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Page Forty-eight
THE MAROON TIGER
I know it beams; I see it now—
A Light that lives—that lives somehow!
Without beginning and without end,
Forever fragrant and the same within.
Forever bright and glorious from without,
A 'perfect light that cannot be extinguished!
And though I will with others walk
And though I’ll hear their lurid talk—
Palaver of their idle hours—
No more shall darken my scant frame
The hours of black dispair and selfish gain
I’d rather bleed for others here
And pray with them that hide a tear
Under Truth :the Light of Heaven!”
Typical Negro Poetry
Ralph Lee, ’29
There has been much adverse comment in re
gards to a group of poems of Langston Hughes
which appeared in a late issue of “Opportunity.”
Numbers of individuals have held that these po
ems express no thought and contain little beauty.
It is true that they have little intellectual value
when viewed objectively, but there is a deep sub
jective value that becomes apparent only as a re
sult of careful thought.
The poems are simple. One may visit any of
the Negro cabarets of a large city—not the black-
and-tan variety, but the truly Negro cabaret, us
ually found thrust down in the basement of a
pool room on a quiet street—and hear the count
erpart of these verses sung to the tune of a jazz
orchestra in w'hich the saxophone is wailing pre-
dominatly. Or, if one desires, he may walk along
a back street in such a city as Atlanta, and hear
the same words moaned musically by slim little
girls and men, or large, tously women. In both
cases, the same function is performed—there is
expressed the sad, depressed, soul-feeling of a
down-trodden race.
Reproduced here is a typical verse taken from
one of Hughes’ poems entitled “Lonesome Place.”
I’m weary, weary ...
Weary, as can be
Weary, weary,
Weary as can be
This life’s so weary,
’S ’bout to overcomeme.
And another from “Misery”:
Play de blues for me,
Play de blues for me,
No other music
’ll ease ma misery.
These plaintive airs express the spirit of the
Negro race as it was in the days of slavery. But
there is a great contrast between these lyrics and
the verses that express the thought of the Ne
gro as he grows into his increasing economic and
social freedom. The New Negro expresses himself
in the poem, “I, Too, Sing America,” by Langston
Hughes, and in the poem which expresses “De
fiance,” by Countee Cullen.
You cannot keep me captive world,
Entrammeled, chained, spit on and spurned
More free than all your flags unfurled,
I give my body to be burned.
I mount my cross because 1 will,
I drink the hemlock which you give
For wine which you withhold—and still,
Becatise I will not die, I live.
In this we have the militant refusal to submit
and the awakening of the Negro to his own
strength and worth.
The poetry that is typical of the “old” Negro
is weak, melancholy, spiritless. It gives the im
pression of a race whose life is throttled, and
is dismally creeping toward a silent grave. The
typical poetry of the New Negro has the virility
of youth, who is strong at the dawn of life, and
who thrusts aside the obstacles of this unnatural
environment.
Tlie All-Night Vigil
A cold, ominous hush falls on those assembled
in the dimly-lighted room. In the centre of a
group of six persons stands a mute figure with
bowed head; his hand plays nervously upon the
stubby goatee; while around him ten glaring eyes
are focused centreward. Finally, with an obvious
irritability, he chokes to find words for his
thoughts. “It may be fatal.” These words are not
received with surprise; they are the statement of
a condition that needs only verification by the
doctor, Uncle Johnson.
Two brothers, two sisters and a father hear
those words; and then the elder girl resumes her
seat beside the sick mother in the adjacent room;
one boy reaches for his cap to go out as Dr. John
son does; while the rest drop into the chairs
nearby.
Again there is that deathly silence, broken only
by faint moans from the sick woman; and all
lights are extinguished as if to hide the inevit
able tears streaming down frigid cheeks in tiny
rivulets. But through the window comes a ray of
moonlight, penetrating heavy gray clouds; and
the ray dances before them on the oval centre-
table, in mockery to their profound sorrow. Then,
suddenly it disappears, to leave them groping in
that thick darkness.
No one speaks, each wavering under the effects
of his great remorse; when, .through that quiet
ness, like piercing darts, come the words: “John
—John”! On tip toes the younger son goes to the
next room. “Yes—Mother,” he murmurs, bending
over her weak frame. “My song—John”! She clos
es her pallid eyes and pants for breath.. At once
he understands, returning to the dark room.
Without tuning his violin he starts off into a
subdued playing: fingers vibrating like the pul
sations of an excited heart: the notes floating