#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
When the old junk man Death Comes to gather up our bodies And toss them into the sack of obl… I wonder if he will find The corpse of a white multi—millio…
How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water
Because my mouth Is wide with laughter And my throat Is deep with song, You do not think
Only dumb guys fight. If I wasn’t dumb I wouldn’t be fightin’. I could make six dollars a day On the docks
I could take the Harlem night and wrap around you, Take the neon lights and make a cr… Take the Lenox Avenue busses, Taxis, subways,
I am your son, white man! Georgia dusk And the turpentine woods. One of the pillars of the temple f… You are my son!
And that is what poetry may do, wrap up your dreams, protect and preserve and hold them until maybe they come true. Columbus dreamed of finding a new world, he found it. Edison dreamed ...
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh,
I dream a world where man No other man will scorn, Where love will bless the earth And peace its paths adorn I dream a world where all
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
Oh, silver tree! Oh, shining rivers of the soul! In a Harlem cabaret Six long—headed jazzers play. A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun—
