Langston Hughes: poèmes de la Renaissance de Harlem
Posted: February 1, 2016 Filed under: English, French, Langston Hughes | Tags: Black History Month poems, Le mois de l'histoire des noirs, Poésie de la Renaissance de Harlem Comments Off on Langston Hughes: poèmes de la Renaissance de Harlem
Portrait de Langston Hughes par Bruce Patrick Jones_graphite et aquarelle_2016
Langston Hughes (le 1er février 1902 – mai 1967: poète, écrivain, et dramaturge noir-américain)
Le Nègre parle des fleuves (1921)
(The Negro speaks of rivers)
.
J’ai connu des fleuves
J’ai connu des fleuves anciens comme le monde et plus vieux
que le flux du sang humain dans les veines humaines.
.
Mon âme est devenue aussi profonde que les fleuves.
.
Je me suis baigné dans l’Euphrate quand les aubes étaient neuves.
J’ai bâti ma hutte près du Congo et il a bercé mon sommeil.
J’ai contemplé le Nil et au-dessus j’ai construit les pyramides.
J’ai entendu le chant du Mississipi quand Abe Lincoln descendit
à la Nouvelle-Orléans, et j’ai vu ses nappes boueuses transfigurées
en or au soleil couchant.
.
J’ai connu des fleuves:
Fleuves anciens et ténébreux.
.
Mon âme est devenue aussi profonde que les fleuves.
. . .
Moi aussi, je chante l’Amérique (1926)
(Epilogue: I, Too)
.
Moi aussi, je chante l’Amérique.
.
Je suis le frère à la peau sombre.
Ils m’envoient manger à la cuisine
Quand il vient du monde.
Mais je ris,
Et mange bien,
Et prends des forces.
.
Demain
Je me mettrai à table
Quand il viendra du monde
Personne n’osera
Me dire
Alors
«Mange à la cuisine».
.
De plus, ils verront comme je suis beau
Et ils auront honte…
.
Moi aussi, je suis l’Amérique.
. . .
Le Blues du Désespoir (1926)
(The Weary Blues)
.
Fredonnant un air syncopé et nonchalant,
Balançant d’avant en arrière avec son chant moelleux,
J’écoutais un Nègre jouer.
En descendant la Lenox Avenue l’autre nuit
A la lueur pâle et maussade d’une vieille lampe à gaz
Il se balançait indolent…
Il se balançait indolent…
Pour jouer cet air, ce Blues du Désespoir.
Avec ses mains d’ébène sur chaque touche d’ivoire
Il amenait son pauvre piano à pleurer sa mélodie.
O Blues !
Se balançant sur son tabouret bancal
Il jouait cet air triste et rugueux comme un fou,
Tendre Blues !
Jailli de l’âme d’un Noir
O Blues !
.
D’une voix profonde au timbre mélancolique
J’écoutais ce Nègre chanter, ce vieux piano pleurer –
« J’n’ai personne en ce monde,
J’n’ai personne à part moi.
J’veux en finir avec les soucis
J’veux mettre mes tracas au rancart. »
Tamp, tamp, tamp ; faisait son pied sur le plancher.
Il joua quelques accords et continua de chanter –
« J’ai le Blues du Désespoir
Rien ne peut me satisfaire.
J’n’aurai plus de joie
Et je voudrais être mort. »
Et tard dans la nuit il fredonnait cet air.
Les étoiles disparurent et la lune à son tour.
Le chanteur s’arrêta de jouer et rentra dormir
Tandis que dans sa tête le Blues du Désespoir résonnait.
Il dormit comme un roc ou comme un homme qui serait mort.
. . .
Nègre (1922) (Negro)
.
Je suis un Nègre :
Noir comme la nuit est noire,
Noir comme les profondeurs de mon Afrique.
.
J’ai été un esclave :
César m’a dit de tenir ses escaliers propres.
J’ai ciré les bottes de Washington.
.
J’ai été ouvrier :
Sous ma main les pyramides se sont dressées.
J’ai fait le mortier du Woolworth Building.
.
J’ai été un chanteur :
Tout au long du chemin de l’Afrique à la Géorgie
J’ai porté mes chants de tristesse.
J’ai créé le ragtime.
.
Je suis un Nègre :
Les Belges m’ont coupé les mains au Congo.
On me lynche toujours au Mississipi.
.
Je suis un Nègre :
Noir comme la nuit est noire
Noir comme les profondeurs de mon Afrique.
. . .
Les poèmes originals, en anglais:
.
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
.
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
. . .
Epilogue: I, too
.
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.
. . .
The Weary Blues
.
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”
.
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
. . .
Negro
.
I am a Negro:
Black as the night is black,
Black like the depths of my Africa.
.
I’ve been a slave:
Caesar told me to keep his door-steps clean.
I brushed the boots of Washington.
.
I’ve been a worker:
Under my hand the pyramids arose.
I made mortar for the Woolworth Building.
.
I’ve been a singer:
All the way from Africa to Georgia
I carried my sorrow songs.
I made ragtime.
.
I’ve been a victim:
The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.
They lynch me still in Mississippi.
.
I am a Negro:
Black as the night is black,
Black like the depths of my Africa.
. . . . .
George Elliott Clarke: “El Blues para X” / “Blues for X”
Posted: February 12, 2013 Filed under: English: Black Canadian / American, George Elliott Clarke, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on George Elliott Clarke: “El Blues para X” / “Blues for X”
ZP_painting by William Henry Johnson, 1901 – 1970_Café_1940
George Elliott Clarke (born 1960)
“Blues for X”
.
Pretty boy, towel your tears,
And robe yourself in black.
Pretty boy, dry your tears,
You know I’m comin’ back.
I’m your slavish lover
And I’m slavish in the sack.
.
Call me: Sweet Potato,
Sweet Pea, or Sweety Pie,
There’s sugar on my lips
And honey in my thighs.
Jos’phine Baker bakes beans,
But I stew pigtails in rye.
.
My bones are guitar strings
And blues the chords you strum.
My bones are slender flutes
And blues the bars you hum.
You wanna stay my man ? –
Serve me whisky when I come !
. . .
George Elliott Clarke (nace 1960)
“El Blues para X”
.
Lindo chico, enjúgate las lágrimas,
Y vístete de negro.
Chico chicho – que no llores,
Volveré – tú sabes.
Soy tu amante-esclava
Y soy servil en la cama.
.
Llámame: “mi camote”,
“chícharo’zuc’rado” o “pastelito dulce”,
Hay azucar en mis labios
Y miel en mis muslos.
Jos’phine “Panadero” Baker cuece frijoles
Pero yo guiso colas-de-chancho en güisqui.
.
Son cuerdas de guitarra mis huesos
Y los acordes que rasgueas El Blues.
Los huesos son flautas esbeltas
Y El Blues – el compás que tarareas.
¿Quieres permanecer mi hombre?
!Sírveme güisqui cuándo me vengo!
. . .
George Elliott Clarke, el poeta laureado actual de la ciudad de Toronto, nació en este día, el 12 de febrero de 1960. Los temas de su poesía son los hechos y la mitología de su provincia natal – Nova Scotia, Canadá. Con la provincia al lado – New Brunswick – las dos forman lo que Señor Clarke dice como “Africadia” – la palabra África (de unos esclavos fugados de los Estados Unidos) + la palabra Acadia (la misma región canadiense en su época francesa, antes de la llegada de los británicos).
Señor Clarke es Profesor de la literatura canadiense y de la diáspora africana en la Universidad de Toronto.
El poema “El Blues para X” (1990) fue escrito en la voz de una mujer que está confiada en su sexualidad y honesta en sus deseos. El estilo del poema es, quizás, de “nuevo-Blues”. Mezcla algo de la habla clara de Langston Hughes con las palabras francas de Bessie Smith.
. . .
The City of Toronto’s current Poet Laureate, George Elliott Clarke (born February 12th, 1960, in Windsor Plains, Nova Scotia), has mythologized Black-Canadian history in what he calls Africadia – Africa + Acadia – the provinces of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia as lived by Black people for more than two centuries. Clarke received the Governor General’s Award in 2001 for his Execution Poems, based on the lives – and deaths – of two of his relatives, George and Rufus Hamilton. He wrote a libretto for his own play, Beatrice Chancy, and with a score by James Rolfe the opera premiered in Toronto in 1998 with Fredericton-born Measha Brueggergosman in the title role. Since 1999 Professor Clarke has taught Canadian and African Diasporic Literature at the University of Toronto. The poem “Blues for X” – from his 1990 poetry collection Whylah Falls – might be deemed a neo-Blues poem – harkening back to the plain-spoken Blues poems of Langston Hughes, but with a wake-up shot à la Bessie Smith (the last two verses).
