Society and the World

Light-Winged Smoke

LIGHT-WINGED Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and the messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

Great God, I Ask for no Meaner Pelf

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.


And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,
They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.


That my weak hand may equal my firm faith
And my life practice what my tongue saith
That my low conduct may not show
Nor my relenting lines
That I thy purpose did not know
Or overrated thy designs.

Away! Away! Away! Away!

Away! away! away! away!
Ye have not kept your secret well,
I will abide that other day,
Those other lands ye tell.


Has time no leisure left for these,
The acts that ye rehearse?
Is not eternity a lease
For better deeds than verse?


‘Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,
To know them still alive,
But sweeter if we earn their bread,
And in us they survive.


Our life should feed the springs of fame
With a perennial wave,
As ocean feeds the babbling founts
Which find it in their grave.


Ye skies dropp gently round my breast,
And be my corselet blue,
Ye earth receive my lance in rest,
My faithful charger you;


Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,
My arrow-tips ye are;
I see the routed foemen fly,
My bright spears fixed are.


Give me an angel for a foe,
Fix now the place and time,
And straight to meet him I will go
Above the starry chime.


And with our clashing bucklers’ clang
The heavenly spears shall ring,
While bright the northern lights shall hang
Beside our tourneying.


And if she lose her champion true,
Tell Heaven not despair,
For I will be her champion new,
Her fame I will repair.

April


'- Frihed, synger Du, April!
med nyfødt Grønt og Sommer-Smiil.'
*
(Strandveien).


En ung Herre (til Hest).
O, April! en deilig Maaned!
En Champagne-Maaned er Du!
Gjennem Snee og Vinterkulde
Du fremsprudler Liv og Varme.
Sommersol og Vinterhagel,
Marken Grøn, og dog lidt Snee!
Mig i Sind og Skind Du ligner,
Som en Draabe ligner Draaben.
Ungdomsglad jeg slynger Armen
Om hver buttet deilig Pige,
Trykker Kys paa Barm og Læbe;
Sværmer nu hos Pleisch og Minni, 1
Siger Vittighed, par Diable!


-Andre Tider Regn og Taage,
Slemme Breve uden Penge;
Creditorer slaae paa Døren. -
Det er nu en Hagelbyge!
Solen skinner! - bort med Griller!
Du April, min egen Maaned!
En Champagne-Maaned er du!
(han jager afsted).
Elskeren (under Træet).
Høit paa Grenen Fuglen gynger;
Hører dog, hvor smukt den synger!
Qviddrer lystigt, hvad den veed,
Synger om min Kjærlighed;


Nævner over tusind' Gange
Hendes Navn i sine Sange.
Hjertet finder atter Ro,
Thi jeg veed, hun er mig tro!
Fuglen.
Vinter-Kulden mig bortskræmmed'.
Bryllup er der nu i Hjemmet;
Bruden var Din Hjertenskjær,


-Du forstaaer ei Sangen her - !
Elskeren.
Budskab den fra hende bringer,
O, saa saligt , sødt det klinger!
Mig hun seer paa Tankens Strøm
Og i hendes bedste Drøm.
Fuglen.


-Brud og Brudgom sad nu sammen,
Der var Lystighed og Gammen,

Smukt om Troskab blev der talt,
Men, - ak! Dig ei Talen gjaldt.
Elskeren.
Gud! til Dig jeg Tak vil sende;
Fader, ja Du gav mig hende!
Hun, min første Kjærlighed
Min i Tid og Evighed!


Lille Fugl! løft glad Din Vinge,
Hilsen Du til hende bringe;
Du om Troskab synge maa,
Ogsaa hun vil Dig forstaae!


*
Chor af de Kjørende.
Med Graad i Øie, med Smiil paa Kind,
I Elskovs Drømme, i Sind og Skind,
Hvor ligner Du - o, Pigelil!


