Equality, Alienation, and the American Dream

Poetry Socratic Seminars

Packet #1

April 2014

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The Harlem Renaissance (c. 1918–37)

The Harlem Renaissance was a blossoming of African American culture, particularly in the creative arts, and the most influential movement in African American literary history. Embracing literary, musical, theatrical, and visual arts, participants sought to re-conceptualize “the Negro” apart from the white stereotypes that had influenced black peoples’ relationship to their heritage and to each other. The movement laid the groundwork for all later African American literature and had an enormous impact on subsequent black literature and consciousness worldwide. While the renaissance was not confined to the Harlem district of New York City, Harlem attracted a remarkable concentration of intellect and talent and served as the symbolic capital of this cultural awakening.

The Harlem Renaissance was a phase of a larger New Negro movement that had emerged in the early 20th century and in some ways ushered in the civil rights movement of the late 1940s and early 1950s. The social foundations of this movement included the Great Migration of African Americans from rural to urban spaces and from South to North; dramatically rising levels of literacy; the creation of national organizations dedicated to pressing African American civil rights, uplifting the race, and opening socioeconomic opportunities; and developing racial pride, including pan-African sensibilities and programs. Black exiles and expatriates from the Caribbean and Africa crossed paths in metropoles such as New York City and Paris after World War I and had an invigorating influence on each other that gave the broader “Negro Renaissance” (as it was then known) a profoundly important international cast.

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Source: "Harlem Renaissance." Encyclopedia Britannica.

Harlem Renaissance Poet #1: Langston Hughes

James Mercer Langston Hughes was born on February 1, 1902 in Joplin, Missouri. His parents divorced when he was a young child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his grandmother until he was thirteen, when he moved to Lincoln, Illinois to live with his mother before the family eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. It was in Lincoln that Hughes began writing poetry. After graduating from high school, he spent a year in Mexico followed by a year at Columbia University in New York City. During this time, he held odd jobs such as assistant cook, launderer, and busboy. He also traveled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In November 1924, he moved to Washington, D.C. where his first book of poetry, The Weary Blues, was published in 1926.

Hughes is particularly recognized for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties. He wrote novels, short stories and plays, as well as poetry, and is also known for his engagement with the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing. He wanted to tell the stories of his people in ways that reflected their actual culture, including

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both their suffering, and their love of music, laughter, and language itself.

Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer in May 22, 1967, in New York City. In his memory, his residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place." Bio from: poets.org (Academy of American Poets)

(#1) “I, Too”

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.

Tomorrow,I’ll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody’ll dareSay to me,“Eat in the kitchen,”Then.

Besides,They’ll see how beautiful I amAnd be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

(#2) “Harlem”4

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

(#3) “The Weary Blues”

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway . . . He did a lazy sway . . .To the tune o' those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues!Coming from a black man's soul. O Blues!

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In a deep song voice with a melancholy toneI heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan— "Ain't got nobody in all this world, Ain't got nobody but ma self. I's gwine to quit ma frownin' And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.He played a few chords then he sang some more— "I got the Weary Blues And I can't be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can't be satisfied— I ain't happy no mo' And I wish that I had died."And far into the night he crooned that tune.The stars went out and so did the moon.The singer stopped playing and went to bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

(#4) “Po' Boy Blues”

When I was home deSunshine seemed like gold.When I was home deSunshine seemed like gold.Since I come up North deWhole damn world's turned cold.

I was a good boy,Never done no wrong.Yes, I was a good boy,Never done no wrong,But this world is weary

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An' de road is hard an' long.

I fell in love withA gal I thought was kind.Fell in love withA gal I thought was kind.She made me lose ma moneyAn' almost lose ma mind.

Weary, weary,Weary early in de morn.Weary, weary,Early, early in de morn.I's so wearyI wish I'd never been born.

(#5) “The Negro Speaks Of Rivers”

I've known rivers:I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than theflow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

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Harlem Renaissance Poet #2: Gwendolyn Bennett

Gwendolyn Bennett was born on July 8, 1902, in Giddings, Texas. She eventually settled in Brooklyn, New York where she attended high school. Graduating in 1921, Bennett came of age just as the Harlem Renaissance was beginning to flower. Attempting to remain loyal to both of her dreams of literature and art, Bennett began college classes at Columbia University in the Department of Fine Arts but she transferred to and graduated from Pratt Institute in 1924. Although she never collected her published poetry into a volume nor produced a collection of short stories, Gwendolyn Bennett was recognized as a versatile artist

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and significant figure in the Harlem Renaissance. Bennett died on May 30, 1981, in Reading, Pennsylvania.

Her literary contributions include over thirty poems, short stories, and reviews in leading African American magazines and anthologies.

