The Weary Blues (4 page)

The lazy, laughing South

With blood on its mouth.

The sunny-faced South,

    Beast-strong,

    Idiot-brained.

The child-minded South

Scratching in the dead fire’s ashes

For a Negro’s bones.

    Cotton and the moon,

    Warmth, earth, warmth,

    The sky, the sun, the stars,

    The magnolia-scented South.

Beautiful, like a woman,

Seductive as a dark-eyed whore,

    Passionate, cruel,

    Honey-lipped, syphilitic—

    That is the South.

And I, who am black, would love her

But she spits in my face.

And I, who am black,

Would give her many rare gifts

But she turns her back upon me.

    So now I seek the North—

    The cold-faced North,

    For she, they say,

    Is a kinder mistress,

And in her house my children

May escape the spell of the South.

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,—

My dream.

And then the wall rose,

Rose slowly,

Slowly,

Between me and my dream.

Rose slowly, slowly,

Dimming,

Hiding,

The light of my dream.

Rose until it touched the sky,—

The wall.

Shadow.

I am black.

I lie down in the shadow.

No longer the light of my dream before me,

Above me.

Only the thick wall.

Only the shadow.

My hands!

My dark hands!

Break through the wall!

Find my dream!

Help me to shatter this darkness,

To smash this night,

To break this shadow

Into a thousand lights of sun,

Into a thousand whirling dreams

Of sun!

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories.

Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories.

Summer nights on the front porch

Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom

And tells him stories.

Black slaves

Working in the hot sun,

And black slaves

Walking in the dewy night,

And black slaves

Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river

Mingle themselves softly

In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice,

Mingle themselves softly

In the dark shadows that cross and recross

Aunt Sue’s stories.

And the dark-faced child, listening,

Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories.

He knows that Aunt Sue

Never got her stories out of any book at all,

But that they came

Right out of her own life.

And the dark-faced child is quiet

Of a summer night

Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

The night is beautiful,

So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,

So the eyes of my people.

Beautiful, also, is the sun.

Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

I am a black Pierrot:

    She did not love me,

    So I crept away into the night

    And the night was black, too.

I am a black Pierrot:

    She did not love me,

    So I wept until the red dawn

    Dripped blood over the eastern hills

    And my heart was bleeding, too.

I am a black Pierrot:

    She did not love me,

    So with my once gay-colored soul

    Shrunken like a balloon without air,

    I went forth in the morning

    To seek a new brown love.

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.

In the cabaret

The jazz-band’s playing.

I love you.

Come,

Let us roam the night together

Singing.

Would

That I were a jewel,

A shattered jewel,

That all my shining brilliants

Might fall at thy feet,

Thou dark one.

Would

That I were a garment,

A shimmering, silken garment,

That all my folds

Might wrap about thy body,

Absorb thy body,

Hold and hide thy body,

Thou dark one.

Would

That I were a flame,

But one sharp, leaping flame

To annihilate thy body,

Thou dark one.

I would liken you

To a night without stars

Were it not for your eyes.

I would liken you

To a sleep without dreams

Were it not for your songs.

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.

When Susanna Jones wears red

Her face is like an ancient cameo

Turned brown by the ages.

Come with a blast of trumpets,

    Jesus!

When Susanna Jones wears red

A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night

Walks once again.

Blow trumpets, Jesus!

And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red

Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain.

Sweet silver trumpets,

    Jesus!

I work all day,

Said Simple John,

Myself a house to buy.

I work all day,

Said Simple John,

But Pierrot wondered why.

For Pierrot loved the long white road,

And Pierrot loved the moon,

And Pierrot loved a star-filled sky,

And the breath of a rose in June.

I have one wife,

Said Simple John,

And, faith, I love her yet.

I have one wife,

Said Simple John,

But Pierrot left Pierrette.

For Pierrot saw a world of girls,

And Pierrot loved each one,

And Pierrot thought all maidens fair

As flowers in the sun.

Oh, I am good,

Said Simple John,

The Lord will take me in.

Yes, I am good,

Said Simple John,

But Pierrot’s steeped in sin.

