Chapter I: Have a Rendezvous with

LIFE

(With apologies to the memory of Alan Seeger)

I have a rendezvous with Life In days I hope will come Ere youth has sped and strength of mind, Ere voices sweet grown dumb; I have a rendezvous with Life When Spring’s first heralds hum. It may be I shall greet her soon, Shall riot at her behest; It may be I shall seek in vain The peace of her downy breast; Yet I would keep this rendezvous, And deem all hardships sweet, If at the end of the long white way, There Life and I shall meet. Sure some will cry it better far To crown their days in sleep, Than face the wind, the road, and rain, To heed the falling deep; Though wet, nor blow, nor space I fear, Yet fear I deeply, too, Lest Death shall greet and claim me ere I keep Life’s rendezvous.

PROTEST

I long not now, a little while at least, For that serene interminable hour When I shall leave this barmecidal feast, With poppy for my everlasting flower. I long not now for that dim cubicle Of earth to which my lease will not expire, Where he who comes a tenant there may dwell Without a thought of famine, flood, or fire.

Surely that house has quiet to bestow: Still tongue, spent pulse, heart pumped of its last throb, The fingers tense and tranquil in a row, The throat unwelled with any sigh or sob. But time to live, to love, bear pain and smile, Oh, we are given such a little while!

YET DO I MARVEL

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did he stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited with the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair.

Inscrutable His ways are and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand; Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

TO LOVERS OF EARTH: FAIR WARNING

Give over to high things the fervent thought You waste on Earth; let down the righteous bar Against a wayward peace too dearly bought Upon this pale and passion-frozen star. Sweethearts and friends, are they not loyal? Far More fickle, false, perverse, far more unkind, Is Earth to those who give her heart and mind.

And you whose lusty youth her snares intrigue, Who glory in her seas, swear by her clouds, With Age, man’s foe, Earth ever is in league. Time resurrects her even while he crowds Your bloom to dust, and lengthens out your shrouds A day’s length or a year’s. She will be young When your last cracked and quivering note is sung.

She will remain the Earth, sufficient still Though you are gone, and with you that rare loss That vanishes with your bewildered will; And there shall flame no red, indignant cross For you, no quick white scar of wrath emboss The sky, no blood drip from a wounded moon, And not a single star chime out of tune.

FROM THE DARK TOWER

We shall not always plant while others reap The golden increment of bursting fruit, Not always countenance, abject and mute, That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap; Not everlastingly while others sleep Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute, Not always bend to some more subtle brute; We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark White stars is no less lovely, being dark; And there are buds that cannot bloom at all In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall; So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

TO JOHN KEATS, POET, AT SPRINGTIME

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.

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; I am as helpless in the toil Of Spring as any lamb that bleats To feel the solid earth recoil Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats Her tocsin call to those who love her, And lo! the dogwood petals cover Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek, While white and purple lilacs muster A strength that bears them to a cluster Of color and odor; for her sake All things that slept are now awake.

And you and I, shall we lie still, John Keats, while Beauty summons us? Somehow I feel your sensitive will Is pulsing up some tremulous Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves Grow music as they grow, since your Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves For life that opens death’s dark door. Though dust, your fingers still can push The Vision Splendid to a birth, Though now they work as grass in the hush Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.

“John Keats is dead,” they say, but I Who hear your full insistent cry In bud and blossom, leaf and tree, Know John Keats still writes poetry. And while my head is earthward bowed To read new life sprung from your shroud, Folks seeing me must think it strange That merely spring should so derange My mind. They do not know that you, John Keats, keep revel with me, too.

FOUR EPITAPHS

1

_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.

2

_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.

3

_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.

4

_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.

INCIDENT

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December:
Of all the things that happened there
That’s all that I remember.

DONALD JEFFREY HAYES

Donald Jeffrey Hayes was born November 16, 1904, in Raleigh, N. C. At the age of five his parents brought him to Atlantic City, N. J., where he attended the public schools through the freshman year of High School. In 1913 he moved with his family to Pleasantville, N. J., where in his sophomore year of High School he was awarded, after a near student strike, court action and the dismissal of a member of the faculty--the highest debating honors. Following this unpleasantness, he went to Chicago where he studied privately the forms of poetry while completing his High School work. He graduated in 1926 from Englewood an honor student, and distinguished, as it were, as “The poet of Englewood” and “The Bronze God” as his fellow students dubbed him.