Bennett’s artistic output during the early days of the Renaissance fostered community between various racial groups, generations, classes, and genders, and her constant emphasis on youthfulness paralleled her vitality and vision for the development of the African American race.

(#1) “Song”

I am weaving a song of waters,Shaken from firm, brown limbs,Or heads thrown back in irreverent mirth.My song has the ush sweetnessOf moist, dark lipsWhere hymns keep companyWith old forgotten banjo songs.Abandon tells youThat I sing the heart of raceWhile sadness whispersThat I am the cry of a soul. . . .A-shoutin' in de ole camp-meeting-place,A-strummin' o' de ole banjo.Singin' in de moonlight,Sobbin' in de dark.Singin', sobbin', strummin' slow . . .

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Singin' slow, sobbin' low.Strummin', strummin', strummin' slow . . .Words are bright buglesThat make the shining for my song,And mothers hold down babiesTo dark, warm breastsTo make my singing sad.A dancing girl with swaying hipsSets mad the queen in the harlot's eye. Praying slave Jazz-band after Breaking heart To the time of laughter . . .Clinking chains and minstrelsyAre wedged fast with melody. A praying slave With a jazz-band after . . . Singin' slow, sobbin' low.Sun-baked lips will kiss the earth. (#2) “To Usward”Let us be still As ginger jars are still Upon a Chinese shelf. And let us be contained By entities of Self. . . . Not still with lethargy and sloth, But quiet with the pushing of our growth. Not self-contained with smug identity But conscious of the strength in entity.If any have a song to sing That's different from the rest, Oh let them sing Before the urgency of Youth's behest! For some of us have songs to sing Of jungle heat and fires, And some of us are solemn grown With pitiful desires,

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And there are those who feel the pull Of seas beneath the skies, And some there be who want to croon Of Negro lullabies. We claim no part with racial dearth; We want to sing the songs of birth!And so we stand like ginger jars Like ginger jars bound round With dust and age; Like jars of ginger we are sealed By nature's heritage.But let us break the seal of years With pungent thrusts of song, For there is joy in long-dried tears For whetted passions of a throng!

Throats of bronze will burst with mirth. Sing a little faster, Sing a little faster, Sing!

(#3) “Secret”

I shall make a song like you hair . . .Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged,And I shall play with my songAs my fingers might play with your hair.Deep in my heartI shall play with my song of you,Gently. . . .I shall laughAt its sensitive lustre . . .I shall wrap my song in a blanket,Blue like your eyes are blueWith tiny shots of silver.

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I shall wrap it caressingly,Tenderly. . . .I shall sing a lullabyTo the song I have madeOf your hair and eyes . . .And you will never knowThat deep in my heartI shelter a song for youSecretly. . . .

(#4) “Fantasy”

I sailed in my dreams to the Land of NightWhere you were the dusk-eyed queen,And there in the pallor of moon-veiled lightThe loveliest things were seen ...

A slim-necked peacock sauntered thereIn a garden of lavender hues,And you were strange with your purple hairAs you sat in your amethyst chairWith your feet in your hyacinth shoes.

Oh, the moon gave a bluish lightThrough the trees in the land of dreams and night.I stood behind a bush of yellow-greenAnd whistled a song to the dark-haired queen ...

(#5) “Sonnet 2”

Some things are very dear to me--Such things as flowers bathed by rainOr patterns traced upon the seaOr crocuses where snow has lain . . .

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The iridescence of a gem,The moon's cool opalescent light,Azaleas and the scent of them,And honeysuckles in the night.And many sounds are also dear--Like winds that sing among the treesOr crickets calling from the weirOr Negroes humming melodies.But dearer far than all surmiseAre sudden tear-drops in your eyes

Harlem Renaissance Poet #3: Countee Cullen

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Countee Porter Cullen was born on May 30, 1903. His exact place of birth is unknown. He was raised by his grandmother until her death during his teen years. He was then taken in by Reverend Frederick A. Cullen, a minister at a Church in Harlem. He edited his high school’s school newspaper and literary magazine and won a city-wide poetry competition. He went on to attend New York University, and graduated with a master’s degree from Harvard University in 1926.

With the publication of two major poetry volumes, Copper Sun and The Ballad of the Brown Girl (both 1927), Cullen was seen as a leading light of the Harlem Renaissance.

He died on January 9, 1946, from uremia and complications of high blood pressure. A posthumous collection of Cullen's poetry was published in 1947, On These I Stand: An Anthology of the Best Poems of Countee Cullen. His legacy also includes public schools named after the poet, as well as Harlem's 135th Street Branch library being renamed the Countee Cullen Library.