-April.
See Haabet med sin Blomsterkrands,
Dets hele Liv er kun en Dands!
Hvad fandt Du i dets Graad og Smiil?
-April!
For Laurbærkrandsen paa sin Grav
Saa mangen Helt sit Liv hengav;
Maaskee han løb mod Dødens Piil
April!
Fortuna med sit Hersker-Blik,
Og Brittens Tro 2 i Politik,
Hvor ligne I og Eders Smiil
April!
Den hele Jord, det hele Liv,
Med Kjærlighed, med Sorg og Kiv,
Er med sin Stræben, Kamp og Smiil
April!
*
Vandringsmanden.
Nei, Frihed synger Du, April,
Med nyfødt Grønt og Sommer-Smiil!
Stolt svulmer frem hver Aae, hver Bæk,
Alt grønnes her den brune Hæk,
Og Sneen smelter bort paa Vang,
Mens Fuglen synger Friheds Sang!
En lille Fugl (paa Grenen).
Hen over Sø og salten Vand
Jeg kommer fra et fremmed Land;
Nær Polens Grændse Landet laae,
I Byen jeg en Galge saae,
Der var saa mange Navne paa.
Men Heltenavne man kun skrev,
Og Hædersstøtte Galgen blev,



Thi bøiede sig hver en Fri
Ærbødigt, mens han gik forbi,
Og aarle, alt ved Lærkens Slag,
Den stod bekrandset næste Dag.*
Jeg satte mig paa Støtten lidt,
Og sang mit Friheds Qvirrevit!


*Historisk Sandhed.
Eccho.
'Qvirrevit!'
Fuglen.
Ak! er min Friheds Sang ei meer?
Eccho.
'Ei meer!'
En skikkelig Mand.
Hvad behager? Her er allerede saadan en Qvinkeleren og Qviddren med Spurve og
Lærker! Alt det Fugle-Rak, vor Herre lader skabe, kommer strax og giver deres Besyv!


-Nu kan de da snart faae lidt i Skrotten igjen, nu Sommeren kommer! Hvor det ellers
er et deiligt Veir.
En Kritiker.
Hr. Forfatter! Gud bevare os! hvad tænker De paa? At lade saadan en Person komme
ind her? Er det Orden? Er det Logik? Hvad skal denne skikkelige Mand i Friheds
Maaneden?
Forfatteren.
Det er just en poetisk Frihed.
Kritikeren .
Vil De bare see at faae ham ud! eller jeg skal lære Dem [rettet fra 'dem'] begge to! ['!'
rettet fra '?']
Den skikkelige Mand.
Hvad? Faae mig ud! - Har jeg ikke Lov at spadsere i April Maaned? - Jeg fornærmer
ingen, og jeg skylder, Gud skee Lov, heller ingen Noget.
Kritikeren.
Jeg skal rive ham ned 3 i Kritikkerne!
Den skikkelige Mand.
Kom han mig ikke saa! for jeg har en Søstersøn, der skal op til første Examen næste
Aar, og han har allerede længe skrevet den Ene og den Anden en X for et U 4 i
Bladene; - men uden Navn - det er en Fandens Dreng, tag han sig i Agt for ham. -
Forfatteren.
O Gud, mine Herrer, De sætte mig i den største Forskrækkelse! Kom dog ikke op at
slaaes. -
Kritikeren.
Vil De forbyde os det! Hvad vil De med Deres skikkelige Mand her? Er De ikke selv
Skyld i det Hele. Nu vil jeg banke ham -
Forfatteren.
Ja Gud bevare os! det er jo Frihedens Maaned.


(trækker sig tilbage).
En ung Maler.
(kommer med sin Mappe og sine Tegne-Redskaber).
Den friske grønne Eng med sine Damme,
Den knopped' brune Skov, den aabne Sø,



Og Skyerne ved Firmamentets Ramme,
Der i en violetblaa Taage døe,
Dem maler jeg, de blive skal mit Eie.