He is at present planning a volume of his verse and studying the voice, planning to make his career in the concert field.

INSCRIPTION

He wrote upon his heart As on the door of some dark ancient house: Who once lived here has long been dead As dead as moss-grown stone Only a ghost inhabits here One that would be alone Only a ghost inhabits here A ghost without desire Who sits before a shadowed hearth And warms to a spectral fire....

AUF WIEDERSEHEN

I shall come this way again
On some distant morrow
When the red and golden leaves
Have fallen on my sorrow...!

I shall come this way again
When this day is rotten
In the grave of yesterdays
And this hour forgotten...!

I shall come this way again
Before the lamp light dies
To comfort you and dry the tear
Of penance from your eyes...!

NIGHT

Night like purple flakes of snow Falls with ease Catching on the roofs of houses In the tops of trees Down upon the distant grass And the distant flower It will drift into this room In an hour....

CONFESSION

She kneeled before me begging
That I should with a prayer
Give her absolution
(How golden was her hair!)

She begged an absolution
While the moments fled
She thought my tears were pity
(My soul her lips were red!)

She begged of me forgiveness
God you understand
(For pale and soft and slender
Was her dainty hand!)

She begged that I should pray You
That her Soul might rest
But I could not pray O Master
(Ivory was her breast!)

NOCTURNE

Softly blow lightly O twilight breeze Scarcely bend slightly O silver trees: Night glides slowly down hill ... down stream Bringing a myriad star-twinkling dream.... Softly blow lightly O twilight breeze Scarcely bend slightly O silver trees: Night will spill sleep in your day weary eye While a soft yellow moon steals down the sky.... Softly blow Scarcely bend So ...! Lullaby....

AFTER ALL

After all and after all When the song is sung And swallowed up in silence It were more real unsung....

After all and after all When the lips have stirred Such a little of the thought Is transmuted in the word....

Suffer not my ears with hearing Suffer not your thoughts with speech. Let us feel into our meaning And thus know the all of each.

JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS

I was born on a farm twelve miles southwest of Lexington, Mississippi, in 1904. When I was eleven years old our family was disunited by divorce. My three sisters and only brother went with father while I chose to become my mother’s “little ploughman.” We worked around on “half shares” in the community of my birth until I was fourteen, and then my mother, who had managed somehow to save enough money to keep me in school for four months, sent me to Jackson College. It was here that I received my first material recognition for writing when I was awarded the first prize in a local contest for my first story, entitled “The Bible In The Cotton Field.” Mother’s plan was to send me back to Jackson College again the following year, but the white landlord took her entire crop of four bales to cover the land rent of my uncle with whom we had gone to live in Humphreys County that year.

My formal education has been interrupted more than once by periods of farming and teaching. I moved up my years and taught two five-months sessions in Humphreys County before I finished my high school work. In the fall of 1923 I matriculated at Lincoln University, Missouri, and graduated from its high school department in June 1925 with salutatory honors. Lincoln was very kind to me during those two years--the happiest I have known in all my life. It gave me work enough to cover my expenses while attending there, twice chose me the president of my class, and bestowed upon me each of the three first prizes it offers in the high school department, besides electing me class poet and giving me a host of staunch friends.

I am now pursuing my college work at Tougaloo College and am part time pastor of the second Baptist Church of Kosciusko, Mississippi.

THE RESURRECTION

His friends went off and left Him dead In Joseph’s subterranean bed, Embalmed with myrrh and sweet aloes, And wrapped in snow-white burial clothes.

Then shrewd men came and set a seal Upon His grave, lest thieves should steal His lifeless form away, and claim For Him an undeserving fame.

“There is no use,” the soldiers said, “Of standing sentries by the dead.” Wherefore, they drew their cloaks around Themselves, and fell upon the ground, And slept like dead men, all night through, In the pale moonlight and chilling dew.

A muffled whiff of sudden breath Ruffled the passive air of death.

He woke, and raised Himself in bed;
Recalled how He was crucified;
Touched both hands’ fingers to His head,
And lightly felt His fresh-healed side.