.
Traducción en español / Translation into Spanish: Alexander Best, Lidia García Garay
“Blues for X” © George Elliott Clarke
“Mind is your only ruler – sovereign”: Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley: “Emancípense de la esclavitud mental; nadie más que nosotros puede liberar nuestras mentes.”
Posted: February 6, 2013 Filed under: Bob Marley, Emancípense de la esclavitud mental: Marcus Garvey + Bob Marley y su Canción de Redención, English, Spanish | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on “Mind is your only ruler – sovereign”: Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley: “Emancípense de la esclavitud mental; nadie más que nosotros puede liberar nuestras mentes.”
ZP_Bob Marley, 1945 – 1981
ZP_Marcus Garvey, 1887 – 1940_Jamaican orator, Black Nationalist and promoter of Pan-Africanism in the Diaspora
“Redemption Song”, from Bob Marley and The Wailers final studio album (1980), was unlike anything Marley had recorded previously. There is no reggae in in it, rather it is a kind of folksong / spiritual and just him singing with an acoustic guitar. The exhortation to “emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds” was taken directly from a famous speech that fellow Jamaican and Pan-Africanist Marcus Garvey gave in Nova Scotia, Canada, in 1937. Garvey published the speech in his Black Man magazine. He had said: “We are going to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery because whilst others might free the body, none but ourselves can free the mind. Mind is your only ruler, sovereign. The man who is not able to develop and use his mind is bound to be the slave of the other man who uses his mind…” Bob Marley was born on this day, February 6th, in 1945. He developed cancer in 1977 but for three years did not seek treatment because of his Rastafarian beliefs; was the illness perhaps Jah’s will? He died in 1981, at the age of 36.
At Marley’s funeral Jamaican Prime Minister Edward Seaga eulogized him thus: “His voice was an omnipresent cry in our electronic world. His sharp features, majestic looks, and prancing style a vivid etching on the landscape of our minds. Bob Marley was never seen. He was “an experience” – which left an indelible imprint with each encounter. Such a man cannot be erased from the mind. He is part of the collective consciousness of the nation.”
.
Robert Nesta ‘Bob’ Marley
“Redemption Song”
.
Old pirates, yes, they rob I;
Sold I to the merchant ships,
Minutes after they took I
From the bottomless pit.
But my hand was made strong
By the hand of the Almighty.
We forward in this generation
Triumphantly.
Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever have:
Redemption songs,
Redemption songs.
.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
None but ourselves can free our minds.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
‘Cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Ooo,
Some say it’s just a part of it:
We’ve got to fulfil The Book.
.
Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever have:
Redemption songs,
Redemption songs,
Redemption songs.
.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
None but ourselves can free our minds.
Woah, have no fear for atomic energy,
‘Cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say it’s just a part of it:
We’ve got to fulfil The Book.
Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever had:
Redemption songs,
Yes, all I ever had:
Redemption songs:
These songs of freedom,
Songs of freedom.
. . .
Canción de Redención, del disco final (1980) grabado por Bob Marley y “Los hombres plañideros”, es algo diferente: una canción folklórica muy íntima – con solamente una voz y una guitarra acústica – y no es canción de reggae. Cuando Marley cantó este “canto” que es también una exhortación, ya sufría del cáncer, y ahora, en el año 2013 – más de tres décadas después de su muerte – las letras de Redención parecen como buen consejo para vivir con dignidad en el mundo actual.
Las palabras Emancípense de la esclavitud mental – nadie más que nosotros puede liberar nuestras mentes son pasajes de una declaración famosa del activista jamaiquino Negro-Nacionalista Marcus Garvey (1887-1940). En Jamaica la gente cree que la religión rastafari (la fe de Bob Marley) es en parte consecuencia de las ideas de Garvey; él anunció la llegada de un rey, el emperador Haile Selassie de Etiopía. En hecho, Garvey aseguró a sus seguidores: “Miren a Africa cuando un rey negro sea coronado – éso significa que la liberación está cerca”.
Pero “la llegada de un rey” no resuelve todo el misterio irónico de la Vida – como la muerte de un hombre casi joven – y de gran don.
Edward Seaga, el primer ministro de Jamaica, pronunció el elogio al funeral de Bob Marley. Dijo: “Su voz fue un grito omnipresente en nuestro mundo electrónico. Sus rasgos afilados, su aspecto majestuoso y su forma de moverse se han grabado intensamente en el paisaje de nuestra mente. Bob Marley nunca fue visto. Fue “una experiencia” que dejó una huella indeleble en cada encuentro. Un hombre así no se puede borrar de la mente. Él es parte de la conciencia colectiva de la nación.”
.
Robert Nesta ‘Bob’ Marley (6 de febrero, 1945 – 1981)
“Canción de Redención”
.
Viejos piratas, sí, que me roban a yo;
Vendido yo a los buques mercantes,
Minutos después de que tomé a yo
Desde el pozo sin fondo.
Pero mi mano fue hecha fuerte
Por la mano del Todopoderoso.
Avanzamos adelante en esta generación
– Triunfante.
¿No le gustaría ayudar a cantar
Estas canciones de libertad?
Porque todo lo que tengo – alguna vez:
Las canciones de redención,
Canciones de la redención.
.
Emancípense de la esclavitud mental;
Nadie más que nosotros puede liberar nuestras mentes.
No tenga miedo de la energía atómica,
Ninguno de ellos puede parar el tiempo.
¿Por cuánto tiempo van a matar a nuestros profetas,
A pesar de que un lado para mirar?
Ooo,
Algunos dicen que es sólo una parte de todo:
Tenemos que cumplir con El Libro.
.
¿No le gustaría ayudar a cantar
Estas canciones de libertad?
Porque todo lo que tengo – alguna vez:
Las canciones de redención,
Canciones de redención,
Canciones de la redención.
.
Emancípense de la esclavitud mental;
Nadie más que nosotros puede liberar nuestras mentes.
Ay,
No tenga miedo de la energía atómica,
Ninguno de ellos puede parar el tiempo..
¿Por cuánto tiempo van a matar a nuestros profetas,
A pesar de que un lado para mirar?
Sí, algunos dicen que es sólo una parte de todo:
Tenemos para cumplir con El Libro.
¿Usted, no va a tener que cantar
Estas canciones de libertad?
Porque todo lo que tuve – alguna vez:
Las canciones de redención.
Todo lo que yo tuve – alguna vez:
Canciones de redención, ah sí –
Estas canciones de libertad,
Canciones de la libertad.
. . . . .
“Viva y no pare” / “Live and don’t hold back”: Nicolás Guillén + el Yoruba de Cuba / the Yoruba from Cuba
Posted: February 5, 2013 Filed under: English, Nicolás Guillén, Nicolás Guillén + el Yoruba de Cuba / the Yoruba from Cuba, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on “Viva y no pare” / “Live and don’t hold back”: Nicolás Guillén + el Yoruba de Cuba / the Yoruba from Cuba
Z|P_Cabeza de piña por Eduardo Roca alias Choco_pintor cubano
Nicolás Guillén (Cuba, 1902-1989)
A poem from “ ‘Son’ Motifs ” (1930)
“Go get some dough”
.
Get some silver,
go get some dough for us!
Cuz I’m not goin one step more:
we’re down to just rice and crackers,
that’s it.
Yeah, I know how things are,
but hey, my Guy – a person’s gotta eat:
so get some money,
go get it,
else I’m gonna beat it.
Then they’ll call me a ‘no good’ woman
and won’t want nothin’ to do with me. But
Love with Hunger? Hell no!
.
There’s so many pretty new shoes out there, dammit!
So many wristwatches, compadre!
Hell – so many luxuries we might have, my Man!
.
Translation from Spanish: Alexander Best
.
Note: ‘Son’ (meaning Sound) was the traditional Cuban music style of the early twentieth century.
It combined Spanish song and guitars with African percussion of Bantu origin. ‘Son’ was the basis upon which Salsa developed.
. . .
Del poemario “Motivos de Son” (1930)
“Búcate plata”
.
Búcate plata,
búcate plata,
poqque no doy un paso má;
etoy a arró con galleta,
na má.
Yo bien sé como etá to,
pero biejo, hay que comé:
búcate plata,
búcate plata,
poqque me boy a corré.
Depué dirán que soy mala,
y no me quedrán tratá,
pero amó con hambre, biejo.
¡qué ba!
con tanto sapato nuevo,
¡qué ba!
Con tanto reló, compadre,
¡qué ba!