(Han sætter sig paa en Steen under Træet).
Smukt hæver sig det lille Fiskerleie!
See, Garnet hænger udspændt høit ved Strand!
Her ligger Baaden trukket op paa Land,
Og Græsset under den, for Solen skjult,
Staaer høit og tykt, men med et grønligt Guult.
To Smaa-Børn lege foran Huset hist
Med tørre Pinde og en Bøgeqvist. ['.' indsat her]
De plante dem en Have smukt i Solen,
Mens Bedstemoder her i Lænestolen
Maa tage Plads og lege med de Smaae.
De [',' slettet] som to muntre Vaarens [',' slettet] Alfer staae
Ved Vintrens Snee, hvor mangt et Minde hviler.
Ømt til de kjære Smaae den Gamle smiler!
Vandringsmanden.
Hvor festligt klinger over Bondens Vang
Fra Kirketaarnet Klokkens dybe Klang,
Mens Havets Bølger synge med fra Stranden;
Hør, det er Paaske, Christus er opstanden!
Bølgerne.
Sæt Dig her paa Stenen, ved det brune Tang,
Vi skal Dig fortælle mangen Havfrue-Sang.
Dybt, saa dybt dernede, paa den vaade Grund,
Bygge Havets Piger, under Øresund.
Der er' [',' slettet] smukke Blomster, Tangen er saa grøn,
Og - som Søens Lillier er den Havfrue skjøn!
Tidt i Sommer-Natten hun fra Dybet gaaer,
Leger da heroppe med sit lange Haar.
Hver April hun bringer, under Bølge-Sang,
Danmark Friheds-Krandsen af sit grønne Tang;
Og mens Vinter-Kysten blomstrer smukt igjen,
Synger Danmarks frelse ved Niels Ebbesen;*
Synger Brittens Skjændsel og hans fule 5 Smiil,
Mens hun skjænker Danmark Krandsen for April!**

Young Afrikans

of the furious

Who take Today and jerk it out of joint
have made new underpinnings and a Head.


Blacktime is time for chimeful
poemhood
but they decree a
jagged chiming now.


If there are flowers flowers
must come out to the road. Rowdy!—
knowing where wheels and people are,
knowing where whips and screams are,
knowing where deaths are, where the kind kills are.


As for that other kind of kindness,
if there is milk it must be mindful.
The milkofhumankindness must be mindful
as wily wines.
Must be fine fury.
Must be mega, must be main.


Taking Today (to jerk it out of joint)
the hardheroic maim the
leechlike-as-usual who use,
adhere to, carp, and harm.


And they await,
across the Changes and the spiraling dead,
our Black revival, our Black vinegar,
our hands, and our hot blood.

Young Afrikans

of the furious

Who take Today and jerk it out of joint
have made new underpinnings and a Head.


Blacktime is time for chimeful
poemhood
but they decree a
jagged chiming now.


If there are flowers flowers
must come out to the road. Rowdy!—
knowing where wheels and people are,
knowing where whips and screams are,
knowing where deaths are, where the kind kills are.


As for that other kind of kindness,
if there is milk it must be mindful.
The milkofhumankindness must be mindful
as wily wines.
Must be fine fury.
Must be mega, must be main.


Taking Today (to jerk it out of joint)
the hardheroic maim the
leechlike-as-usual who use,
adhere to, carp, and harm.


And they await,
across the Changes and the spiraling dead,
our Black revival, our Black vinegar,
our hands, and our hot blood.

to the Diaspora

you did not know you were Afrika

When you set out for Afrika
you did not know you were going.
Because
you did not know you were Afrika.
You did not know the Black continent
that had to be reached
was you.


I could not have told you then that some sun
would come,
somewhere over the road,
would come evoking the diamonds
of you, the Black continent-somewhere
over the road.
You would not have believed my mouth.


When I told you, meeting you somewhere close
to the heat and youth of the road,
liking my loyalty, liking belief,
you smiled and you thanked me but very little believed me.