Then with a deep, triumphant sigh, He coolly put His grave-clothes by-- Folded the sweet, white winding sheet, The toweling, the linen bands, The napkin, all with careful hands-- And left the borrowed chamber neat.

His steps were like the breaking day:
So soft across the watch He stole,
He did not wake a single soul,
Nor spill one dewdrop by the way.

Now Calvary was loveliness:
Lilies that flowered thereupon
Pulled off the white moon’s pallid dress,
And put the morning’s vesture on.

“Why seek the living among the dead? He is not here,” the angel said.

The early winds took up the words, And bore them to the lilting birds, The leafing trees, and everything That breathed the living breath of spring.

THE LAST QUARTER MOON OF THE DYING YEAR

The last quarter moon of the dying year, Pendant behind a naked cottonwood tree On a frosty, dawning morning With the back of her silver head Turned to the waking sun. Quiet like the waters Of Galilee After the Lord had bid them “Peace, be still.” O silent beauty, indescribable!

Dead, do they say? Would God that I shall seem So beautiful in death.

PAEAN

Across the dewy lawn she treads
Before the sun awakes
While lush, green grasses bow their heads
To kiss the tracks she makes.

The violets, in clusters, stand
And stare her beauty through,
And seem so happy in her hand,
They know not what to do.

She must have come whence zephyrs blow,
From sprites’ or angels’ lands;
Her heart is meet for God to know--
Oh, heaven is where she stands!

GLADYS MAY CASELY HAYFORD

“I was born at Axim on the African Gold Coast in 1904 on the 11th of May to singularly cultured and intellectual parents, my mother being one of the daughters of Judge Smith, the first Judge of the Excomission Court of Sierra Leone, and my father being one of the three pioneer lawyers of the Gold Coast.

I am a Fanti, of the Fanti tribe which spreads from Axim right down the Gold Coast, to Acera, and is subdivided into groups speaking different dialects. It is said that the Acera branch, at one time, wandered away from the main body and eventually arrived also at the sea coast, speaking another tongue, but retaining the same customs.

I spent five years in England, three of which were spent in school. I went to Penrohs College, Colwyn Bay in Wales, and on my return home became a school teacher in The Girls Vocational School, Sierra Leone.

By twenty, I had the firm conviction that I was meant to write for Africa. This was accentuated by the help which our boys and girls need so much and fired by the determination to show those who are prejudiced against colour, that we deny inferiority to them, spiritually, intellectually and morally; and to prove it.

I argued that the first thing to do, was to imbue our own people with the idea of their own beauty, superiority and individuality, with a love and admiration for our own country, which has been systematically suppressed. Consequently I studied the beautiful points of Negro physique, texture of skin, beauty of hair, soft sweetness of eyes, charm of curves, so that none should think it a shame to be black, but rather a glorious adventure.”

NATIVITY

Within a native hut, ere stirred the dawn, Unto the Pure One was an Infant born Wrapped in blue lappah that his mother dyed. Laid on his father’s home-tanned deer-skin hide The babe still slept by all things glorified. Spirits of black bards burst their bonds and sang, “Peace upon earth” until the heavens rang. All the black babies who from earth had fled, Peeped through the clouds, then gathered round His head. Telling of things a baby needs to do, When first he opens his eyes on wonders new; Telling Him that to sleep was sweeter rest, All comfort came from His black mother’s breast. Their gifts were of Love caught from the springing sod, Whilst tears and laughter were the gifts of God. Then all the wise men of the past stood forth Filling the air East, West, and South and North; And told him of the joys that wisdom brings To mortals in their earthly wanderings. The children of the past shook down each bough, Wreathed Frangepani blossoms for His brow; They put pink lilies in His mother’s hand, And heaped for both the first fruits of the land. His father cut some palm fronds that the air Be coaxed to zephyrs while He rested there. Birds trilled their hallelujahs; and the dew Trembled with laughter till the babe laughed too. All the black women brought their love so wise, And kissed their motherhood into his mother’s eyes.

Note: lappah--a straight woven cloth tied round the waist to form a skirt.

Frangepani--An African flower.

RAINY SEASON LOVE SONG

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes; Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain, As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere, Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair; Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise, I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire; “The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much, That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch. When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart, I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat; “The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast. And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest. I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl, Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”

Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night, Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light. Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes. Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows.