Con tanto lujo, mi negro,
¡qué ba!
. . .
A poem from Sóngoro cosongo: mulatto poems (1931)
“Cane”
.
The black man
together with the plantation.
The yankee
on the plantation.
The earth
beneath the plantation.
Our blood
drains out of us!
. . .
Un poema del poemario Sóngoro cosongo: poemas mulatos (1931)
“Caña”
.
El negro
junto al cañaveral.
El yanqui
sobre el cañaveral.
La tierra
bajo el cañaveral.
¡Sangre
que se nos va!
. . .
Two poems from “West Indies, Ltd.” (1934):
“Guadaloupe, W. I., Pointe-à-Pitre”
.
The black men, working
near the steamboat. The arabs, selling,
the french, strolling, having a rest
– and the sun, burning.
.
In the harbour the sea
lies down. The air toasts
the palm trees… I scream: Guadaloupe!
but nobody answers.
.
The steamboat leaves, labouring through
the impassive waters with a foaming roar.
There the black men stay, still working,
and the arabs, selling,
and the french, strolling, having a rest
– and the sun, burning…
. . .
“Guadalupe, W. I., Pointe-à-Pitre” (1934)
.
Los negros, trabajando
junto al vapor. Los árabes, vendiendo,
los franceses, paseando y descansando
– y el sol, ardiendo.
En el puerto se acuesta
el mar. El aire tuesta
las palmeras… Yo grito: ¡Guadalupe!
pero nadie contesta.
.
Parte el vapor, arando
las aguas impasibles con espumoso estruendo.
Allá quedan los negros trabajando,
los árabes vendiendo,
los franceses, paseando y descansando
– y el sol, ardiendo…
. . .
“Riddles”
.
The teeth, filled with the morning,
and the hair, filled with the night.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Black man.
.
Though she being woman and not beautiful,
you’ll do what she orders you.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Hunger.
.
Slave of the slaves,
and towards the masters, tyrant.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Sugar cane.
.
Noise of a hand
that never ignores the other.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Almsgiving.
.
A man who is crying
going on with the laugh he learned.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Me.
. . .
“Adivinanzas”
.
En los dientes, la mañana,
y la noche en el pellejo.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— El negro.
.
Con ser hembra y no ser bella,
harás lo que ella te mande.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— El hambre.
.
Esclava de los esclavos,
y con los dueños, tirana.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— La caña.
.
Escándalo de una mano
que nunca ignora a la otra.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— La limosna.
.
Un hombre que está llorando
con la risa que aprendió.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— Yo.
. . .
Poem from “Cantos para soldados y sones para turistas (1937)
“Execution”
.
They are going to execute
a man whose arms are tied.
There are four soldiers
for the shooting.
Four silent
soldiers,
fastened up,
like the fastened-up man they’re going to kill.
— Can you escape?
— I can’t run!
— They’re gonna shoot!
— What’re we gonna do?
— Maybe the rifles aren’t loaded…
— They got six bullets of fierce lead!
— Perhaps these soldiers don’t shoot!
— You’re a fool – through and through!
.
They fired.
(How was it they could shoot?)
They killed.
(How was it they could kill?)
They were four silent
soldiers,
and an official señor
made a signal to them, lowering his saber.
Four soldiers they were,
and tied,
like the man they were to kill.
ZP_En la mira (In the cross-hairs)_Eduardo Roca (Choco)_pintor cubano
“Fusilamiento”
.
Van a fusilar
a un hombre que tiene los brazos atados.
Hay cuatro soldados
para disparar.
Son cuatro soldados
callados,
que están amarrados,
lo mismo que el hombre amarrado que van a matar.
—¿Puedes escapar?
—¡No puedo correr!
—¡Ya van a tirar!
—¡Qué vamos a hacer!
—Quizá los rifles no estén cargados…
—¡Seis balas tienen de fiero plomo!
—¡Quizá no tiren esos soldados!
—¡Eres un tonto de tomo y lomo!
.
Tiraron.
(¿Cómo fue que pudieron tirar?)
Mataron.
(¿Cómo fue que pudieron matar?)
Eran cuatro soldados
callados,
y les hizo una seña, bajando su sable,
un señor oficial;
eran cuatro soldados
atados,
lo mismo que el hombre que fueron los cuatro a
matar.
. . .
“Bourgeois”
.
The vanquished bourgeois – they don’t make me sad.
And when I think they are going to make me sad,
I just really grit my teeth, really shut my eyes.
.
I think about my long days with neither shoes and roses,
I think about my long days with neither sombrero nor
clouds,
I think about my long days without a shirt – or dreams,
I think about my long days with my prohibited skin,
I think about my long days And
.
You cannot come in, please – this is a club.
The payroll is full.
There’s no room in this hotel.
The señor has stepped out.
Looking for a girl.
Fraud in the elections.
A big dance for blind folks.
.
The first price fell to Santa Clara.
A “Tómbola” lottery for orphans.
The gentleman is in Paris.
Madam the marchioness doesn’t receive people.
Finally And
.
Given that I recall everything and
the way I recall everything,
what the hell are you asking me to do?
In addition, ask them,
I’m sure they too
recall all.
. . .
“Burgueses”
.
No me dan pena los burgueses vencidos.
Y cuando pienso que van a dar me pena,
aprieto bien los dientes, y cierro bien los ojos.
.
Pienso en mis largos días sin zapatos ni rosas,
pienso en mis largos días sin sombrero ni nubes,
pienso en mis largos días sin camisa ni sueños,
pienso en mis largos días con mi piel prohibida,
pienso en mis largos días Y
.
No pase, por favor, esto es un club.
La nómina está llena.
No hay pieza en el hotel.
El señor ha salido.
.
Se busca una muchacha.
Fraude en las elecciones.
Gran baile para ciegos.
.
Cayó el premio mayor en Santa Clara.
Tómbola para huérfanos.
El caballero está en París.
La señora marquesa no recibe.
En fin Y
Que todo lo recuerdo y como todo lo
recuerdo,
¿qué carajo me pide usted que haga?
Además, pregúnteles,
estoy seguro de que también
recuerdan ellos.
. . .
“The Black Sea”
.
The purple night dreams
over the sea;
voices of fishermen,
wet with the sea;
the moon makes its exit,
dripping all over the sea.
.
The black sea.
Throughout the night, a sound,
flows into the bay;
throughout the night, a sound.
.
The boats see it happen,
throughout the night, this sound,
igniting the chilly water.
Throughout the night, a sound,
Inside the night, this sound,
Across the night – a sound.
.
The black sea.
Ohhh, my mulatto woman of fine, fine gold,
I sigh, oh my mixed woman who is like gold and silver together,
with her red poppy and her orange blossom.
At the foot of the sea.
At the foot of the sea, the hungry, masculine sea.
.
Translation from Spanish: Alexander Best
. . .
“El Negro Mar”
.
La noche morada sueña
sobre el mar;
la voz de los pescadores
mojada en el mar;
sale la luna chorreando
del mar.
El negro mar.
Por entre la noche un son,
desemboca en la bahía;
por entre la noche un son.
Los barcos lo ven pasar,
por entre la noche un son,
encendiendo el agua fría.
Por entre la noche un son,
por entre la noche un son,
por entre la noche un son. . .
El negro mar.
Ay, mi mulata de oro fino,
ay, mi mulata
de oro y plata,
con su amapola y su azahar,
al pie del mar hambriento y masculino,
al pie del mar.
. . .
“Son” Number 6
.
I’m Yoruba, crying out Yoruba
Lucumí.
Since I’m Yoruba from Cuba,
I want my lament of Yoruba to touch Cuba
the joyful weeping Yoruba
that comes out of me.
.
I’m Yoruba,
I keep singing
and crying.
When I’m not Yoruba then
I am Congo, Mandinga or Carabalí.
Listen my friends, to my ‘son’ which begins like this:
.
Here is the riddle
of all my hopes:
what’s mine is yours,
what’s yours is mine;
all the blood
shaping a river.
.
The silk-cotton tree, tree with its crown;
father, the father with his son;
the tortoise in its shell.
Let the heart-warming ‘son’ break out,
and our people dance,
heart close to heart,
glasses clinking together
water on water with rum!
.
I’m Yoruba, I’m Lucumí,
Mandinga, Congo, Carabalí.
Listen my friends, to the ‘son’ that goes like this:
.
We’ve come together from far away,
young ones and old,
Blacks and Whites, moving together;
one is a leader, the other a follower,
all moving together;
San Berenito and one who’s obeying
all moving together;
Blacks and Whites from far away,
all moving together;
Santa María and one who’s obeying
all moving together;
all pulling together, Santa María,
San Berenito, all pulling together,
all moving together, San Berenito,
San Berenito, Santa María.