Here is some sun. Some.
Now off into the places rough to reach.
Though dry, though drowsy, all unwillingly a-wobble,
into the dissonant and dangerous crescendo.
Your work, that was done, to be done to be done to be done.

to the Diaspora

you did not know you were Afrika

When you set out for Afrika
you did not know you were going.
Because
you did not know you were Afrika.
You did not know the Black continent
that had to be reached
was you.


I could not have told you then that some sun
would come,
somewhere over the road,
would come evoking the diamonds
of you, the Black continent-somewhere
over the road.
You would not have believed my mouth.


When I told you, meeting you somewhere close
to the heat and youth of the road,
liking my loyalty, liking belief,
you smiled and you thanked me but very little believed me.


Here is some sun. Some.
Now off into the places rough to reach.
Though dry, though drowsy, all unwillingly a-wobble,
into the dissonant and dangerous crescendo.
Your work, that was done, to be done to be done to be done.

the sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

The Lovers of the Poor

arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League
Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting
In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag
Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting
Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair,
The pink paint on the innocence of fear;
Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care,
Served by their love, so barbarously fair.
Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel!
You had better not throw stones upon the wrens!
Herein they kiss and coddle and assault
Anew and dearly in the innocence
With which they baffle nature. Who are full,
Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all
Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit,
Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt
Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise.
To resurrect. To moisten with milky chill.
To be a random hitching-post or plush.
To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.
Their guild is giving money to the poor.
The worthy poor. The very very worthy
And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy?
perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim
Nor--passionate. In truth, what they could wish
Is--something less than derelict or dull.
Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!
God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold!
The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald
Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down.
But it's all so bad! and entirely too much for them.
The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans,
Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains,
The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told,
Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn
Darkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs.
The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
And for that matter the general oldness. Old
Wood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old.
Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.
Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic,
There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no
Unkillable infirmity of such
A tasteful turn as lately they have left,
Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars
Must presently restore them. When they're done
With dullards and distortions of this fistic
Patience of the poor and put-upon.
They've never seen such a make-do-ness as
Newspaper rugs before! In this, this 'flat,'
Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich



Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered. . . .)
Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon.
Here is a scene for you. The Ladies look,
In horror, behind a substantial citizeness
Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart.
Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door.
All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floor
And tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft-
Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.
Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost.
But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put
Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers
Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems...
They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra,
Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks,
Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin 'hangings,'
Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. They Winter
In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend,
When suitable, the nice Art Institute;
Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunter
On Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind.
Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre
With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings
Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers
So old old, what shall flatter the desolate?
Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling
And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckage
Of the middle passage, and urine and stale shames
And, again, the porridges of the underslung
And children children children. Heavens! That
Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long
And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies'
Betterment League agree it will be better
To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies,
To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring
Bells elsetime, better presently to cater
To no more Possibilities, to get
Away. Perhaps the money can be posted.
Perhaps they two may choose another Slum!
Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!--
Where loathe-love likelier may be invested.
Keeping their scented bodies in the center
Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall,
They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall,
Are off at what they manage of a canter,
And, resuming all the clues of what they were,
Try to avoid inhaling the laden air.

The Lovers of the Poor

arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League
Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting
In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag
Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting
Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair,
The pink paint on the innocence of fear;
Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care,
Served by their love, so barbarously fair.
Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel!
You had better not throw stones upon the wrens!
Herein they kiss and coddle and assault
Anew and dearly in the innocence
With which they baffle nature. Who are full,
Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all
Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit,
Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt
Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise.
To resurrect. To moisten with milky chill.
To be a random hitching-post or plush.
To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.
Their guild is giving money to the poor.
The worthy poor. The very very worthy
And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy?
perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim
Nor--passionate. In truth, what they could wish
Is--something less than derelict or dull.
Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!
God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold!
The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald
Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down.
But it's all so bad! and entirely too much for them.
The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans,
Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains,
The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told,
Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn
Darkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs.
The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
And for that matter the general oldness. Old
Wood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old.
Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.
Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic,
There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no
Unkillable infirmity of such
A tasteful turn as lately they have left,
Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars
Must presently restore them. When they're done
With dullards and distortions of this fistic
Patience of the poor and put-upon.
They've never seen such a make-do-ness as
Newspaper rugs before! In this, this 'flat,'
Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich



Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered. . . .)
Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon.
Here is a scene for you. The Ladies look,
In horror, behind a substantial citizeness
Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart.
Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door.
All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floor
And tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft-
Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.
Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost.
But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put
Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers
Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems...
They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra,
Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks,
Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin 'hangings,'
Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. They Winter
In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend,
When suitable, the nice Art Institute;
Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunter
On Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind.
Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre
With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings
Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers
So old old, what shall flatter the desolate?
Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling
And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckage
Of the middle passage, and urine and stale shames
And, again, the porridges of the underslung
And children children children. Heavens! That
Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long
And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies'
Betterment League agree it will be better
To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies,
To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring
Bells elsetime, better presently to cater
To no more Possibilities, to get
Away. Perhaps the money can be posted.
Perhaps they two may choose another Slum!
Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!--
Where loathe-love likelier may be invested.
Keeping their scented bodies in the center
Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall,
They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall,
Are off at what they manage of a canter,
And, resuming all the clues of what they were,
Try to avoid inhaling the laden air.

The Independent Man

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.

The Independent Man

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.

The Ballad of Rudolph Reed

Rudolph Reed was oaken.
His wife was oaken too.
And his two good girls and his good little man
Oakened as they grew.


"I am not hungry for berries.
I am not hungry for bread.
But hungry hungry for a house
Where at night a man in bed


"May never hear the plaster
Stir as if in pain.
May never hear the roaches
Falling like fat rain.


"Where never wife and children need
Go blinking through the gloom.
Where every room of many rooms
Will be full of room.


"Oh my home may have its east or west
Or north or south behind it.
All I know is I shall know it,
And fight for it when I find it."


The agent's steep and steady stare
Corroded to a grin.
Why you black old, tough old hell of a man,
Move your family in!


Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed,
Nary a curse cursed he,
But moved in his House. With his dark little wife,
And his dark little children three.


A neighbor would look, with a yawning eye
That squeezed into a slit.
But the Rudolph Reeds and children three
Were too joyous to notice it.


For were they not firm in a home of their own
With windows everywhere
And a beautiful banistered stair
And a front yard for flowers and a back for grass?


The first night, a rock, big as two fists.
The second, a rock big as three.
But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.
(Though oaken as man could be.)


The third night, a silvery ring of glass.
Patience arched to endure,



But he looked, and lo! small Mabel's blood
Was staining her gaze so pure.


Then up did rise our Roodoplh Reed
And pressed the hand of his wife,
And went to the door with a thirty-four
And a beastly butcher knife.


He ran like a mad thing into the night
And the words in his mouth were stinking.
By the time he had hurt his first white man
He was no longer thinking.


By the time he had hurt his fourth white man
Rudolph Reed was dead.
His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.
"Nigger--" his neighbors said.


Small Mabel whimpered all night long,
For calling herself the cause.
Her oak-eyed mother did no thing
But change the bloody gauze.

The Blackstone Rangers

I
AS SEEN BY DISCIPLINES


There they are.
Thirty at the corner.
Black, raw, ready.
Sores in the city
that do not want to heal.


II
THE LEADERS


Jeff. Gene. Geronimo. And Bop.
They cancel, cure and curry.
Hardly the dupes of the downtown thing
the cold bonbon,
the rhinestone thing. And hardly
in a hurry.
Hardly Belafonte, King,
Black Jesus, Stokely, Malcolm X or Rap.
Bungled trophies.
Their country is a Nation on no map.


