Crouching in the river reeds, Stalking gentle flesh that feeds By the river brink; no more Does the bugle-throated roar Cry that monarch claws have leapt From the scabbards where they slept. Silver snakes that once a year Doff the lovely coats you wear, Seek no covert in your fear Lest a mortal eye should see; What’s your nakedness to me? Here no leprous flowers rear Fierce corollas in the air; Here no bodies sleek and wet, Dripping mingled rain and sweat, Tread the savage measures of Jungle boys and girls in love. What is last year’s snow to me, Last year’s anything? The tree Budding yearly must forget How its past arose or set-- Bough and blossom, flower, fruit, Even what shy bird with mute Wonder at her travail there, Meekly labored in its hair. _One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?_

So I lie, who find no peace Night or day, no slight release From the unremittant beat Made by cruel padded feet Walking through my body’s street. Up and down they go, and back, Treading out a jungle track. So I lie, who never quite Safely sleep from rain at night-- I can never rest at all When the rain begins to fall; Like a soul gone mad with pain I must match its weird refrain; Ever must I twist and squirm, Writhing like a baited worm, While its primal measures drip Through my body, crying, “Strip! Doff this new exuberance. Come and dance the Lover’s Dance!” In an old remembered way Rain works on me night and day.

Quaint, outlandish heathen gods Black men fashion out of rods, Clay, and brittle bits of stone, In a likeness like their own, My conversion came high-priced; I belong to Jesus Christ, Preacher of humility; Heathen gods are naught to me.

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, So I make an idle boast; Jesus of the twice-turned cheek, Lamb of God, although I speak With my mouth thus, in my heart Do I play a double part. Ever at Thy glowing altar Must my heart grow sick and falter, Wishing He I served were black, Thinking then it would not lack Precedent of pain to guide it, Let who would or might deride it; Surely then this flesh would know Yours had borne a kindred woe. Lord, I fashion dark gods, too, Daring even to give You Dark despairing features where, Crowned with dark rebellious hair, Patience wavers just so much as Mortal grief compels, while touches Quick and hot, of anger, rise To smitten cheek and weary eyes. Lord, forgive me if my need Sometimes shapes a human creed.

_All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood. Lest a hidden ember set Timber that I thought was wet Burning like the dryest flax, Melting like the merest wax, Lest the grave restore its dead. Not yet has my heart or head In the least way realized They and I are civilized._

_Epitaphs_

_For a Poet_

I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold; Where long will cling the lips of the moth, I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; I hide no hate; I am not even wroth Who found earth’s breath so keen and cold; I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold.

_For My Grandmother_

This lovely flower fell to seed; Work gently, sun and rain; She held it as her dying creed That she would grow again.

_For a Cynic_

Birth is a crime All men commit; Life gives them time To atone for it; Death ends the rhyme As the price for it.

_For a Singer_

Death clogged this flute At its highest note; Song sleeps here mute In this breathless throat.

_For a Virgin_

For forty years I shunned the lust Inherent in my clay; Death only was so amorous I let him have his way.

_For a Lady I Know_

She even thinks that up in heaven Her class lies late and snores, While poor black cherubs rise at seven To do celestial chores.

_For a Lovely Lady_

A creature slender as a reed, And sad-eyed as a doe Lies here (but take my word for it, And do not pry below).

_For an Atheist_

Mountains cover me like rain, Billows whirl and rise; Hide me from the stabbing pain In His reproachful eyes.

_For an Evolutionist and His Opponent_

Showing that our ways agreed, Death is proof enough; Body seeks the primal clay, Soul transcends the slough.

_For an Anarchist_

What matters that I stormed and swore? Not Samson with an ass’s jaw, Not though a forest of hair he wore, Could break death’s adamantine law.

_For a Magician_

I whose magic could explore Ways others might not guess or see, Now am barred behind a door That has no “Open Sesame.”

_For a Pessimist_

He wore his coffin for a hat, Calamity his cape, While on his face a death’s-head sat And waved a bit of crape.

_For a Mouthy Woman_

God and the devil still are wrangling Which should have her, which repel; God wants no discord in his heaven; Satan has enough in hell.