Santa María, San Berenito,
everyone pulling together!
.
I’m Yoruba, I’m Lucumí
Mandinga, Congo, Carabalí.
Listen my friends, to my ‘son’ which ends like this:
.
Come out Mulatto,
walk on free,
tell the White man he can’t leave…
Nobody breaks away from here;
look and don’t stop,
listen and don’t wait
drink and don’t stop,
eat and don’t wait,
live and don’t hold back
our people’s ‘son’ will never end!
.
Translation from Spanish: Salvador Ortiz-Carboneres
. . .
“Son número 6”
.
Yoruba soy, lloro en yoruba
lucumí.
Como soy un yoruba de Cuba,
quiero que hasta Cuba suba mi llanto yoruba;
que suba el alegre llanto yoruba
que sale de mí.
.
Yoruba soy,
cantando voy,
llorando estoy,
y cuando no soy yoruba,
soy congo, mandinga, carabalí.
Atiendan amigos, mi son, que empieza así:
.
Adivinanza
de la esperanza:
lo mío es tuyo
lo tuyo es mío;
toda la sangre
formando un río.
.
La ceiba ceiba con su penacho;
el padre padre con su muchacho;
la jicotea en su carapacho.
.
¡Que rompa el son caliente,
y que lo baile la gente,
pecho con pecho,
vaso con vaso,
y agua con agua con aguardiente!
.
Yoruba soy, soy lucumí,
mandinga, congo, carabalí.
Atiendan, amigos, mi son, que sigue así:
.
Estamos juntos desde muy lejos,
jóvenes, viejos,
negros y blancos, todo mezclado;
uno mandando y otro mandado,
todo mezclado;
San Berenito y otro mandado,
todo mezclado;
negros y blancos desde muy lejos,
todo mezclado;
Santa María y uno mandado,
todo mezclado;
todo mezclado, Santa María,
San Berenito, todo mezclado,
todo mezclado, San Berenito,
San Berenito, Santa María,
Santa María, San Berenito
todo mezclado!
.
Yoruba soy, soy lucumí,
mandinga, congo, carabalí.
Atiendan, amigos, mi son, que acaba así:
.
Salga el mulato,
suelte el zapato,
díganle al blanco que no se va:
de aquí no hay nadie que se separe;
mire y no pare,
oiga y no pare,
beba y no pare,
viva y no pare,
que el son de todos no va a parar!
. . . . .
“They now gonna make us shut up”: The Black Nationalist / Third-World Socialist poetry of Amiri Baraka
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: Amiri Baraka, English, English: Black Canadian / American | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on “They now gonna make us shut up”: The Black Nationalist / Third-World Socialist poetry of Amiri Baraka
ZP_photograph by Fundi_Billy Abernathy_from the 1970 Imamu Amiri Baraka book In Our Terribleness_I love you black perfect woman. Your spirit will rule the twenty first century. This is why we ourselves speed to grace…
Amiri Baraka (born Everett LeRoi Jones, 1934)
“Numbers, Letters” (written in 1965)
.
If you’re not home, where
are you? Where’d you go? What
were you doing when gone? When
you come back, better make it good.
What was you doing down there, freakin’ off
with white women, hangin’ out
with Queens, say it straight to be
understood straight, put it flat and real
in the street where the sun comes and the
moon comes and the cold wind in winter
waters your eyes. Say what you mean, dig
it out put it down, and be strong
about it.
.
I cant say who I am
unless you agree I’m real
.
I cant be anything I’m not
except these words pretend
to life not yet explained,
so here’s some feeling for you
see how you like it, what it
reveals, and that’s Me.
.
Unless you agree I’m real
that I can feel
whatever beats hardest
a our black souls
I am real, and I can’t say who
I am. Ask me if I know, I’ll say
yes, I might say no. Still, ask.
I’m Everett LeRoi Jones, 30 yrs old.
.
A black nigger in the universe. A long breath singer,
wouldbe dancer, strong from years of fantasy
and study. All this time then, for what’s happening
now. All that spilling of white ether, clocks in ghostheads
lips drying and rewet, eyes opening and shut, mouths churning.
.
I am a meditative man, And when I say something it’s all of me
saying, and all the things that make me, have formed me, coloured me
this brilliant reddish night. I will say nothing that I feel is
lie, or unproven by the same ghostclocks, by the same riders
Always move so fast with the word slung over their backs or
in saddlebags, charging down Chinese roads. I carry some words,
some feeling, some life in me. My heart is large as my mind
this is a messenger calling, over here, over here, open your eyes
and your ears and your souls; today is the history we must learn
to desire. There is no guilt in love.
.
(from “Black Magic”, published 1969)
. . .
“Black Art”
.
Poems are bullshit unless they are
teeth or trees or lemons piled
on a step. Or black ladies dying
of men leaving nickel hearts
beating them down. Fuck poems
and they are useful, wd they shoot
come at you, love what you are,
breathe like wrestlers, or shudder
strangely after pissing. We want live
words of the hips world live flesh &
coursing blood. Hearts Brains
Souls splintering fire. We want poems
like fists beating niggers out of Jocks
or dagger poems in the slimy bellies
of the owner-jews. Black poems to
smear on girdlemamma mulatto bitches
whose brains are red jelly stuck
between ’lizabeth taylor’s toes. Stinking
Whores! We want “poems that kill”.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland. Knockoff
poems for dope selling wops or slick halfwhite
politicians Airplane poems, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh
…rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…Setting fire and death to
whities ass. Look at the Liberal
Spokesman for the jews clutch his throat
& puke himself into eternity…rrrrrrr
There’s a negroleader pinned to
a bar stool in Sardi’s eyeballs melting
in hot flame Another negroleader
on the steps of the white house one
kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs
negotiating cooly for his people.
Agggh … stumbles across the room …
Put it on him, poem. Strip him naked
to the world! Another bad poem cracking
steel knuckles in a jewlady’s mouth
Poem scream poison gas on beasts in green berets
Clean out the world for virtue and love,
Let there be no love poems written
until love can exist freely and
cleanly. Let Black People understand
that they are the lovers and the sons
of lovers and warriors and sons
of warriors Are poems & poets &
all the loveliness here in the world
.
We want a black poem. And a
Black World.
Let the world be a Black Poem
And Let All Black People Speak This Poem
silently
Or LOUD
.
(from “Black Magic”, published 1969)
ZP_from page 1 of In Our Terribleness_Some elements and meaning in black style_by Imamu Amiri Baraka_with Fundi_1970
“J. said, “Our whole universe is generated by a rhythm””
.
Is Dualism, the shadow inserted
for the northern trip, as the northern
trip, minstrels of the farther land,
the sun, in one place, ourselves, somewhere
else. The Universe
is the rhythm
there is no on looker, no outside
no other than the real, the universe
is rhythm, and whatever is only is as
swinging. All that is is funky, the bubbles
in the monsters brain, are hitting it too,
but the circles look like
swastikas, the square is thus
explained, but the nazis had dances, and even some of the
victims would tell you that.
.
There is no such thing as “our
universe”, only degrees of the swinging, what
does not swing is nothing, and nothing swings
when it wants to. The desire alone is funky
and it is this heat Louis Armstrong scatted in.
.
What is not funky is psychological, metaphysical
is the religion of squares, pretending no one
is anywhere.
Everything gets hot, it is hot now, nothing cold exists
and cold, is the theoretical line the pretended boundary
where your eye and your hand disappear into desire.
.
Dualism is a quiet camp near the outer edge of the forest.
There the inmates worship money and violence. they are
learning right now to sing, let us join them for a moment
and listen. Do not laugh, whatever you do.
.
(from “Funk Lore” – New Poems, 1984-1995)
. . .
“Brother Okot”
.
Our people say
death lives
in the West
(Any one
can see
plainly, each evening
where the sun
goes to die)
.
So Okot
is now in the West
.
Here w/ us
in hell
.
I have heard
his songs
felt the earth
drum his
dance
his wide ness
& Sky self
.
Ocoli Singer
Ocoli Fighter
.
Brother Okot
now here w/ us
in the place
.
Where even the Sun
dies.
.
Editor’s note:
Okot p’Bitek (1931-1982) was a Ugandan poet, author of the epic poem “Song of Lawino”,
written in the Acholi language. (Acholi = Ocoli).
One of Okot p’Bitek’s daughters, Juliane Okot Bitek, is a poet whose work was featured by
Zócalo Poets in February 2012.