Jeff, Gene, Geronimo and Bop
in the passionate noon,
in bewitching night
are the detailed men, the copious men.
They curry, cure,
they cancel, cancelled images whose Concerts
are not divine, vivacious; the different tins
are intense last entries; pagan argument;
translations of the night.


The Blackstone bitter bureaus
(bureaucracy is footloose) edit, fuse
unfashionable damnations and descent;
and exulting, monstrous hand on monstrous hand,
construct, strangely, a monstrous pearl or grace.


III
GANG GIRLS


A Rangerette


Gang Girls are sweet exotics.



Mary Ann
uses the nutrients of her orient,
but sometimes sighs for Cities of blue and jewel
beyond her Ranger rim of Cottage Grove.
(Bowery Boys, Disciples, Whip-Birds will
dissolve no margins, stop no savory sanctities.)


Mary is
a rose in a whiskey glass.


Mary’s
Februaries shudder and are gone. Aprils
fret frankly, lilac hurries on.
Summer is a hard irregular ridge.
October looks away.
And that’s the Year!


Save for her bugle-love.
Save for the bleat of not-obese devotion.
Save for Somebody Terribly Dying, under
the philanthropy of robins. Save for her Ranger
bringing
an amount of rainbow in a string-drawn bag.
“Where did you get the diamond?” Do not ask:
but swallow, straight, the spirals of his flask
and assist him at your zipper; pet his lips
and help him clutch you.

Love’s another departure.
Will there be any arrivals, confirmations?
Will there be gleaning?


Mary, the Shakedancer’s child
from the rooming-flat, pants carefully, peers at
her laboring lover ....


Mary! Mary Ann!
Settle for sandwiches! settle for stocking caps!
for sudden blood, aborted carnival,
the props and niceties of non-loneliness—
the rhymes of Leaning.

The Blackstone Rangers

I
AS SEEN BY DISCIPLINES


There they are.
Thirty at the corner.
Black, raw, ready.
Sores in the city
that do not want to heal.


II
THE LEADERS


Jeff. Gene. Geronimo. And Bop.
They cancel, cure and curry.
Hardly the dupes of the downtown thing
the cold bonbon,
the rhinestone thing. And hardly
in a hurry.
Hardly Belafonte, King,
Black Jesus, Stokely, Malcolm X or Rap.
Bungled trophies.
Their country is a Nation on no map.


Jeff, Gene, Geronimo and Bop
in the passionate noon,
in bewitching night
are the detailed men, the copious men.
They curry, cure,
they cancel, cancelled images whose Concerts
are not divine, vivacious; the different tins
are intense last entries; pagan argument;
translations of the night.


The Blackstone bitter bureaus
(bureaucracy is footloose) edit, fuse
unfashionable damnations and descent;
and exulting, monstrous hand on monstrous hand,
construct, strangely, a monstrous pearl or grace.


III
GANG GIRLS


A Rangerette


Gang Girls are sweet exotics.



Mary Ann
uses the nutrients of her orient,
but sometimes sighs for Cities of blue and jewel
beyond her Ranger rim of Cottage Grove.
(Bowery Boys, Disciples, Whip-Birds will
dissolve no margins, stop no savory sanctities.)


Mary is
a rose in a whiskey glass.


Mary’s
Februaries shudder and are gone. Aprils
fret frankly, lilac hurries on.
Summer is a hard irregular ridge.
October looks away.
And that’s the Year!


Save for her bugle-love.
Save for the bleat of not-obese devotion.
Save for Somebody Terribly Dying, under
the philanthropy of robins. Save for her Ranger
bringing
an amount of rainbow in a string-drawn bag.
“Where did you get the diamond?” Do not ask:
but swallow, straight, the spirals of his flask
and assist him at your zipper; pet his lips
and help him clutch you.

Love’s another departure.
Will there be any arrivals, confirmations?
Will there be gleaning?


Mary, the Shakedancer’s child
from the rooming-flat, pants carefully, peers at
her laboring lover ....