_For a Philosopher_

Here lies one who tried to solve The riddle of being and breath: The wee blind mole that gnaws his bones Tells him the answer is death.

_For an Unsuccessful Sinner_

I boasted my sins were sure to sink me Out of all sound and sight of glory; And the most I’ve won for all my pains Is a century of purgatory.

_For a Fool_

On earth the wise man makes the rules, And is the fool’s adviser, But here the wise are as the fools, (And no man is the wiser).

_For One Who Gayly Sowed His Oats_

My days were a thing for me to live, For others to deplore; I took of life all it could give: Rind, inner fruit, and core.

_For a Skeptic_

Blood-brother unto Thomas whose Weak faith doubt kept in trammels, His little credence strained at gnats-- But grew robust on camels.

_For a Fatalist_

Life ushers some as heirs-elect To weather wind and gale; Here lies a man whose ships were wrecked Ere he could hoist a sail.

_For Daughters of Magdalen_

Ours is the ancient story: Delicate flowers of sin, Lilies, arrayed in glory, That would not toil nor spin.

_For a Wanton_

To men no more than so much cover For them to doff or try, I found in Death a constant lover: Here in his arms I lie.

_For a Preacher_

Vanity of vanities, All is vanity; yea, Even the rod He flayed you with Crumbled and turned to clay.

_For One Who Died Singing of Death_

He whose might you sang so well Living, will not let you rust: Death has set the golden bell Pealing in the courts of dust.

_For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty_

Not writ in water, nor in mist, Sweet lyric throat, thy name; Thy singing lips that cold death kissed Have seared his own with flame.

_For Hazel Hall, American Poet_

Soul-troubled at the febrile ways of breath, Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm, “Yes, I’m a stranger here,” she said to Death, “It’s kind of you to let me take your arm.”

_For Paul Laurence Dunbar_

Born of the sorrowful of heart, Mirth was a crown upon his head; Pride kept his twisted lips apart In jest, to hide a heart that bled.

_For Joseph Conrad_

Not of the dust, but of the wave His final couch should be; They lie not easy in a grave Who once have known the sea. How shall earth’s meagre bed enthrall The hardiest seaman of them all?

_For Myself_

What’s in this grave is worth your tear; There’s more than the eye can see; Folly and Pride and Love lie here Buried alive with me.

_All the Dead_

Priest and layman, virgin, strumpet, Good and ill commingled sleep, Waiting till the dreadful trumpet Separates the wolves and sheep.

_For Love’s Sake_

_Oh, for a Little While Be Kind_

(_For Ruth Marie_)

Oh, for a little while be kind to me Who stand in such imperious need of you, And for a fitful space let my head lie Happily on your passion’s frigid breast. Although yourself no more resigned to me Than on all bitter yesterdays I knew, This half a loaf from sumptuous crumbs your shy Reneging hand lets fall shall make me blest. The sturdy homage of a love that throws Its strength about you, dawn and dusk, at bed And board, is not for scorn. When all is said With final amen certitude, who knows But Dives found a matchless fragrance fled When Lazarus no longer shocked his nose?

_If You Should Go_

Love, leave me like the light, The gently passing day; We would not know, but for the night, When it has slipped away.

Go quietly; a dream, When done, should leave no trace That it has lived, except a gleam Across the dreamer’s face.

_To One Who Said Me Nay_

This much the gods vouchsafe today: That we two lie in the clover, Watching the heavens dip and sway, With galleons sailing over.

This much is granted for an hour: That we are young and tender, That I am bee and you are flower, Honey-mouthed and swaying slender.

This sweet of sweets is ours now: To wander through the land, Plucking an apple from its bough To toss from hand to hand.

No thing is certain, joy nor sorrow, Except the hour we know it; Oh, wear my heart today; tomorrow Who knows where the winds will blow it?

_Advice to Youth_

(_For Guillaume_)

Since little time is granted here For pride in pain or play, Since blood soon cools before that Fear That makes our prowess clay, If lips to kiss are freely met, Lad, be not proud nor shy; There are no lips where men forget, And undesiring lie.

