double-dutch, boston creme and hell

by Deborah White

it's in the crochet
of night when
he's at his worst.

understand,

it's his scent
that makes
my mouth water


aromas velcro
his progeny
beneath my arms,

saddle-bag my hips

spice-trails seep
through holes of
temperance
and control

saccharine comfort
is the burlesque of a man's
blue-balled dream

can tap a woman's
"g" time and time again

satisfaction


deadly is sin's
third son

he wakes me
coerces a quiet
slip downstairs

to pillage sanctity's
double-dutch fudge
no brainer

plunder purity's
boston creme circled
and dumped
promises


yet, gluttony
never once
mentions

-- this immorality against
myself --

in hell,

I'd be force-fed
rats, toads, and snakes

Yet I Do Marvel by Countee Cullen

Countee Cullen
1903-1946

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 by 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!

harlem renaissance poetry

Powered by ScribeFire.

People [by Jean Toomer -- Harlem Renaissance Poet/Writer]

from The Collected Poems of Jean Toomer (Poet of the Harlem Renaissance)






To those fixed on white,

White is white,

To those fixed on black,

It is the same,

And red is red,

Yellow, yellow-

Surely there are such sights

In the many colored world,

Or in the mind.

The strange thing is that

These people never see themselves

Or you, or me.



Are they not in their minds?

Are we not in the world?

This is a curious blindness

For those that are color blind.

What queer beliefs

That men who believe in sights

Disbelieve in seers.




O people, if you but used

Your other eyes

You would see beings.

Powered by ScribeFire.

Renaissance: Portrait of a Son -- [My tribute to] Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes


My tribute to Langston Hughes
by Deborah White

He always wrote
with the strength & endurance

of noir silk

and sometimes, he'd die
on the same page --

he too, was America;


the darker
brother who scribed of rivers;

he'd known rivers,
he'd known the deep
onward movement
of Congo currents.

If you crack open
a binder you'd find

him sitting
in Harlem's Cotton Club
or Savoy's Ballroom track
at a table under

puffs and swirls
from the continent without cold;

and he'd jot
to the struck wired
strings, of Ellington,

scribble along
with Calloway's
chest rolled
hi-de-hi's,
ho-de-ho's.

Then, you'd notice
his soul
would meander
back to the rivers --

look close,

watch him drink
from Euphrates' mouth
handfuls of Black-men hopes,

listen,

hear him sip
from Nile's lip
cocao and coffee dreams --

it would be then,

that you'd know
he'd known those rivers,

he'd known

the slow,

slow,

trickles
of wearied ink;


Negro rivers.

I, Too, Sing America by Langston Hughes.

Black History Month is just around the corner so, I thought I'd start early.

I want to celebrate Black poets
from the Renaissance to Modern Day.
No better way than to start with --

LANGSTON HUGES

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.


Read More poetry by Langston Hughes


From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Knopf and Vintage Books.
Copyright 1994 by the Estate of Langston Hughes. All rights reserved.









Technorati Tags: langston hughes