THE SERVING GIRL

The calabash wherein she served my food, Was smooth and polished as sandalwood: Fish, as white as the foam of the sea, Peppered, and golden fried for me. She brought palm wine that carelessly slips From the sleeping palm tree’s honeyed lips. But who can guess, or even surmise The countless things she served with her eyes?

BABY COBINA

BROWN BABY COBINA, with his large black velvet eyes, His little coos of ecstacies, his gurgling of surprise, With brass bells on his ankles, that laugh where’er he goes, It’s so rare for bells to tinkle, above brown dimpled toes.

BROWN BABY COBINA is so precious that we fear Something might come and steal him, when we grownups are not near; So we tied bells on his ankles, and kissed on them this charm-- “Bells, guard our Baby Cobina from all devils and all harm.”

LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS

Lucy Ariel Williams was born in Mobile, Alabama, March 3, 1905. Her parents, Dr. and Mrs. H. Roger Williams surrounded her with the aesthetic and cultural environment usually given the only daughters in professional homes in the South. Miss Williams is well known as a modiste, poet and extremely talented pianist. Her early training was acquired at Emerson Institute, Mobile, Alabama. Later she was graduated from Talladega College and Fisk University, after which she attended Oberlin Conservatory of Music, Oberlin, Ohio. Although a first year student there, she received third year classification, being the first member of her race to be so honored. Her work has appeared in _Opportunity_ and other journals. Her poem “Northboun’” received first prize in the _Opportunity_ contest for 1926.

NORTHBOUN’

O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat, An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’, H’it’s one long strip Hangin’ up an’ down-- Jes’ Souf an’ Norf; Jes’ Norf an’ Souf.

Talkin’ ’bout sailin’ ’round de wurl’-- Huh! I’d be so dizzy my head ’ud twurl. If dis heah earf wuz jes’ a ball You no the people all ’ud fall.

O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat, An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’, H’it’s one long strip Hangin’ up an’ down-- Jes’ Souf an’ Norf; Jes’ Norf an’ Souf.

Talkin’ ’bout the City whut Saint John saw-- Chile you oughta go to Saginaw; A nigger’s chance is “finest kind,” An’ pretty gals ain’t hard to find.

Huh! de wurl’ ain’t flat, An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’, Jes’ one long strip Hangin’ up an’ down. Since Norf is up, An’ Souf is down, An’ Hebben is up, I’m upward boun’.

GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN

I was born in Lumberton, North Carolina, September 10, 1905. My parents, Professor and Mrs. D. P. Allen, were then in charge of Whitin Normal School, a thriving secondary school which was discontinued at my father’s death some ten years ago.

My high school days were spent at Redstone Academy, located at Lumberton. I can think of nothing of interest to mention concerning this period, except that I was an omnivorous reader, and learned to love literature, and especially poetry, with a passionate intensity.

Four years of college at Johnson C. Smith University followed, during which time I studied a little, read a great deal, and dabbled in music and literature. Among other things, I experimented with the piano enough to become a fairly advanced performer.

It was during my stay at college that my longing to become a writer grew particularly ardent. A good many of my literary attempts saw the light in school and local periodicals, some bringing encouraging comment. In June of 1926, I was graduated, having been chosen as valedictorian for that year.

I feel it necessary to mention here that my college career was made possible mainly through the sacrifices of my noble and devoted mother.

In the past winter I was engaged in teaching at Kendall Institute in Sumter, S. C. During this time some of my work appeared in _Opportunity_, _American Life_, _The Southwestern Christian Advocate_, and _The Lyric West_.

This year one of my poems, “To Melody,” was awarded the prize for the best sonnet in a state-wide contest conducted by the United Daughters of the Confederacy (North Carolina Division).

TO MELODY

I think that man hath made no beauteous thing More lovely than a glorious melody That soars aloft in splendor, full and free, And graceful as a swallow on the wing! A melody that seems to move, and sing, And quiver, in its radiant ecstasy, That bends and rises like a slender tree Which sways before the gentle winds of Spring!

Ah, men will ever love thee, holy art! For thou, of all the blessings God hath given, Canst best revive and cheer the wounded heart And nearest bring the weary soul to Heaven! Of all God’s precious gifts, it seems to me, The choicest is the gift of melody.

