P.C. Home Page . Recent Additions Harlem Shadows The Poems of Claude McKay

The Easter Flower FAR from this foreign Easter damp and chilly   My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily   Soft-scented in the air for yards around; Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!   Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief   In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; And many thought it was a sacred sign,   And some called it the resurrection flower; And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine,   Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power. Claude McKay To One Coming North AT first you'll joy to see the playful snow,   Like white moths trembling on the tropic air, Or waters of the hills that softly flow   Gracefully falling down a shining stair. And when the fields and streets are covered white   And the wind-worried void is chilly, raw, Or underneath a spell of heat and light   The cheerless frozen spots begin to thaw, Like me you'll long for home, where birds' glad song   Means flowering lanes and leas and spaces dry, And tender thoughts and feelings fine and strong,   Beneath a vivid silver-flecked blue sky. But oh! more than the changeless southern isles,   When Spring has shed upon the earth her charm, You'll love the Northland wreathed in golden smiles   By the miraculous sun turned glad and warm. Claude McKay America ALTHOUGH she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, Giving me strength erect against her hate. Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, I stand within her walls with not a shred Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, And see her might and granite wonders there, Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand, Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand. Claude McKay Alfonso, Dressing to Wait at Table ALFONSO is a handsome bronze-hued lad   Of subtly-changing and surprising parts; His moods are storms that frighten and make glad,   His eyes were made to capture women's hearts. Down in the glory-hole Alfonso sings   An olden song of wine and clinking glasses And riotous rakes; magnificently flings   Gay kisses to imaginary lasses. Alfonso's voice of mellow music thrills   Our swaying forms and steals our hearts with joy; And when he soars, his fine falsetto trills   Are rarest notes of gold without alloy. But, O Alfonso! wherefore do you sing   Dream-songs of carefree men and ancient places? Soon we shall be beset by clamouring   Of hungry and importunate palefaces. Claude McKay The Tropics in New York BANANAS ripe and green, and ginger-root,   Cocoa in pods and alligator pears, And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,   Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs, Set in the window, bringing memories   Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills, And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies   In benediction over nun-like hills. My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;   A wave of longing through my body swept, And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,   I turned aside and bowed my head and wept. Claude McKay Flame-Heart SO much have I forgotten in ten years,   So much in ten brief years! I have forgot What time the purple apples come to juice,   And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. I have forgot the special, startling season   Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting; What time of year the ground doves brown the fields   And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. I still recall the honey-fever grass,   But cannot recollect the high days when We rooted them out of the ping-wing path   To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month   The languid painted ladies used to dapple The yellow by-road mazing from the main,   Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year   We cheated school to have our fling at tops? What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy   Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days   Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,   At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade. We were so happy, happy, I remember, Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. Claude McKay Home Thoughts OH something just now must be happening there! That suddenly and quiveringly here, Amid the city's noises, I must think Of mangoes leaning o'er the river's brink, And dexterous Davie climbing high above, The gold fruits ebon-speckled to remove, And toss them quickly in the tangled mass Of wis-wis twisted round the guinea grass; And Cyril coming through the bramble-track A prize bunch of bananas on his back; And Georgie--none could ever dive like him-- Throwing his scanty clothes off for a swim; And schoolboys, from Bridge-tunnel going home, Watching the waters downward dash and foam. This is no daytime dream, there's something in it, Oh something's happening there this very minute! Claude McKay On Broadway ABOUT me young and careless feet Linger along the garish street;   Above, a hundred shouting signs Shed down their bright fantastic glow   Upon the merry crowd and lines Of moving carriages below. Oh wonderful is Broadway--only My heart, my heart is lonely. Desire naked, linked with Passion, Goes strutting by in brazen fashion;   From playhouse, cabaret and inn The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze   All gay without, all glad within; As in a dream I stand and gaze At Broadway, shining Broadway--only My heart, my heart is lonely. Claude McKay The Barrier I MUST not gaze at them although   Your eyes are dawning day; I must not watch you as you go   Your sun-illumined way; I hear but I must never heed   The fascinating note, Which, fluting like a river reed,   Comes from your trembing throat; I must not see upon your face   Love's softly glowing spark; For there's the barrier of race,   You're fair and I am dark. Claude McKay Adolescence THERE was a time when in late afternoon   The four-o'clocks would fold up at day's close Pink-white in prayer, and 'neath the floating moon   I lay with them in calm and sweet repose. And in the open spaces I could sleep,   Half-naked to the shining worlds above; Peace came with sleep and sleep was long and deep,   Gained without effort, sweet like early love. But now no balm--nor drug nor weed nor wine--   Can bring true rest to cool my body's fever, Nor sweeten in my mouth the acid brine,   That salts my choicest drink and will forever. Claude McKay Homing Swallows SWIFT swallows sailing from the Spanish main,   O rain-birds racing merrily away From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain   Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say-- When at the noon-hour from the chapel school   The children dash and scamper down the dale, Scornful of teacher's rod and binding rule   Forever broken and without avail, Do they still stop beneath the giant tree   To gather locusts in their childish greed, And chuckle when they break the pods to see   The golden powder clustered round the seed? Claude McKay The City's Love FOR one brief golden moment rare like wine, The gracious city swept across the line; Oblivious of the color of my skin, Forgetting that I was an alien guest, She bent to me, my hostile heart to win, Caught me in passion to her pillowy breast; The great, proud city, seized with a strange love, Bowed down for one flame hour my pride to prove. Claude McKay North and South O SWEET are tropic lands for waking dreams!   There time and life move lazily along. There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams   Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song, Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day,   Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies, And swarthy children in the fields at play,   Look upward laughing at the smiling skies. A breath of idleness is in the air   That casts a subtle spell upon all things, And love and mating-time are everywhere,   And wonder to life's commonplaces clings. The fluttering humming-bid darts through the trees   And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers, The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze,   Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours, The sea beats softly on the emerald strands-- O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands! Claude McKay Wild May ALETA mentions in her tender letters, Among a chain of quaint and touching things, That you are feeble, weighted down with fetters, And given to strange deeds and mutterings. No longer without trace or thought of fear, Do you leap to and ride the rebel roan; But have become the victim of grim care, With three brown beauties to support alone. But none the less will you be in my mind, Wild May that cantered by the risky ways, With showy head-cloth flirting in the wind, From market in the glad December days; Wild May of whom even other girls could rave Before sex tamed your spirit, made you slave. Claude McKay The Plateau IT was the silver, heart-enveloping view   Of the mysterious sea-line far away,   Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day, That made it dear and beautiful to you. And Laura loved it for the little hill,   Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun,   Whence in the shadow of the dying sun, She contemplated Hallow's wooden mill. While Danny liked the sheltering high grass,   In which he lay upon a clear dry night,   To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight, The happy lovers of the valley pass. But oh! I loved it for the big round moon   That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft,   Burning with passion, gloriously soft, Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June. Claude McKay After the Winter SOME day, when trees have shed their leaves   And against the morning's white The shivering birds beneath the eaves   Have sheltered for the night, We'll turn our faces southward, love,   Toward the summer isle Where bamboos spire to shafted grove   And wide-mouthed orchids smile. And we will seek the quiet hill   Where towers the cotton tree, And leaps the laughing crystal rill,   And works the droning bee. And we will build a cottage there   Beside an open glade, With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,   And ferns that never fade. Claude McKay The Wild Goat O YOU would clothe me in silken frocks   And house me from the cold, And bind with bright bands my glossy locks,   And buy me chains of gold; And give me--meekly to do my will--   The hapless sons of men:-- But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill   Droops in the grassy pen. Claude McKay Harlem Shadows I HEAR the halting footsteps of a lass   In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass   To bend and barter at desire's call. Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street! Through the long night until the silver break   Of day the little gray feet know no rest; Through the lone night until the last snow-flake   Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way   Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,   The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street. Claude McKay The White City I WILL not toy with it nor bend an inch. Deep in the secret chambers of my heart I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch I bear it nobly as I live my part. My being would be a skeleton, a shell, If this dark Passion that fills my every mood, And makes my heaven in the white world's hell, Did not forever feed me vital blood. I see the mighty city through a mist-- The strident trains that speed the goaded mass, The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed, The fortressed port through which the great ships pass, The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate, Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate. Claude McKay The Spanish Needle LOVELY dainty Spanish needle   With your yellow flower and white, Dew bedecked and softly sleeping,   Do you think of me to-night? Shadowed by the spreading mango,   Nodding o'er the rippling stream, Tell me, dear plant of my childhood,   Do you of the exile dream? Do you see me by the brook's side   Catching crayfish 'neath the stone, As you did the day you whispered:   Leave the harmless dears alone? Do you see me in the meadow   Coming from the woodland spring With a bamboo on my shoulder   And a pail slung from a string? Do you see me all expectant   Lying in an orange grove, While the swee-swees sing above me,   Waiting for my elf-eyed love? Lovely dainty Spanish needle,   Source to me of sweet delight, In your far-off sunny southland   Do you dream of me to-night? Claude McKay B A C K to the Contents of Harlem Shadows Poets' Corner . H O M E . E-mail