Do Not Stare at MeDo not stare at me from your window, ladydo not stare and wonder where I came fromBorn in this city was I, lady, hearing the beetles at six o'clock

and the noisy cocks in the morningwhen your hands rumple the bed sheetand night is locked up the wardrobe.My hands are full of lines

like your breast with veins, lady -So do not stare and wonder where I came fromMy hands are full of lineslike your breast with viens, lady -

and one must rear, while one must suckle life...Do not stare at me from your window, lady.Stare at the wagon of prisoners! Stare at the hearse passing by your gate!

Stare at the slums in the south of the city! Stare hard and reason, lady, where I came fromand where I go.My hand is full of lines

like your breast with veins, lady, and one must rear, while one must suckle life. Martin Carter

University of Hungeris the university of hunger the wide waste.is the pilgrimage of man the long march.The print of hunger wanders in the land.The green tree bends above the long forgotten.The plains of life rise up and fall in spasms.The huts of men are fused in misery.

They come treading in the hoofmarks of the mulepassing the ancient bridgethe grave of pridethe sudden flightthe terror and the time.

They come from the distant village of the floodpassing from middle air to middle earthin the common hours of nakedness.

Twin bars of hunger mark their metal browstwin seasons mock themparching drought and flood.

is the dark onesthe half sunken in the land.is they who had no voice in the emptinessin the unbelievablein the shadowless.

They come treading on the mud floor of the yearmingling with dark heavy watersand the sea sound of the eyeless flitting bat.O long is the march of men and long is the lifeand wide is the span.

is the air dust and the long distance of memoryis the hour of rain when sleepless toads are silentis broken chimneys smokeless in the windis brown trash huts and jagged mounds of iron

The come in long lines toward the broad cityis the golden moon like a big coin in the skyis the floor of bone beneath the floor of fleshis the beak of sickness breaking on the stoneO long is the march of men, and long is the lifeand wide is the spanO cold is the cruel wind blowing.O cold is the hoe in the ground.

They come like sea birdsflapping in the wake of a boatis the torture of sunset in purple bandagesis the powder of the fire spread like dust in the twilightis the water melodies of white foam on wrinkled sand.

The long streets of night move up and downbaring the thighs of a woman.and the cavern of generation.The beating drum returns and dies away.The bearded men fall down and go to sleep.The cocks of dawn stand up and crow like bugles.

is they who rose early in the morningwatching the moon die in the dawn.is they who heard the shell blow and the iron clang.is they who had no voice in the emptinessin the unbelievablein the shadowless.O long is the march of men and long is the lifeand wide is the span. Martin Carter

AmericaAlthough she feeds me bread of bitterness,And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,Stealing my breath of life, I will confessI 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 shredOf 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

O Lord, Our FatherO Lord, our father,Our young patriots, idols of our hearts,Go forth to battle - be Thou near them!With them, in spirit, we also go forthFrom the sweet peace of our beloved firesides To smite the foe.

O Lord, our God,Help us to tear their soldiersTo bloody shreds with our shells;Help us to cover their smiling fieldsWith the pale forms of their patriot dead; Help us to drown the thunder ofthe guns With the shrieks of their wounded,Writhing in pain.

Help us to lay waste their humble homesWith a hurricane of fire;Help us to wring the hearts of theirUnoffending widows with unavailing grief; Help us to turn them out rooflessWith their little children to wander unfriended The wastes of theirdesolated landIn rags and hunger and thirst,Sports of the sun flames of summerAnd the icy winds of winter,Burdened in spirit, worn with travail,Imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord,Blast their hopes,Blight their lives,Protract their bitter pilgrimage,Make heavy their steps,Water their way with their tears,Stain the white snow with the bloodOf their wounded feet!

We ask it in the spirit of love -Of Him who is the source of love,And Who is the ever-faithfulRefuge and Friend of all that are sore beset And seek His aid with humbleand contrite hearts.

Amen Mark Twain

A Far Cry From AfricaA wind is ruffling the tawny peltOf Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies,Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.Corpses are scattered through a paradise.Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:'Waste no compassion on these separate dead!'Statistics justify and scholars seizeThe salients of colonial policy.What is that to the white child hacked in bed?To savages, expendable as Jews?Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes breakIn a white dust of ibises whose criesHave wheeled since civilizations dawn>From the parched river or beast-teeming plain.The violence of beast on beast is readAs natural law, but upright manSeeks his divinity by inflicting pain.Delirious as these worried beasts, his warsDance to the tightened carcass of a drum, While he calls courage still that native dreadOf the white peace contracted by the dead.

Again brutish necessity wipes its handsUpon the napkin of a dirty cause, againA waste of our compassion, as with Spain,The gorilla wrestles with the superman.I who am poisoned with the blood of both,Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?I who have cursedThe drunken officer of British rule, how chooseBetween this Africa and the English tongue I love?Betray them both, or give back what they give?How can I face such slaughter and be cool?How can I turn from Africa and live? Derek Walcott

All the World's a StageAll the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances,And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,In fair round belly with good capon lined,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,That ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness and mere oblivion,Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. William Shakespeare