_Caprice_

“I’ll tell him, when he comes,” she said, “Body and baggage, to go, Though the night be darker than my hair, And the ground be hard with snow.”

But when he came with his gay black head Thrown back, and his lips apart, She flipped a light hair from his coat, And sobbed against his heart.

_Sacrament_

She gave her body for my meat, Her soul to be my wine, And prayed that I be made complete In sunlight and starshine.

With such abandoned grace she gave Of all that passion taught her, She never knew her tidal wave Cast bread on stagnant water.

_Bread and Wine_

From death of star to new star’s birth, This ache of limb, this throb of head, This sweaty shop, this smell of earth, For this we pray, “Give daily bread.”

Then tenuous with dreams the night, The feel of soft brown hands in mine, Strength from your lips for one more fight: Bread’s not so dry when dipped in wine.

_Spring Reminiscence_

“My sweet,” you sang, and, “Sweet,” I sang, And sweet we sang together, Glad to be young as the world was young, Two colts too strong for a tether.

Shall ever a spring be like that spring, Or apple blossoms as white; Or ever clover smell like the clover We lay upon that night?

Shall ever your hand lie in my hand, Pulsing to it, I wonder; Or have the gods, being jealous gods, Envied us our thunder?

_Varia_

_Suicide Chant_

I am the seed The Sower sowed; I am the deed His hand bestowed Upon the world.

Censure me not If a rank weed flood The garden plot, Instead of a bud To be unfurled.

Bridle your blame If the deed prove less Than the bruited fame With which it came From nothingness.

The seed of a weed Cannot be flowered, Nor a hero’s deed Spring from a coward.

Pull up the weed; Bring plow and mower; Then fetch new seed For the hand of the Sower.

_She of the Dancing Feet Sings_

(_To Ottie Graham_)

“And what would I do in heaven, pray, Me with my dancing feet, And limbs like apple boughs that sway When the gusty rain winds beat?

And how would I thrive in a perfect place Where dancing would be sin, With not a man to love my face, Nor an arm to hold me in?

The seraphs and the cherubim Would be too proud to bend To sing the faery tunes that brim My heart from end to end.

The wistful angels down in hell Will smile to see my face, And understand, because they fell From that all-perfect place.”

_Judas Iscariot_

I think when Judas’ mother heard His first faint cry the night That he was born, that worship stirred Her at the sound and sight. She thought his was as fair a frame As flesh and blood had worn; I think she made this lovely name For him--“Star of my morn.”

As any mother’s son he grew From spring to crimson spring; I think his eyes were black, or blue, His hair curled like a ring. His mother’s heart-strings were a lute Whereon he all day played; She listened rapt, abandoned, mute, To every note he made.

I think he knew the growing Christ, And played with Mary’s son, And where mere mortal craft sufficed, There Judas may have won. Perhaps he little cared or knew, So folly-wise is youth, That He whose hand his hand clung to Was flesh-embodied Truth;

Until one day he heard young Christ, With far-off eyes agleam, Tell of a mystic, solemn tryst Between Him and a dream. And Judas listened, wonder-eyed, Until the Christ was through, Then said, “And I, though good betide, Or ill, will go with you.”

And so he followed, heard Christ preach, Saw how by miracle The blind man saw, the dumb got speech, The leper found him well. And Judas in those holy hours Loved Christ, and loved Him much, And in his heart he sensed dead flowers Bloom at the Master’s touch.

And when Christ felt the death hour creep With sullen, drunken lurch, He said to Peter, “Feed my sheep, And build my holy church.” He gave to each the special task That should be his to do, But reaching one, I hear him ask, “What shall I give to you?”

Then Judas in his hot desire Said, “Give me what you will.” Christ spoke to him with words of fire, “Then, Judas, you must kill One whom you love, One who loves you As only God’s son can: This is the work for you to do To save the creature man.”

“And men to come will curse your name, And hold you up to scorn; In all the world will be no shame Like yours; this is love’s thorn. It takes strong will of heart and soul, But man is under ban. Think, Judas, can you play this role In heaven’s mystic plan?”