Bio from: The Poetry Foundation

(#1) “From the Dark Tower”

(To Charles S. Johnson)

We shall not always plant while others reapThe golden increment of bursting fruit, Not always countenance, abject and mute, That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;Not everlastingly while others sleepShall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,Not always bend to some more subtle brute;

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We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,White stars is no less lovely being dark, And there are buds that cannot bloom at all In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

(#2) “Incident”

(For Eric Walrond)

Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger,And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December;Of all the things that happened there That’s all that I remember.

(#3) Thoughts in a Zoo

They in their cruel traps, and we in ours, Survey each other’s rage, and pass the hours Commiserating each the other’s woe, To mitigate his own pain’s fiery glow.

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Man could but little proffer in exchange Save that his cages have a larger range. That lion with his lordly, untamed heart Has in some man his human counterpart,Some lofty soul in dreams and visions wrapped, But in the stifling flesh securely trapped. Gaunt eagle whose raw pinions stain the bars That prison you, so men cry for the stars!Some delve down like the mole far underground, (Their nature is to burrow, not to bound),Some, like the snake, with changeless slothful eye, Stir not, but sleep and smoulder where they lie. Who is most wretched, these caged ones, or we, Caught in a vastness beyond our sight to see?

(#4) “Saturday’s Child”

Some are teethed on a silver spoon, With the stars strung for a rattle;I cut my teeth as the black raccoon— For implements of battle.

Some are swaddled in silk and down, And heralded by a star;They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown On a night that was black as tar.

For some, godfather and goddame The opulent fairies be;Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me.

For I was born on Saturday— “Bad time for planting a seed,”Was all my father had to say,

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And, “One mouth more to feed.”

Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow.

(#5) “To Certain Critics”

Then call me traitor if you must, Shout treason and default!Say I betray a sacred trustAching beyond this vault.I’ll bear your censure as your praise, For never shall the clanConfine my singing to its waysBeyond the ways of man.

No racial option narrows grief,Pain is no patriot,And sorrow plaits her dismal leaf For all as lief as not.With blind sheep groping every hill, Searching an oriflamme,How shall the shepherd heart then thrill To only the darker lamb?

Harlem Renaissance Poet #4: Georgia Douglas Johnson

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Georgia Douglas Johnson was born in Atlanta, Georgia, where she graduated from Atlanta University College and studied music at the Oberlin Conservatory and the Cleveland College of Music. After graduation, she taught and worked as an assistant principal. In 1910 she moved with her husband to Washington, D.C.

Johnson’s house at 1461 S Street NW, which came to be known as site of the S Street Salon, was an important meeting place for writers of the Harlem Renaissance in Washington, D.C.

Johnson published her first poems in 1916 in the NAACP’s magazine Crisis and traveled widely in the 1920s to give poetry readings. Johnson spoke out against race inequity as a whole, but she is more known as a key advocate in the anti-lynching movement.

Bio from: The Poetry Foundation

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(#1) “Common Dust”

And who shall separate the dustWhat later we shall be:Whose keen discerning eye will scanAnd solve the mystery?

The high, the low, the rich, the poor, The black, the white, the red, And all the chromatique between, Of whom shall it be said:

Here lies the dust of Africa; Here are the sons of Rome; Here lies the one unlabelled, The world at large his home!

Can one then separate the dust? Will mankind lie apart, When life has settled back again The same as from the start?

(#2) “Smothered Fires”

A woman with a burning flame Deep covered through the yearsWith ashes. Ah! she hid it deep, And smothered it with tears.

Sometimes a baleful light would rise From out the dusky bed,And then the woman hushed it quick To slumber on, as dead.

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At last the weary war was done The tapers were alight,And with a sigh of victory She breathed a soft—good-night!

(#3) “Your World”

Your world is as big as you make it.I know, for I used to abideIn the narrowest nest in a corner,My wings pressing close to my side. But I sighted the distant horizonWhere the skyline encircled the seaAnd I throbbed with a burning desireTo travel this immensity. I battered the cordons around meAnd cradled my wings on the breeze,Then soared to the uttermost reachesWith rapture, with power, with ease!

(#4) “The Heart of a Woman”

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn,As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roamIn the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.

The heart of a woman falls back with the night,And enters some alien cage in its plight,And tries to forget it has dreamed of the starsWhile it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

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(#5) “Foredoom”

Her life was dwarfed, and wed to blight,Her very days were shades of night,Her every dream was born entombed,Her soul, a bud,—that never bloomed.

(#6) “Quest”

The phantom happiness I sought O’er every crag and moor;I paused at every postern gate, And knocked at every door;

In vain I searched the land and sea, E’en to the inmost core,The curtains of eternal night Descend—my search is o’er.

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