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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