#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
In places like Selma, Alabama, Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York...
Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear. I have as much right
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done
Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy—mercy! I’s frustrated!
Listen! Dear dream of utter aliveness— Touching my body of utter death— Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliv… The flaming source of your bright…
I sat there singing her Songs in the dark. She said; 'I do not understand The words’.
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…
I take my dreams and make of them… and a round fountain with a beauti… And a song with a broken heart and… Do you understand my dreams? Sometimes you say you do,
You say I O.K.ed LONG DISTANCE? O.K.ed it when? My goodness, Central That was then!
