#AmericanWriters
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
I sat there singing her Songs in the dark. She said; 'I do not understand The words’.
I was so sick last night I Didn’t hardly know my mind. So sick last night I Didn’t know my mind. I drunk some bad licker that
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
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—
And that is what poetry may do, wrap up your dreams, protect and preserve and hold them until maybe they come true. Columbus dreamed of finding a new world, he found it. Edison dreamed ...
2 and 2 are 4. 4 and 4 are 8. But what would happen If the last 4 was late? And how would it be
When I get to be a composer I’m gonna write me some music abou… Daybreak in Alabama And I’m gonna put the purtiest so… Rising out of the ground like a sw…
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh,
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
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
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why: