  The souls of negroes, thrown into a shout, Roll their hallelujahs out To the flashing blandness of the sky. The sky does not divide their cries Into meanings foolish and wise: To the sky all men have but one cry. Still, amusement has often thrown Separate shades upon the monotone, Playing with the sleep of firm beliefs. Amused, we give these negroes forms Distinct and bounding under storms Of sounds that catapult their joys and griefs. A negro with his bald despair Seduced by remnants of silver hair, Converses with an old King known as God. He longs to have his tortured stare Rewarded with a golden chair While other negroes thump the sod With heavy echoes of his request. With a cold, castrated zest He pleads for rest, and he is bold, Cling more closely to their floors. “How d’yah kno-ow, how d’yah kno-o-ow Dat the blood done sign mah na-a-ame? Yes it’s so-o-o, yes it’s so-o-o, Jesus wrote it down in fla-a-ame.” The other negroes sing With gliding fear, and swing The child-like joke of their arms to emotions That surge like an army searching for its eyes. But suddenly a quick surprise Tricks each negro’s face with fright— Their skins are gleaming pink and white. White philosophers and scientists Strike each other with dubious fists Within the negroes’ brains, while poets fight Like blistered urchins wrapped in gloom. Shrinking underneath the uproar With its bursts of phantom gore, The negroes shriek against their doom. With bending celebration of knees They crush against their leader’s pleas. “Lord Almighty, make us black! This strange noise strikes us on the back! We has had enough of whips! Calm this devil with your lips!” |
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