For Pierrot played on a slim guitar,

And Pierrot loved the moon,

And Pierrot ran down the long white road

With the burgher’s wife one June.

The spring is not so beautiful there,—

    But dream ships sail away

To where the spring is wondrous rare

    And life is gay.

The spring is not so beautiful there,—

    But lads put out to sea

Who carry beauties in their hearts

    And dreams, like me.

With gypsies and sailors,

Wanderers of the hills and seas,

I go to seek my fortune.

With pious folk and fair

I must have a parting.

But you will not miss me,—

You who live between the hills

And have never seen the seas.

The sea is a wilderness of waves,

A desert of water.

We dip and dive,

Rise and roll,

Hide and are hidden

On the sea.

    Day, night,

    Night, day,

The sea is a desert of waves,

A wilderness of water.

Hello, sailor boy,

In from the sea!

Hello, sailor,

Come with me!

Come on drink cognac.

Rather have wine?

Come here, I love you.

Come and be mine.

Lights, sailor boy,

Warm, white lights.

Solid land, kid.

Wild, white nights.

Come on, sailor,

Out o’ the sea.

Let’s go, sweetie!

Come with me.

How still,

How strangely still

The water is today.

It is not good

For water

To be so still that way.

God having a hemorrhage,

Blood coughed across the sky,

Staining the dark sea red,

That is sunset in the Caribbean.

He carries

His own strength

And his own laughter,

His own today

And his own hereafter,—

This strong young sailor

Of the wide seas.

What is money for?

To spend, he says.

And wine?

To drink.

And women?

To love.

And today?

For joy.

And tomorrow?

For joy.

And the green sea

For strength,

And the brown land

For laughter.

And nothing hereafter.

Off the coast of Ireland

    As our ship passed by

We saw a line of fishing ships

    Etched against the sky.

Off the coast of England

    As we rode the foam

We saw an Indian merchantman

    Coming home.

Natcha, offering love.

For ten shillings offering love.

Offering: A night with me, honey.

A long, sweet night with me.

    Come, drink palm wine.

    Come, drink kisses.

A long, dream night with me.

Sea charm

The sea’s own children

Do not understand.

They know

But that the sea is strong

Like God’s hand.

They know

But that sea wind is sweet

Like God’s breath,

And that the sea holds

A wide, deep death.

We buried him high on a windy hill,

But his soul went out to sea.

I know, for I heard, when all was still,

His sea-soul say to me:

Put no tombstone at my head,

For here I do not make my bed.

Strew no flowers on my grave,

I’ve gone back to the wind and wave.

Do not, do not weep for me,

For I am happy with my sea.

What is there within this beggar lad

That I can neither hear nor feel nor see,

That I can neither know nor understand

And still it calls to me?

Is not he but a shadow in the sun—

A bit of clay, brown, ugly, given life?

And yet he plays upon his flute a wild free tune

As if Fate had not bled him with her knife!

She stands

In the quiet darkness,

This troubled woman,

Bowed by

Weariness and pain,

Like an

Autumn flower

In the frozen rain.

Like a

Wind-blown autumn flower

That never lifts its head

Again.

The calm,

Cool face of the river

Asked me for a kiss.

How quiet

It is in this sick room

Where on the bed

A silent woman lies between two lovers—

Life and Death,

And all three covered with a sheet of pain.

The shadows

Of too many nights of love

Have fallen beneath your eyes.

Your eyes,

So full of pain and passion,

So full of lies.

So full of pain and passion,

Soledad,

So deeply scarred,

So still with silent cries.

Mercedes is a jungle-lily in a death house.

Mercedes is a doomed star.

Mercedes is a charnel rose.

Go where gold

Will fall at the feet of your beauty,

Mercedes.

Go where they will pay you well

For your loveliness.

This ancient hag

Who sits upon the ground

Selling her scanty wares

Day in, day round,

Has known high wind-swept mountains,

And the sun has made

Her skin so brown.

Now,

In June,

When the night is a vast softness

Filled with blue stars,

And broken shafts of moon-glimmer

Fall upon the earth,

Am I too old to see the fairies dance?

I cannot find them any more.