. . .
“Syncretism”
.
BAD NEWS SAY
KILL
DRUM
But Drum
no
die
just
act slick
drum turn
mouth
tongue
drum go voice
be hand
on over
hauls
dont die
how some ever
drum turn slick
never
no drum
never
never
die
be a piano
a fiddle
a nigger tap
fellah
drum’ll
yodel
if it need to
Thing say Kill drum
but drum
dont die/dont even
disappear
& drum cant die
& wdn’t
no way!
.
(from “Funk Lore” – New Poems, 1984-1995)
. . .
“Bad People”
.
We want to be happy
neglecting
to check
the definition
.
We want to love
& be loved
but
What does that
mean?
.
Then you, backed up against
yr real life
.
claim you want
only
to be correct.
.
Imagine the jeers,
the cat calls
the universal dis
.
such ignorance
justifiably
creates.
.
(from “Funk Lore” – New Poems, 1984-1995)
. . . . .
ZP Editor’s note:
“They now gonna make us shut up” is the opening line of Baraka’s 1969 poem “The People Burning”.
.
Editor Paul Vangelisti wrote in a 1995 foreword to an Amiri Baraka anthology that the poet “remains difficult to approach” – that is, for readers trying to place his ‘opus’ – since the U.S. literary establishment is “positioned somewhere between Anglo-American academicism and the Entertainment industry.” Baraka cannot be fitted neatly anywhere – though he has been compared to Ezra Pound for “making poetry and politics reciprocal forms of action” (M.L. Rosenthal, 1973).
Imamu Amiri Baraka (Arabic for Spiritual Leader-Blesséd-Prince) was born Everett LeRoi Jones in Newark, New Jersey, and was one of the “urgent new voices” – black voices – of the 1960s. Like a number of U.S. cities with Black citizens who were barred from “getting ahead” and who felt fed up with a normalized police brutality, Newark experienced what were then called “race riots”, in July 1967, leaving 26 people dead. Over the decades Baraka has stuck by his city, continuing to live there through thick and thin.
.
The poet had often signed his poems “Roi”, up until 1966, at which time he took his Muslim name. After the assassination of Malcolm X Baraka became more forceful in his poetry – promoting a Black Nationalist culture – and trying to give poetic shape to Anger. But in the 1970s he distanced himself from Black Nationalism, finding in it “certain dead ends theoretically and ideologically”, and he gravitated toward Third-World Liberation movements involving Marxism.
.
Baraka has been brought to task over the years for sexism, anti-Semitism, and homophobia in his writing (from the 1960s especially) – but he was, in his poetic passion, giving expression to his full self – his ugly thoughts as well as his ideas and yearnings. In that sense Baraka was ordinary not special – yet he was egocentric enough to want to ‘say it all’.
About the criticisms against the “prejudices” evident in his work he has said:
“The anger was part of the mindset created by, first, the assassination of John Kennedy, followed by the assassination of Patrice Lumumba, followed by the assassination of Malcolm X – amidst the lynching, and national oppression. A few years later, the assassination of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. What changed my mind was that I became a Marxist, after recognizing classes within the Black community…..”
ZP_Muhammad Ali with Malcolm X in the background_1964 photograph by Robert L. Haggins
Baraka’s poetry from the 1990s took as its template Blues and Jazz structures and he penned poems that in their own weird ways honoured Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk and Sun Ra. There was also polemic and vitriol, sometimes downright pessimistic, in poems about Clarence Thomas and Spike Lee. Still “making poetry and politics reciprocal forms of action”, as Rosenthal had described Baraka in the early 1970s, it came as no surprise when the poet wrote an inflammatory poem, “Somebody Blew Up America”, about the September 11th, 2001, World Trade Center attack.
. . . . .
All poems © Amiri Baraka
Amiri Baraka and Langston Hughes: “Throw jesus out yr mind” / “Goodbye, Christ”
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: Amiri Baraka, English, English: Black Canadian / American, Langston Hughes | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Amiri Baraka and Langston Hughes: “Throw jesus out yr mind” / “Goodbye, Christ”
ZP_photograph by Fundi_Billy Abernathy_from the 1970 Imamu Amiri Baraka book In Our Terribleness
Amiri Baraka (born 1934, Newark, New Jersey, U.S.A.)
“When We’ll Worship Jesus”
(written after 1970, published in Baraka’s poetry collection “Hard Facts”, 1975)
.
We’ll worship Jesus
When Jesus do
Something
When jesus blow up
the white house
or blast nixon down
when jesus turn out congress
or bust general motors to
yard bird motors
jesus we’ll worship jesus
when jesus get down
when jesus get out his yellow lincoln
w/the built in cross stain glass
window & box w/black peoples
enemies we’ll worship jesus when
he get bad enough to at least scare
somebody – cops not afraid
of jesus
pushers not afraid
of jesus, capitalists racists
imperialists not afraid
of jesus shit they makin money
off jesus
we’ll worship jesus when mao
do, when toure does
when the cross replaces Nkrumah’s
star
Jesus need to hurt some a our
enemies, then we’ll check him
out, all that screaming and hollering
& wallering and moaning talkin bout
jesus, jesus, in a red
check velvet vine + 8 in.heels
jesus pinky finger
got a goose egg ruby
which actual bleeds
jesus at the Apollo
doin splits and helpin
nixon trick niggers
jesus w/his one eyed self
tongue kissing johnny carson
up the behind
jesus need to be busted
jesus need to be thrown down and whipped
till something better happen
jesus aint did nothin for us
but kept us turned toward the
sky (him and his boy allah
too, need to be checkd out!)
we’ll worship jesus when he get a boat load of ak-47s
and some dynamite
and blow up abernathy robotin
for gulf
jesus need to be busted
we ain’t gonna worship nobody
but niggers getting up off
the ground
not gon worship jesus
unless he just a tricked up
nigger somebody named
outside his race
need to worship yo self fo
you worship jesus
need to bust jesus ( + check
out his spooky brother
allah while you heavy
on the case
cause we ain gon worship jesus
we aint gon worship
jesus
not till he do something
not till he help us
not till the world get changed
and he ain, jesus ain, he cant change the world
we can change the world
we can struggle against the forces of backwardness, we can
change the world
we can struggle against our selves, our slowness, our connection
with
the oppressor, the very cultural aggression which binds us to
our enemies
as their slaves.
we can change the world
we aint gonna worship jesus cause jesus dont exist
xcept in song and story except in ritual and dance, except in
slum stained
tears or trillion dollar opulence stretching back in history, the
history
of the oppression of the human mind
we worship the strength in us
we worship our selves
we worship the light in us
we worship the warmth in us
we worship the world
we worship the love in us
we worship our selves
we worship nature
We worship ourselves
we worship the life in us, and science, and knowledge, and
transformation
of the visible world
but we aint gonna worship no jesus
we aint gonna legitimize the witches and devils and spooks and
hobgoblins
the sensuous lies of the rulers to keep us chained to fantasy and
illusion
sing about life, not jesus
sing about revolution, not no jesus
stop singing about jesus,
sing about creation, our creation, the life of the world and
fantastic
nature how we struggle to transform it, but dont victimize our
selves by
distorting the world
stop moanin about jesus, stop sweatin and crying and stompin
and dyin for jesus
unless thats the name of the army we building to force the land
finally to
change hands. And lets not call that jesus, get a quick
consensus, on that,
lets damn sure not call that black fire muscle
no invisible psychic dungeon
no gentle vision strait jacket, lets call that peoples army, or
wapenduzi or
simba
wachanga, but we not gon call it jesus, and not gon worship
jesus, throw
jesus out yr mind. Build the new world out of reality, and new
vision
we come to find out what there is of the world
to understand what there is here in the world!
to visualize change, and force it.
we worship revolution
. . . . .
Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
“Goodbye, Christ” (published in “The Negro Worker” Socialist journal, Nov.-Dec. 1932)
.
Listen, Christ,
You did alright in your day, I reckon –
But that day’s gone now.
They ghosted you up a swell story, too,
Called it Bible –
But it’s dead now.
The popes and the preachers’ve
Made too much money from it.
They’ve sold you too many
.
Kings, generals, robbers, and killers –
Even to the Tzar and the Cossacks,
Even to Rockefeller’s Church,
Even to “The Saturday Evening Post”.
You ain’t no good no more.
They’ve pawned you
Till you’ve done wore out.
.
Goodbye,
Christ Jesus Lord God Jehova,
Beat it on away from here now.
Make way for a new guy with no religion at all –
a real guy named
Marx Communist Lenin Peasant Stalin Worker ME –
I said, ME!
.