So Judas took the sorry part, Went out and spoke the word, And gave the kiss that broke his heart, But no one knew or heard. And no one knew what poison ate Into his palm that day, Where, bright and damned, the monstrous weight Of thirty white coins lay.

It was not death that Judas found Upon a kindly tree; The man was dead long ere he bound His throat as final fee. And who can say if on that day When gates of pearl swung wide, Christ did not go His honored way With Judas by His side?

I think somewhere a table round Owns Jesus as its head, And there the saintly twelve are found Who followed where He led. And Judas sits down with the rest, And none shrinks from His hand, For there the worst is as the best, And there they understand.

And you may think of Judas, friend, As one who broke his word, Whose neck came to a bitter end For giving up his Lord. But I would rather think of him As the little Jewish lad Who gave young Christ heart, soul, and limb, And all the love he had.

_The Wise_

(_For Alain Locke_)

Dead men are wisest, for they know How far the roots of flowers go, How long a seed must rot to grow.

Dead men alone bear frost and rain On throbless heart and heatless brain, And feel no stir of joy or pain.

Dead men alone are satiate; They sleep and dream and have no weight, To curb their rest, of love or hate.

Strange, men should flee their company, Or think me strange who long to be Wrapped in their cool immunity.

_Mary, Mother of Christ_

That night she felt those searching hands Grip deep upon her breast, She laughed and sang a silly tune To lull her babe to rest;

That night she kissed his coral lips How could she know the rest?

_Dialogue_

Soul: There is no stronger thing than song; In sun and rain and leafy trees It wafts the timid soul along On crested waves of melodies.

Body: But leaves the body bare to feed Its hunger with its very need.

Soul: Although the frenzied belly writhes, Yet render up in song your tithes; Song is the weakling’s oaken rod, His Jacob’s ladder dropped from God.

Body: Song is not drink; song is not meat, Nor strong, thick shoes for naked feet.

Soul: Who sings by unseen hands is fed With honeyed milk and warm, white bread; His ways in pastures green are led, And perfumed oil illumes his head; His cup with wine is surfeited, And when the last low note is read, He sings among the lipless dead With singing stars to crown his head.

Body: But will song buy a wooden box The length of me from toe to crown, To keep me safe from carrion flocks When singing’s done and lyre laid down?

_In Memory of Col. Charles Young_

Along the shore the tall, thin grass That fringes that dark river, While sinuously soft feet pass, Begins to bleed and quiver.

The great dark voice breaks with a sob Across the womb of night; Above your grave the tom-toms throb, And the hills are weird with light.

The great dark heart is like a well Drained bitter by the sky, And all the honeyed lies they tell Come there to thirst and die.

No lie is strong enough to kill The roots that work below; From your rich dust and slaughtered will A tree with tongues will grow.

_To My Friends_

You feeble few that hold me somewhat more Than all I am; base clay and spittle joined To shape an aimless whim substantial; coined Amiss one idle hour, this heart, though poor,-- O golden host I count upon the ends Of one bare hand, with fingers still to spare,-- Is rich enough for this: to harbor there In opulence its frugal meed of friends. Let neither lose his faith, lest by such loss Each find insufferable his daily cross. And be not less immovable to me, Not less love-leal and staunch, than my heart is. In brief, these fine heroics come to this, My friends: if you are true, I needs must be.

_Gods_

I fast and pray and go to church, And put my penny in, But God’s not fooled by such slight tricks, And I’m not saved from sin.

I cannot hide from Him the gods That revel in my heart, Nor can I find an easy word To tell them to depart:

God’s alabaster turrets gleam Too high for me to win, Unless He turns His face and lets Me bring my own gods in.

_To John Keats, Poet. At Spring Time_[A]

(_For Carl Van Vechten_)

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; There never was a spring like this; It is an echo, that repeats My last year’s song and next year’s bliss. I know, in spite of all men say Of Beauty, you have felt her most. Yea, even in your grave her way Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost, Spring never was so fair and dear As Beauty makes her seem this year.