Tag: poems
-

On Being Brought from Africa to America
“Some view our sable race with scornful eye, “Their colour is a diabolic die.” Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain, May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.” — from “On being brought from AFRICA to AMERICA.” by Phillis Wheatley
-

“Lift Every Voice and Sing”
“God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, Thou who has brought us thus far on the way; Thou who has by Thy might Led us into the light,” — excerpt from “Lift Every Voice and Sing” by James Weldon Johnson
-
“Rhapsody”
“Are the entrance-place of wonders, Where dreams come in from the rush and din Like sheep from the rains and thunders.” — from “Rhapsody” by William Braithwaite
-

On Quitting
How much grit do you think you’ve got? Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? Have you ever tested yourself to know How far with yourself your will can go? If you want to know if you have grit, Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.
-

“And When My Sorrow was Born” by Khalil Gibran (1883 – 1931)
And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the house-top—and yet no one heeded me. And my Joy and I were alone, unsought and unvisited.
-

“Cinq Ans Apres” by Frank Gelette Burgess (1866 – 1961)
Ah, yes, I wrote the “Purple Cow”— I’m Sorry, now, I wrote it; But I can tell you Anyhow I’ll Kill you if you Quote it!
-

“Quest” by Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966)
Quest BY GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON The phantom happiness I sought O’er every crag and moor; I paused at every postern gate, And knocked at every door; In vain I searched the land and sea, E’en to the inmost core, The curtains of eternal night Descend—my search is o’er.
-

“The Harlem Dancer” by Claude McKay (1889 – 1948)
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze; But looking at her falsely-smiling face, I knew her self was not in that strange place.
-

“Differences of Opinion” by WENDY COPE
“She tries her best to prove him wrong. But he has learned to argue well…”
-

“What Kind of Times Are These” by ADRIENNE RICH (1929 – 2012)
“I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods meeting the unmarked strip of light— ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise: I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.”