Go ahead on now,
You’re getting in the way of things, Lord.
And please take Saint Gandhi with you when you go,
And Saint Pope Pius,
And Saint Aimee McPherson,
And big black Saint Becton
Of the Consecrated Dime.
And step on the gas, Christ!
Move!
.
Don’t be so slow about movin’!
The world is mine from now on –
And nobody’s gonna sell ME
To a king, or a general,
Or a millionaire.
ZP_Negro Worker_1938 lithograph by James Lescesne Wells
Langston Hughes
“A Christian Country” (Feb. 1931)
.
God slumbers in a back alley
With a gin bottle in His hand.
Come on, God, get up and fight
Like a man.
. . .
Langston Hughes
“Tired” (Feb. 1931)
.
I am so tired of waiting,
Aren’t you?
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind.
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two –
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.
. . .
Langston Hughes
“Bitter Brew” (1967, published posthumously)
.
Whittle me down
To a strong thin reed
With a piercing tip
To match my need.
.
Spin me out
To a tensile wire
To derrick the stones
Of my problems higher.
.
Then simmer me slow
In the freedom cup
Till only an essence
Is left to sup.
.
May that essence be
The black poison of me
To give the white bellies
The third degree.
.
Concocted by history
Brewed by fate –
A bitter concentrate
Of hate.
. . . . .
It may seem curious to place Langston Hughes on the same page with Amiri Baraka yet these two strikingly different poets do intersect. Both wrote passionate and angry poems about Jesus Christ – about belief in Jesus Christ – during periods when each was exploring elements of one of those other great world religions: Socialism/Communism.
.
Though the life lived by Hughes appears to have been more conservative and/or Bohemian-Establishment than Baraka’s, Hughes’ conventional rhyming verse poetry shows real guts. The poem “Goodbye, Christ” haunted Hughes, being re-printed and circulated by zealously orthodox American Christians , becoming a thorn that pierced Hughes’ side from 1940 onward when the FBI put the poet under surveillance for alleged Communist activity. He was denounced as a communist by a U.S. senator in 1948 and was subpoena’d in 1953 to appear before Senator Joseph McCarthy’s subcommittee on subversive “un-American” activities. It “exonerated” him because it couldn’t link him to anyone juicy to nail. Though Hughes had been involved in Leftist politics – his “turning” came after a trip to Haiti in 1931 (followed by visits to Moscow in 1932-33 and Spain in 1937) – he was never a member of any Socialist or Communist party organization.
.
We have included what is believed to be one of the last poems Langston Hughes wrote before he died in 1967: “Bitter Brew”. In miniature it quick-sketches the emotional and psychological geography for the new-angry Black America that an up-and-coming LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka would map out in greater detail…
. . . . .
Langston Hughes: “Montage of a Dream Deferred”
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: English, English: Black Canadian / American, Langston Hughes | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Langston Hughes: “Montage of a Dream Deferred”
Langston Hughes (born February 1st 1902, died 1967)
“Montage of a Dream Deferred” (1951): a selection of poems
.
“Children’s Rhymes”
.
When I was a chile we used to play,
“One – two – buckle my shoe!”
and things like that. But now, Lord,
listen at them little varmints!
.
By what sends
the white kids
I ain’t sent:
I know I can’t
be President.
.
There is two thousand children
In this block, I do believe!
.
What don’t bug
them white kids
sure bugs me:
We knows everybody
ain’t free!
.
Some of these young ones is cert’ly bad –
One batted a hard ball right through my window
And my gold fish et the glass.
.
What’s written down
for white folks
ain’t for us a-tall:
“Liberty And Justice –
Huh – For All.”
.
Oop-pop-a-da!
Skee! Daddle-de-do!
Be-bop!
.
Salt’ peanuts!
.
De-dop!
. . .
“Necessity”
.
Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
so small I can’t whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady’s so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge –
which is why I reckon I does
have to work after all.
. . .
“Question (2)”
.
Said the lady, Can you do
what my other man can’t do –
that is
love me, daddy –
and feed me, too?
.
Figurine
.
De-dop!
. . .
“Easy Boogie”
.
Down in the bass
That steady beat
Walking walking walking
Like marching feet.
.
Down in the bass
That easy roll,
Rolling like I like it
In my soul.
.
Riffs, smears, breaks.
.
Hey, Lawdy, Mama!
Do you hear what I said?
Easy like I rock it
In my bed!
. . .
“What? So Soon!”
.
I believe my old lady’s
pregnant again!
Fate must have
some kind of trickeration
to populate the
cllud nation!
Comment against Lamp Post
You call it fate?
Figurette
De-daddle-dy!
De-dop!
. . .
“Tomorrow”
.
Tomorrow may be
a thousand years off:
TWO DIMES AND A NICKEL ONLY
Says this particular
cigarette machine.
.
Others take a quarter straight.
.
Some dawns
wait.
. . .
“Café: 3 a.m.”
.
Detectives from the vice squad
with weary sadistic eyes
spotting fairies.
Degenerates,
some folks say.
.
But God, Nature,
or somebody
made them that way.
Police lady or Lesbian
over there?
Where?
. . .
“125th Street”
.
Face like a chocolate bar
full of nuts and sweet.
.
Face like a jack-o’-lantern,
candle inside.
.
Face like a slice of melon,
grin that wide.
. . .
“Up-Beat”
.
In the gutter
boys who try
might meet girls
on the fly
as out of the gutter
girls who will
may meet boys
copping a thrill
while from the gutter
both can rise:
But it requires
Plenty eyes.
“Mystery”
.
When a chile gets to be thirteen
and ain’t seen Christ yet,
she needs to set on de moaner’s bench
night and day.
.
Jesus, lover of my soul!
.
Hail, Mary, mother of God!
.
Let me to thy bosom fly!
.
Amen! Hallelujah!
.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home.
.
Sunday morning where the rhythm flows,
How old nobody knows –
yet old as mystery,
older than creed,
basic and wondering
and lost as my need.
.
Eli, eli!
Te deum!
Mahomet!
Christ!
.
Father Bishop, Effendi, Mother Horne,
Father Divine, a Rabbi black
as black was born,
a jack-leg preacher, a Ph.D.
.
The mystery
and the darkness
and the song
and me.
. . .
“Nightmare Boogie”
.
I had a dream
and I could see
a million faces
black as me!
A nightmare dream:
Quicker than light
All them faces
Turned dead white!
Boogie-woogie,
Rolling bass,
Whirling treble
Of cat-gut lace.
. . .
“Blues at Dawn”
.
I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
If I thought thoughts in bed,
Them thoughts would bust my head –
So I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
.
I don’t dare remember in the morning
Don’t dare remember in the morning.
If I recall the day before,
I wouldn’t get up no more –
So I don’t dare remember in the morning.
. . .
“Neighbour”
.
Down home
he sets on a stoop
and watches the sun go by.
In Harlem
when his work is done
he sets in a bar with a beer.
He looks taller than he is
and younger than he ain’t.
He looks darker than he is, too.
And he’s smarter than he looks,
He ain’t smart.
That cat’s a fool.
Naw, he ain’t neither.
He’s a good man,
except that he talks too much.
In fact, he’s a great cat.
But when he drinks,
he drinks fast.
Sometimes
he don’t drink.
True,
he just
lets his glass
set there.
. . .
“Subway Rush Hour”
.
Mingled
breath and smell
so close
mingled
black and white
so near
no room for fear.
. . .
“Brothers”
.
We’re related – you and I,
You from the West Indies,
I from Kentucky.
.
Kinsmen – you and I,
You from Africa,
I from U.S.A.
.
Brothers – you and I.
. . .
“Sliver”
.
Cheap little rhymes
A cheap little tune
Are sometimes as dangerous
As a sliver of the moon.
A cheap little tune
To cheap little rhymes
Can cut a man’s
Throat sometimes.
. . .
“Hope (2)”
.
He rose up on his dying bed
and asked for fish.
His wife looked it up in her dream book
and played it.
. . .
“Harlem (2)”
.
What happens to a dream deferred?
.
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore –
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over –
like a syrupy sweet?
.
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
.
Or does it explode?
. . .
“Letter”
.
Dear Mama,
Time I pay rent and get my food
and laundry I don’t have much left
but here is five dollars for you
to show you I still appreciates you.
My girl-friend send her love and say
she hopes to lay eyes on you sometime in life.
Mama, it has been raining cats and dogs up
here. Well, that is all so I will close.
You son baby
Respectably as ever,
Joe
. . .
“Motto”
.
I play it cool
And dig all jive.
That’s the reason
I stay alive.