Mary! Mary Ann!
Settle for sandwiches! settle for stocking caps!
for sudden blood, aborted carnival,
the props and niceties of non-loneliness—
the rhymes of Leaning.

The Blackstone Rangers

I
AS SEEN BY DISCIPLINES


There they are.
Thirty at the corner.
Black, raw, ready.
Sores in the city
that do not want to heal.


II
THE LEADERS


Jeff. Gene. Geronimo. And Bop.
They cancel, cure and curry.
Hardly the dupes of the downtown thing
the cold bonbon,
the rhinestone thing. And hardly
in a hurry.
Hardly Belafonte, King,
Black Jesus, Stokely, Malcolm X or Rap.
Bungled trophies.
Their country is a Nation on no map.


Jeff, Gene, Geronimo and Bop
in the passionate noon,
in bewitching night
are the detailed men, the copious men.
They curry, cure,
they cancel, cancelled images whose Concerts
are not divine, vivacious; the different tins
are intense last entries; pagan argument;
translations of the night.


The Blackstone bitter bureaus
(bureaucracy is footloose) edit, fuse
unfashionable damnations and descent;
and exulting, monstrous hand on monstrous hand,
construct, strangely, a monstrous pearl or grace.


III
GANG GIRLS


A Rangerette


Gang Girls are sweet exotics.



Mary Ann
uses the nutrients of her orient,
but sometimes sighs for Cities of blue and jewel
beyond her Ranger rim of Cottage Grove.
(Bowery Boys, Disciples, Whip-Birds will
dissolve no margins, stop no savory sanctities.)


Mary is
a rose in a whiskey glass.


Mary’s
Februaries shudder and are gone. Aprils
fret frankly, lilac hurries on.
Summer is a hard irregular ridge.
October looks away.
And that’s the Year!


Save for her bugle-love.
Save for the bleat of not-obese devotion.
Save for Somebody Terribly Dying, under
the philanthropy of robins. Save for her Ranger
bringing
an amount of rainbow in a string-drawn bag.
“Where did you get the diamond?” Do not ask:
but swallow, straight, the spirals of his flask
and assist him at your zipper; pet his lips
and help him clutch you.

Love’s another departure.
Will there be any arrivals, confirmations?
Will there be gleaning?


Mary, the Shakedancer’s child
from the rooming-flat, pants carefully, peers at
her laboring lover ....


Mary! Mary Ann!
Settle for sandwiches! settle for stocking caps!
for sudden blood, aborted carnival,
the props and niceties of non-loneliness—
the rhymes of Leaning.

Sadie and Maud

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.


She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.


Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.


When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)


Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.

Sadie and Maud

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.


She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.


Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.


When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)


Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.

Primer For Blacks

Blackness
is a title,
is a preoccupation,
is a commitment Blacks
are to comprehend—
and in which you are
to perceive your Glory.


The conscious shout
of all that is white is
“It’s Great to be white.”
The conscious shout
of the slack in Black is
'It's Great to be white.'
Thus all that is white
has white strength and yours.


The word Black


has geographic power,


pulls everybody in:


Blacks here—


Blacks there—


Blacks wherever they may be.


And remember, you Blacks, what they told you—


remember your Education:


“one Drop—one Drop


maketh a brand new Black.”
Oh mighty Drop.

______And because they have given us kindly

so many more of our people

Blackness
stretches over the land.
Blackness—
the Black of it,
the rust-red of it,
the milk and cream of it,
the tan and yellow-tan of it,
the deep-brown middle-brown high-brown of it,
the “olive” and ochre of it—
Blackness
marches on.


The huge, the pungent object of our prime out-ride
is to Comprehend,
to salute and to Love the fact that we are Black,
which is our “ultimate Reality,”
which is the lone ground
from which our meaningful metamorphosis,
from which our prosperous staccato,
group or individual, can rise.



Self-shriveled Blacks.
Begin with gaunt and marvelous concession:
YOU are our costume and our fundamental bone.


