Examples of Harlem Renaissance Poetry [PDF]

Sterling Brown, Southern Road + illustrations (links); Countee Cullen, Heritage ; Langston Hughes, I, Too, Sing America

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Examples of Harlem Renaissance Poetry Table of Contents 1. What was the Harlem Renaissance? 2. Sterling Brown, Southern Road + illustrations (links) 3. Countee Cullen, Heritage 4. Langston Hughes, I, Too, Sing America 5. Langston Hughes, America 6. Georgia Douglas Johnson, The Heart of a Woman 7. Helene Johnson, Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem 8. Helene Johnson, Poem 9. Claude McKay, When Dawn Comes to the City 1.What was the Harlem Renaissance? http://www.usc.edu/isd/archives/ethnicstudies/harlem.html (for a brief answer) http://www.csustan.edu/english/reuben/pal/chap9/9intro.html#fea (even more) 2. Sterling Brown, Southern Road http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15490 (link here) Two illustrations to Sterling Browns Southern Road http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/brown/illustrations.htm

3. Countee Cullen (1903-1946) Heritage 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 unremittent 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 fax, 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.

4. Langston Hughes, I, Too, Sing 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'll dare

Say to me,

"Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

Besides,

They'll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.



5. Langston Hughes, America Little dark baby, Little Jew baby, Little outcast, America is seeking the stars, America is seeking tomorrow. You are America. I am America America the dream, America the vision. America the star-seeking I. Out of yesterday The chains of slavery; Out of yesterday, The ghettos of Europe; Out of yesterday, The poverty and pain of the old, old world, The building and struggle of this new one, We come You and I, Seeking the stars. You and I, You of the blue eyes And the blond hair, I of the dark eyes And the crinkly hair. You and I Offering hands Being brothers, Being one, Being America. You and I. And I? Who am I? You know me: I am Crispus Attucks at the Boston Tea Party; Jimmy Jones in the ranks of the last black troops marching for democracy. I am Sojourner Truth preaching and praying for the goodness of this wide, wide land; Todays black mother bearing tomorrows America. Who am I? You know me, Dream of my dreams, I am America. I am America seeking the stars. America Hoping, praying, Fighting, dreaming. Knowing There are stains On the beauty of my democracy, I want to be clean. I want to grovel No longer in the mire. I want to reach always After stars. Who am I? I am the ghetto child, I am the dark baby, I am you And the blond tomorrow And yet I am my one sole self, America seeking the stars. 6. Georgia Douglas Johnson, The Heart of a Woman The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar oer lifes turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. The heart of a woman falls back with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.





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7. Helene Johnson, Sonnet To A Negro In Harlem (1927) You are disdainful and magnificent-Your perfect body and your pompous gait, Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate; Small wonder that you are incompetent To imitate those whom you so dispise-Your shoulders towering high above the throng, Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song, Palm trees and manoes stretched before your eyes. Let others toil and sweat for labor's sake And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold. Why urge ahead your supercilious feet? Scorn will efface each footprint that you make. I love your laughter, arrogant and bold. You are too splendid for this city street!

8. Helene Johnson, Poem (1927) Little brown boy, Slim, dark, big-eyed, Crooning love songs to your banjo Down at the Lafayerre-Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head, High sort of and a bit to one side, Like a prince, a jazz prince. And I love Your eyes flashing, and your hands, And your patent-leathered feet, And your shoulders jerking the jig-wa. And I love your teeth flashing, And the way your hair shines in the spotlight Like it was the real stuff. Gee, brown boy, I loves you all over. I'm glad I'm a jig. I'm glad I can Understand your dancin' and your Singin', and feel all the happiness And joy and don't care in you. Gee, boy, when you sing, I can close my ears And hear tom-toms just as plain. Listen to me, will you, what do I know About tom-toms? But I like the word, sort of, Don't you? It belongs to us. Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head, And the way you sing, and dance, And everything. Say, I think you're wonderful. You're Allright with me, You are.



9. When Dawn Comes to the City Claude McKay

The tired cars go grumbling by, The moaning, groaning cars, And the old milk carts go rumbling by Under the same dull stars. Out of the tenements, cold as stone, Dark figures start for work; I watch them sadly shuffle on, 'Tis dawn, dawn in New York. But I would be on the island of the sea, In the heart of the island of the sea, Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing, Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! There, oh, there! on the island of the sea, There would I be at dawn. The tired cars go grumbling by, The crazy, lazy cars, And the same milk carts go rumbling by Under the dying stars. A lonely newsboy hurries by, Humming a recent ditty; Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky, The dawn comes to the city. But I would be on the island of the sea, In the heart of the island of the sea, Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling, From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! There, oh, there! on the island of the sea, There I would be at dawn.

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