.
My motto,
As I live and learn,
Is:
Dig And Be Dug
In Return.
. . . . .
From Hughes’ introduction to his 1951 collection “Montage of a Dream Deferred”:
“In terms of current Afro-American popular music and the sources from which it has progressed – jazz, ragtime, swing, blues, boogie-woogie, and be-bop – this poem on contemporary Harlem, like be-bop, is marked by conflicting changes, sudden nuances, sharp and impudent interjections, broken rhythms, and passages sometimes in the manner of the jam session, sometimes the popular song, punctuated by the riffs, runs, breaks, and distortions of the music of a community in transition.”
Editor’s note:
Langston Hughes’ poems “Theme for English B” and “Advice” – both of which were included in his publication of “Montage of a Dream Deferred” – are featured in separate Hughes’ posts on Zócalo Poets.
. . . . .
“Montage of a Dream Deferred”- from The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, edited by Arnold Rampersad, with David Roessel, 1994
All poems © The Estate of Langston Hughes
Langston Hughes: “Tarea para el segundo curso de inglés” / “Theme for English B”, translated into Spanish by Óscar Paúl Castro
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: English, Langston Hughes, Spanish | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Langston Hughes: “Tarea para el segundo curso de inglés” / “Theme for English B”, translated into Spanish by Óscar Paúl Castro
ZP_Langston Hughes_pastel drawing by Winold Reiss
Langston Hughes (1 febrero 1902 – 1967)
“Tarea para el segundo curso de inglés”
.
El profesor nos dijo:
Pueden irse a casa.
Esta noche escribirán una página:
que lo que escriban venga de ustedes,
así expresarán algo auténtico.
.
Me pregunto si es así de simple.
Tengo veintidós años, soy de color, nací en Winston-Salem.
Ahí asistí a la escuela, después en Durham, después aquí.
La Universidad está sobre la colina, dominando Harlem.
Soy el único estudiante de color en la clase.
Las escaleras que descienden por la colina desembocan en Harlem:
después de atravesar un parque, cruzar la calle san Nicolás,
la Octava Avenida, la Séptima, llego hasta el edificio “Y”
― la YMCA de Harlem Branch ― donde tomo el elevador,
entro en mi cuarto, me siento y escribo esta página:
.
Para ti no debe ser fácil poder identificar lo que es auténtico, tampoco lo es
para mí a esta edad: veintidós años. Supongo, sin embargo, que en todo
lo que siento, veo y escucho, Harlem, te escucho a ti:
te escucho, me escuchas; tú y yo ―juntos― estamos en esta página.
(También escucho a Nueva York) ¿Quién eres―Quién soy?
Bien: me gusta comer, dormir, beber, estar enamorado.
Me gusta trabajar, leer, me gusta aprender, e intentar comprender el sentido de la vida.
Quisiera una pipa como regalo de Navidad,
quizás unos discos: Bessie, bebop, o Bach.
Supongo que el hecho de ser negro no significa que me gusten
cosas distintas a las que les gustan a personas de otras razas.
¿En esta página que escribo se notará mi color?
Ciertamente ―siendo lo que soy― no será una página en blanco.
Y sin embargo
será parte de usted, maestro.
Usted es blanco,
y aun así es parte de mí, como yo soy parte de usted.
Eso significa ser americano.
Quizá usted no quiera ser parte de mí a veces.
Y en ocasiones yo no quiero ser parte de usted.
Pero, indudablemente, ambos somos parte del otro.
Yo aprendo de usted,
y supongo que usted aprende de mí:
aun cuando usted es mayor ―y blanco―
y, de alguna forma, más libre.
.
Está es mi tarea del Segundo Curso de Inglés.
(1951)
. . .
Langston Hughes (born February 1st 1902, died 1967)
“Theme for English B”
.
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you –
Then, it will be true.
.
I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, coloured, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only coloured student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
.
It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me – we two – you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me – who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records – Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being coloured doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be coloured that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white –
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me –
although you’re older – and white –
and somewhat more free.
.
This is my page for English B.
(1951)
. . .
Traducción en español © Óscar Paúl Castro (nace 1979, Culiacán, México)
Óscar Paúl Castro, un poeta y traductor, es licenciado en Lengua y Literatura Hispánicas por la Universidad Autónoma de Sinaloa.
. . . . .
Love poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: English, English: Black Canadian / American, Langston Hughes, Love poems and Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Love poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance
ZP_Dance_by Aaron Douglas 1899-1979
Love poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance:
Langston Hughes verses composed between 1924 and 1930:
. . .
“Subway Face”
.
That I have been looking
For you all my life
Does not matter to you.
You do not know.
.
You never knew.
Nor did I.
Now you take the Harlem train uptown;
I take a local down.
(1924)
. . .
“Poem (2)” (To F. S.)
.
I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There’s nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began –
I loved my friend.
(1925)
. . .
“Better”
.
Better in the quiet night
To sit and cry alone
Than rest my head on another’s shoulder
After you have gone.
.
Better, in the brilliant day,
Filled with sun and noise,
To listen to no song at all
Than hear another voice.
. . .
“Poem (4)” (To the Black Beloved)
.
Ah,
My black one,
Thou art not beautiful
Yet thou hast
A loveliness
Surpassing beauty.
.
Oh,
My black one,
Thou art not good
Yet thou hast
A purity
Surpassing goodness.
.
Ah,
My black one,
Thou art not luminous
Yet an altar of jewels,
An altar of shimmering jewels,
Would pale in the light
Of thy darkness,
Pale in the light
Of thy nightness.
. . .
“The Ring”
.
Love is the master of the ring
And life a circus tent.
What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.
.
I am afraid!
Afraid of Love
And of Love’s bitter whip!
Afraid,
Afraid of Love
And Love’s sharp, stinging whip.
.
What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.
(1926)
. . .
“Ma Man”
.
When ma man looks at me
He knocks me off ma feet.
When ma man looks at me
He knocks me off ma feet.
He’s got those ‘lectric-shockin’ eyes an’
De way he shocks me sho is sweet.
.
He kin play a banjo.
Lordy, he kin plunk, plunk, plunk.
He kin play a banjo.
I mean plunk, plunk…plunk, plunk.
He plays good when he’s sober
An’ better, better, better when he’s drunk.
.
Eagle-rockin’,
Daddy, eagle-rock with me.
Eagle rockin’,
Come an’ eagle-rock with me.
Honey baby,
Eagle-rockish as I kin be!
. . .
“Lament over Love”
.
I hope my child’ll
Never love a man.
I say I hope my child’ll
Never love a man.
Love can hurt you
Mo’n anything else can.
.
I’m goin’ down to the river
An’ I ain’t goin’ there to swim;
Down to the river,
Ain’t goin’ there to swim.
My true love’s left me
And I’m goin’ there to think about him.
.
Love is like whiskey,
Love is like red, red wine.
Love is like whiskey,
Like sweet red wine.
If you want to be happy
You got to love all the time.
.
I’m goin’ up in a tower
Tall as a tree is tall,
Up in a tower
Tall as a tree is tall.
Gonna think about my man –
And let my fool-self fall.
(1926)
. . .
“Dressed Up”
.
I had ma clothes cleaned
Just like new.
I put ’em on but
I still feels blue.
.
I bought a new hat,
Sho is fine,
But I wish I had back that
Old gal o’ mine.
.
I got new shoes –
They don’t hurt ma feet,
But I ain’t got nobody
For to call me sweet.
. . .
“To a Little Lover-Lass, Dead”
.
She
Who searched for lovers
In the night
Has gone the quiet way
Into the still,
Dark land of death
Beyond the rim of day.
.
Now like a little lonely waif
She walks
An endless street
And gives her kiss to nothingness.
Would God his lips were sweet!
. . .
“Harlem Night Song”
.
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
.
I love you.
Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining.
Night sky is blue.
Stars are great drops
Of golden dew.
.
Down the street
A band is playing.
.
I love you.
.
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
. . .
“Passing Love”
.
Because you are to me a song
I must not sing you over-long.
.
Because you are to me a prayer
I cannot say you everywhere.
.
Because you are to me a rose –
You will not stay when summer goes.
(1927)
. . .
“Desire”
.
Desire to us
Was like a double death,
Swift dying
Of our mingled breath,
Evaporation
Of an unknown strange perfume
Between us quickly
In a naked
Room.
. . .
“Dreamer”
.
I take my dreams
And make of them a bronze vase,
And a wide round fountain
With a beautiful statue in its centre,
And a song with a broken heart,
And I ask you:
Do you understand my dreams?
Sometimes you say you do
And sometimes you say you don’t.
