Night Funeral in Harlem    



     Night funeral

     In Harlem:



     Where did they get

     Them two fine cars?



Insurance man, he did not pay--

His insurance lapsed the other day--

Yet they got a satin box

for his head to lay.



     Night funeral

     In Harlem:



     Who was it sent

     That wreath of flowers?



Them flowers came

from that poor boy's friends--

They'll want flowers, too,

When they meet their ends.



     Night funeral

     in Harlem:



     Who preached that

     Black boy to his grave?



Old preacher man

Preached that boy away--

Charged Five Dollars

His girl friend had to pay.



     Night funeral

     In Harlem:



When it was all over

And the lid shut on his head

and the organ had done played

and the last prayers been said

and six pallbearers

Carried him out for dead

And off down Lenox Avenue

That long black hearse done sped,

     The street light

     At his corner

     Shined just like a tear--

That boy that they was mournin'

Was so dear, so dear

To them folks that brought the flowers,

To that girl who paid the preacher man--

It was all their tears that made

     That poor boy's

     Funeral grand.



     Night funeral

     In Harlem.

Po' Boy Blues    



When I was home de

Sunshine seemed like gold.

When I was home de

Sunshine seemed like gold.

Since I come up North de

Whole 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

An' de road is hard an' long.



I fell in love with

A gal I thought was kind.

Fell in love with

A gal I thought was kind.

She made me lose ma money

An' almost lose ma mind.



Weary, weary,

Weary early in de morn.

Weary, weary,

Early, early in de morn.

I's so weary

I wish I'd never been born.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers    

    

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the

     flow 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.

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 night

By 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 key

He made that poor piano moan with melody.

     O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

     Sweet Blues!

Coming from a black man's soul.

     O Blues!

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

I 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 bed

While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

Theme for English B    



The instructor said,



    Go home and write

    a page tonight.

    And let that page come out of you--

    Then, it will be true.



I wonder if it's that simple?

I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.

I went to school there, then Durham, then here

to this college on the hill above Harlem.

I am the only colored student in my class.

The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,

through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,

Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,

the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator

up to my room, sit down, and write this page:



It's not easy to know what is true for you or me

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:

hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.

(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,

or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.

I guess being colored doesn't make me not like

the same things other folks like who are other races.

So will my page be colored that I write?



Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be

a part of you, instructor.

You are white--

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That's American.

Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.

Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that's true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me--

although you're older--and white--

and somewhat more free.



This is my page for English B.

Will V-Day Be Me-Day Too?    



            Over There,

            World War II.

         

Dear Fellow Americans,

I write this letter

Hoping times will be better

When this war

Is through.

I'm a Tan-skinned Yank

Driving a tank.

I ask, WILL V-DAY

BE ME-DAY, TOO?



I wear a U. S. uniform.

I've done the enemy much harm,

I've driven back

The Germans and the Japs,

From Burma to the Rhine.

On every battle line,

I've dropped defeat

Into the Fascists' laps.



I am a Negro American

Out to defend my land

Army, Navy, Air Corps--

I am there.

I take munitions through,

I fight--or stevedore, too.

I face death the same as you do

Everywhere.



I've seen my buddy lying

Where he fell.

I've watched him dying

I promised him that I would try

To make our land a land

Where his son could be a man--

And there'd be no Jim Crow birds

Left in our sky.



So this is what I want to know:

When we see Victory's glow,

Will you still let old Jim Crow

Hold me back?

When all those foreign folks who've waited--

Italians, Chinese, Danes--are liberated.

Will I still be ill-fated

Because I'm black?



Here in my own, my native land,

Will the Jim Crow laws still stand?

Will Dixie lynch me still

When I return?

Or will you comrades in arms

From the factories and the farms,

Have learned what this war

Was fought for us to learn?



When I take off my uniform,

Will I be safe from harm--

Or will you do me

As the Germans did the Jews?

When I've helped this world to save,

Shall I still be color's slave?

Or will Victory change

Your antiquated views?



You can't say I didn't fight

To smash the Fascists' might.

You can't say I wasn't with you

in each battle.

As a soldier, and a friend.

When this war comes to an end,

Will you herd me in a Jim Crow car

Like cattle?



Or will you stand up like a man

At home and take your stand

For Democracy?

That's all I ask of you.

When we lay the guns away

To celebrate

Our Victory Day

WILL V-DAY BE ME-DAY, TOO?

That's what I want to know.



            Sincerely,

                GI Joe.