#AmericanWriters
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
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,
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is… (America never was America to me.…
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
In places like Selma, Alabama, Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York...
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.