PORTRAIT

Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade,
Like sylvan lakes that lie
In some sequestered forest glade
Beneath a starry sky.

Her cheeks? The ripened chestnut’s hue,--
Rich autumn’s sun-kissed brown!
Caressed by sunbeams dancing through
Red leaves that flutter down.

Her form? A slender pine that sways
Before the murmuring breeze
In summer, when the south wind plays
Soft music through the trees.

Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite
Who smiles from dawn till dark,
As lovely as a summer night
And carefree as a lark.

RICHARD BRUCE

I was born in Washington, D. C., on the second of July, 1906, and have never ceased to marvel at the fact. After attending public school with very good marks (I was thrashed if I did not lead my class), I attended Dunbar High School of the same city. When I was thirteen my father died, my greatest impression being the crowded church and the vault. Mother left Washington for New York where my brother and I joined her in a few months. New York was an adventure and still is. A glorious something torn from a novel. Even the first hard winter with mother ill and my feet on the ground was just a part of it. My gathering bits of fur to paste on newspaper to cut out for inner soles for my shoes, the walking to work to save carfare, and getting lunch as best I could, all seemed romantic and highly colored. Weren’t there theatres and lights, Broadway, Fifth Avenue ... and lights? Noise and bustle and high silk hats and flowers in pots in the Bowery. Hobble cars creeping like caterpillars up Broadway. Taxis and people and forty-second street. Traffic towers and tall buildings. Wasn’t this New York? A year later I discovered Harlem. I was at that time an art apprentice at seven fifty a week. But that was too little money. So I became in turn errand boy for ten dollars, bell hop in an all-women’s hotel for eleven fifty-five, eighteen with tips, secretary and confidence man for a modiste for twenty-five, ornamental iron-worker and designer for twenty-eight, and elevator operator for thirty. Then I had the mumps and despite the glamor of New York, I wanted to go, just go somewhere. So I went to Panama working my way. Then New York again and a costume design class. A visit home to D. C. where I met Langston Hughes. _Opportunity_ accepted my first poem. Washington for eleven months then New York again. I arrived penniless and have remained so. Dilatory jobs, trips to New England, Florida, California and Canada, but always New York again. The few drawings and sketches made on these trips were either destroyed, lost, or given away en route. I began to write seriously and to paint just as seriously; I entered contests but never won. I am still penniless and happy and planning to go to Paris and Vienna by hook or crook.

SHADOW

Silhouette On the face of the moon Am I. A dark shadow in the light. A silhouette am I On the face of the moon Lacking color Or vivid brightness But defined all the clearer Because I am dark, Black on the face of the moon. A shadow am I Growing in the light, Not understood as is the day, But more easily seen Because I am a shadow in the light.

CAVALIER

Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine, Prepare the feast and pearl the wine. Bring on the best! Bring on the bard, Bring on the rest. Let nought retard Nor yet distress with putrid breath, My new mistress, My Lady Death.

WARING CUNEY

Waring Cuney was born in Washington, D. C., May 6, 1906. He received his education in the public schools of that city and at Howard University. Later he attended Lincoln University, and while there sang in the Glee Club and the quartet. His work with these groups encouraged him to study music and he is now studying voice at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. His first published poem was “No Images” which won first award in the _Opportunity_ contest of 1926. Since then he has continued to write and his poems have appeared in _Opportunity_, Braithwaite’s _Anthology_, _The Forum_, and _Palms_.

THE DEATH BED

All the time they were praying He watched the shadow of a tree Flicker on the wall.

There is no need of prayer, He said, No need at all.

The kin-folk thought it strange That he should ask them from a dying bed. But they left all in a row And it seemed to ease him To see them go.

There were some who kept on praying In a room across the hall And some who listened to the breeze That made the shadows waver On the wall.

He tried his nerve On a song he knew And made an empty note That might have come, From a bird’s harsh throat.

And all the time it worried him That they were in there praying And all the time he wondered What it was they could be saying.

A TRIVIALITY

Not to dance with her Was such a trivial thing

There were girls more fair than she,--

To-day Ten girls dressed in white. Each had a white rose wreath.

They made a dead man’s arch And ten strong men Carried a body through.

Not to dance with her Was a trivial thing.