Either way
It doesn’t matter.
I continue to dream.
(1927)
. . .
“Lover’s Return”
.
My old time daddy
Came back home last night.
His face was pale and
His eyes didn’t look just right.
.
He says, “Mary, I’m
Comin’ home to you –
So sick and lonesome
I don’t know what to do.”
.
Oh, men treats women
Just like a pair o’ shoes –
You kicks ’em round and
Does ’em like you choose.
.
I looked at my daddy –
Lawd! and I wanted to cry.
He looked so thin –
Lawd! that I wanted to cry.
But the devil told me:
Damn a lover
Come home to die!
(1928)
. . .
“Hurt”
.
Who cares
About the hurt in your heart?
.
Make a song like this
for a jazz band to play:
Nobody cares.
Nobody cares.
Make a song like that
From your lips.
Nobody cares.
. . .
“Spring for Lovers”
.
Desire weaves its fantasy of dreams,
And all the world becomes a garden close
In which we wander, you and I together,
Believing in the symbol of the rose,
Believing only in the heart’s bright flower –
Forgetting – flowers wither in an hour.
(1930)
. . .
“Rent-Party Shout: For a Lady Dancer”
.
Whip it to a jelly!
Too bad Jim!
Mamie’s got ma man –
An’ I can’t find him.
Shake that thing! O!
Shake it slow!
That man I love is
Mean an’ low.
Pistol an’ razor!
Razor an’ gun!
If I sees man man he’d
Better run –
For I’ll shoot him in de shoulder,
Else I’ll cut him down,
Cause I knows I can find him
When he’s in de ground –
Then can’t no other women
Have him layin’ round.
So play it, Mr. Nappy!
Yo’ music’s fine!
I’m gonna kill that
Man o’ mine!
(1930)
. . . . .
In the manner of all great poets Langston Hughes (February 1st, 1902 – 1967) wrote love poems (and love-blues poems), using the voices and perspectives of both Man and Woman. In addition to such art, Hughes’ homosexuality, real though undisclosed during his lifetime, probably was responsible for the subtle and highly-original poet’s voice he employed for three of the poems included here: Subway Face, Poem (2), and Desire. Hughes was among a wealth of black migrants born in The South or the Mid-West who gravitated toward Harlem in New York City from about 1920 onward. Along with Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston, Wallace Thurman and many others, Hughes became part of The Harlem Renaissance, that great-gorgeous fresh-flowering of Black-American culture.
. . . . .
Johnson, Fauset, Bennett: Black Blossoms of the 1920s
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: English, Georgia Douglas Johnson, Gwendolyn Bennett, Helene Johnson, Jessie Redmon Fauset | Tags: Black History Month poems, Black-American women poets of the 1920s Comments Off on Johnson, Fauset, Bennett: Black Blossoms of the 1920s
ZP_Georgia Douglas Johnson was the author of The Heart of a Woman (1918) and Bronze (1922).
ZP_Jessie Redmon Fauset was literary editor for The Crisis from 1918 to 1927.
ZP_Gwendolyn Bennett at her typewriter. She contributed to the academic journal Opportunity, had a story included in the infamous one-issue Fire! and her 1924 poem To Usward was “a rallying cry to the New Negro”.
Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880-1966) “Black Woman” (1922) . Don’t knock at the door, little child, I cannot let you in, You know not what a world this is Of cruelty and sin. Wait in the still eternity Until I come to you, The world is cruel, cruel, child, I cannot let you in! . Don’t knock at my heart, little one, I cannot bear the pain Of turning deaf-ear to your call Time and time again! You do not know the monster men Inhabiting the earth, Be still, be still, my precious child, I must not give you birth! . . . Georgia Douglas Johnson “Common Dust” .
And who shall separate the dust
What later we shall be:
Whose keen discerning eye will scan
And solve the mystery?
.
The high, the low, the rich, the poor,
The black, the white, the red,
And all the chromatique between,
Of whom shall it be said:
.
Here lies the dust of Africa;
Here are the sons of Rome;
Here lies the one unlabelled,
The world at large his home!
.
Can one then separate the dust?
Will mankind lie apart,
When life has settled back again
The same as from the start?
. . .
Jessie Redmon Fauset (1882-1961) “La Vie C'est La Vie” (1922) . On summer afternoons I sit Quiescent by you in the park And idly watch the sunbeams gild And tint the ash-trees' bark. . Or else I watch the squirrels frisk And chaffer in the grassy lane; And all the while I mark your voice Breaking with love and pain. . I know a woman who would give Her chance of heaven to take my place; To see the love-light in your eyes, The love-glow on your face! . And there's a man whose lightest word Can set my chilly blood afire; Fulfillment of his least behest Defines my life’s desire. . But he will none of me, nor I Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said The world is full of jests like these.— I wish that I were dead. . . .
Jessie Redmon Fauset
“Oriflamme”
.
“I can remember when I was a little young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan,
and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children;
they do not know where I be and I don’t know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!’”
—Sojourner Truth (1797-1883)
. I think I see her sitting bowed and black, Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet Still looking at the stars. . Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, Still visioning the stars! . . . Gwendolyn Bennett (1902-1981) “Hatred” (1926) . I shall hate you Like a dart of singing steel Shot through still air At even-tide, Or solemnly As pines are sober When they stand etched Against the sky. Hating you shall be a game Played with cool hands And slim fingers. Your heart will yearn For the lonely splendor Of the pine tree While rekindled fires In my eyes Shall wound you like swift arrows. Memory will lay its hands Upon your breast And you will understand My hatred. . . . Gwendolyn Bennett “Fantasy” (1927) . I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night Where you were the dusk-eyed queen, And there in the pallor of moon-veiled light The loveliest things were seen ... . A slim-necked peacock sauntered there In a garden of lavender hues, And you were strange with your purple hair As you sat in your amethyst chair With your feet in your hyacinth shoes. . Oh, the moon gave a bluish light Through the trees in the land of dreams and night. I stood behind a bush of yellow-green And whistled a song to the dark-haired queen... . . .
Helene Johnson (1906-1995) was just that much younger than the other women poets,
and a letting-go of the conventions of 19th-century “romantic” verse form and literary style
plus an embracing of colloquial speech and Jazz rhythm is evident in the following poem, “Bottled”, which she wrote at the age of 21.
.
Helene Johnson
“Bottled” (1927)
.
Upstairs on the third floor
Of the 135th Street Library
In Harlem, I saw a little
Bottle of sand, brown sand,
Just like the kids make pies
Out of down on the beach.
But the label said: “This
Sand was taken from the Sahara desert.”
Imagine that! The Sahara desert!
Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand.
And yesterday on Seventh Avenue
I saw a darky dressed to kill
In yellow gloves and swallowtail coat
And swirling at him. Me too,
At first, till I saw his face
When he stopped to hear a
Organ grinder grind out some jazz.
Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face!
It just shone. Gee, he was happy!
And he began to dance. No
Charleston or Black Bottom for him.
No sir. He danced just as dignified
And slow. No, not slow either.
Dignified and proud! You couldn’t
Call it slow, not with all the
Cuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him.
The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear,
Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane
And yellin’ out loud every once in a while.
I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo.
But say, I was where I could see his face,
.
And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle,
A real honest-to cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t leave on them
Trick clothes-those yaller shoes and yaller gloves
And swallowtail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing.
And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane.
He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point
Like the bayonets we had “over there.”
And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of
Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and
.
Gleaming.
And He’d have rings in his ears and on his nose
And bracelets and necklaces of elephants teeth.
Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right.
No one would laugh at him then, I bet.
Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert
And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library,
That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him.
Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything-all glass-
But inside –
Gee, that poor shine!
ZP_Youngsters playing in the street_an undated photograph from 1920s Harlem
ZP_Regina Anderson 1901-1993, Librarian at the 135th Street Harlem branch of the New York Public Library, playwright, and midwife to The Harlem Renaissance
W. E. B. Du Bois (1868-1963) was a sociologist and civil-rights activist. He co-founded The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People in 1909, and its monthly current-affairs journal, The Crisis – A Record of the Darker Races, which included poems, reviews and essays, was published from 1910 onward. Du Bois, as the editor of The Crisis, stated: “The object of this publication is to set forth those facts and arguments which show the danger of race prejudice, particularly as manifested today toward colored people. It takes its name from the fact that the editors believe that this is a critical time in the history of the advancement of men. Finally, its editorial page will stand for the rights of men, irrespective of color or race, for the highest ideals of American democracy, and for reasonable but earnest and persistent attempts to gain these rights and realize these ideals.”
Zócalo Poets 