All of you—
you COLORED ones,
you NEGRO ones,


those of you who proudly cry
“I’m half INDian”—
those of you who proudly screech
“I’VE got the blood of George WASHington in MY veins”
ALL of you—

you proper Blacks,
you half-Blacks,
you wish-I-weren’t Blacks,
Niggeroes and Niggerenes.


You.

Primer For Blacks

Blackness
is a title,
is a preoccupation,
is a commitment Blacks
are to comprehend—
and in which you are
to perceive your Glory.


The conscious shout
of all that is white is
“It’s Great to be white.”
The conscious shout
of the slack in Black is
'It's Great to be white.'
Thus all that is white
has white strength and yours.


The word Black


has geographic power,


pulls everybody in:


Blacks here—


Blacks there—


Blacks wherever they may be.


And remember, you Blacks, what they told you—


remember your Education:


“one Drop—one Drop


maketh a brand new Black.”
Oh mighty Drop.

______And because they have given us kindly

so many more of our people

Blackness
stretches over the land.
Blackness—
the Black of it,
the rust-red of it,
the milk and cream of it,
the tan and yellow-tan of it,
the deep-brown middle-brown high-brown of it,
the “olive” and ochre of it—
Blackness
marches on.


The huge, the pungent object of our prime out-ride
is to Comprehend,
to salute and to Love the fact that we are Black,
which is our “ultimate Reality,”
which is the lone ground
from which our meaningful metamorphosis,
from which our prosperous staccato,
group or individual, can rise.



Self-shriveled Blacks.
Begin with gaunt and marvelous concession:
YOU are our costume and our fundamental bone.


All of you—
you COLORED ones,
you NEGRO ones,


those of you who proudly cry
“I’m half INDian”—
those of you who proudly screech
“I’VE got the blood of George WASHington in MY veins”
ALL of you—

you proper Blacks,
you half-Blacks,
you wish-I-weren’t Blacks,
Niggeroes and Niggerenes.


You.

Primer For Blacks

Blackness
is a title,
is a preoccupation,
is a commitment Blacks
are to comprehend—
and in which you are
to perceive your Glory.


The conscious shout
of all that is white is
“It’s Great to be white.”
The conscious shout
of the slack in Black is
'It's Great to be white.'
Thus all that is white
has white strength and yours.


The word Black


has geographic power,


pulls everybody in:


Blacks here—


Blacks there—


Blacks wherever they may be.


And remember, you Blacks, what they told you—


remember your Education:


“one Drop—one Drop


maketh a brand new Black.”
Oh mighty Drop.

______And because they have given us kindly

so many more of our people

Blackness
stretches over the land.
Blackness—
the Black of it,
the rust-red of it,
the milk and cream of it,
the tan and yellow-tan of it,
the deep-brown middle-brown high-brown of it,
the “olive” and ochre of it—
Blackness
marches on.


The huge, the pungent object of our prime out-ride
is to Comprehend,
to salute and to Love the fact that we are Black,
which is our “ultimate Reality,”
which is the lone ground
from which our meaningful metamorphosis,
from which our prosperous staccato,
group or individual, can rise.



Self-shriveled Blacks.
Begin with gaunt and marvelous concession:
YOU are our costume and our fundamental bone.


All of you—
you COLORED ones,
you NEGRO ones,


those of you who proudly cry
“I’m half INDian”—
those of you who proudly screech
“I’VE got the blood of George WASHington in MY veins”
ALL of you—

you proper Blacks,
you half-Blacks,
you wish-I-weren’t Blacks,
Niggeroes and Niggerenes.


You.

Kitchenette Building

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. "Dream" mate, a giddy sound, not strong
Like "rent", "feeding a wife", "satisfying a man".


But could a dream sent up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday's garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms,


Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, 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.

Garbageman: The Man With The Orderly Mind

What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are
sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never

score?

Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the
game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own

roar.

Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the


shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.