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African-American Poetry: An Anthology, 1773-1927
In the 19th century, abolitionist and African-American periodicals printed thousands of poems by black men and women on such topics as bondage and freedom, hatred and discrimination, racial identity and racial solidarity, along with dialect verse that mythologized the Southern past. Early in the 20th century, black poets celebrated race consciousness in propagandistic and protest poetry, while World War I helped engender the outpouring of African-American creativity known as the "Harlem Renaissance."
The present volume spans this wealth of material, ranging from the religious and moral verse of Phillis Wheatley Peters (ca. 1753–1784) to the 20th-century sensibilities of Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen. Also here are works by George Moses Horton, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Alberry Alston Whitman, Henrietta Cordelia Ray, Daniel Webster Davis, Mary Weston Fordham, James Weldon Johnson, Paul Laurence Dunbar, and many more.
Attractive and inexpensive, this carefully chosen collection offers unparalleled insight into the hearts and minds of African-Americans. It will be welcomed by students of the black experience in America and any lover of fine poetry.
Includes 4 selections from the Common Core State Standards Initiative: "I, Too, Sing America," "Lift Every Voice and Sing," "Yet Do I Marvel," and "On Being Brought from Africa to America."
184 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 7, 1997
117 people are currently reading
277 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews
March 10, 2016
It’s difficult to rate a collection or an anthology of anything given the diversity of the material, but I’d say this collection was a solid 3 star read.
Some poets and their works were extraordinary and became some of my favorite poems of all time. However, as the collection progressed, I enjoyed some of the more Christian and religious poetry even less over time. Majority of my appreciation was for the critique of the Western civilization and what it is has done to the African cultures and its people.
If you’re looking for a place to start reading African American poetry, this is a nice read. But as a slightly more advanced reader, I wanted something more fulfilling.
A few of my favorites from the collection:
– Joshua McCarter Simpson: To the White People of America
– James Monroe Whitfield: How Long?
– Claude McKay: Enslaved, If We Must Die, and Harlem Dancer.
– By Phillis Wheatley, an all-time favorite I adore rereading: On Being Brought From Africa To America
– Another all-item favorite is Langston Hughes: I, Too and The Negro Speaks of Rivers.
Some poets and their works were extraordinary and became some of my favorite poems of all time. However, as the collection progressed, I enjoyed some of the more Christian and religious poetry even less over time. Majority of my appreciation was for the critique of the Western civilization and what it is has done to the African cultures and its people.
If you’re looking for a place to start reading African American poetry, this is a nice read. But as a slightly more advanced reader, I wanted something more fulfilling.
A few of my favorites from the collection:
– Joshua McCarter Simpson: To the White People of America
– James Monroe Whitfield: How Long?
– Claude McKay: Enslaved, If We Must Die, and Harlem Dancer.
– By Phillis Wheatley, an all-time favorite I adore rereading: On Being Brought From Africa To America
– Another all-item favorite is Langston Hughes: I, Too and The Negro Speaks of Rivers.
December 2, 2016
Phillis Wheatley Peters (1753?-1784) was a young slave brought from Africa to Boston in 1761. She became well-educated and once met George Washington in a private meeting.
George Moses Horton (1797?-1883?) was a North Carolina slave for 66 years.
On Liberty and Slavery
by George Moses Horton
Alas! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil and pain!
How long have I in bondage lain,
And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain—
Deprived of liberty.
Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave—
To soothe the pain—to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave?
Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears!
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,
And drive away my fears.
Say unto foul oppression, Cease:
Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,
Now bid the vassal soar.
Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,
And breathed her notes from Afric’s grove,
The sound of Liberty.
Oh, Liberty! thou golden prize,
So often sought by blood—
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of nature’s God!
Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And barbarism fly:
I scorn to see the sad disgrace
In which enslaved I lie.
Dear Liberty! upon thy breast,
I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,
I’d like to thy smiles retire.
Oh, blest asylum—heavenly balm!
Unto thy boughs I flee—
And in thy shades the storm shall calm,
With songs of Liberty!
Joshua McCarter Simpson (1820?-1876) wrote satirical protest poems set to popular tunes and sung by fugitives on the Underground Railroad.
Away to Canada
by Joshua McCarter Simpson
Sing to "O, Susannah"
Adapted to the case of Mr. S.,
Fugitive from Tennessee.
I’m on my way to Canada,
That cold and dreary land;
The dire effects of slavery,
I can no longer stand.
My soul is vexed within me so,
To think that I’m a slave;
I’ve now resolved to strike the blow
For freedom or the grave.
O righteous Father,
Wilt thou not pity me?
And aid me on to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I heard Victoria plainly say,
If we would all forsake
Our native land of slavery,
And come across the Lake.
That she was standing on the shore,
With arms extended wide,
To give us all a peaceful home,
Beyond the rolling tide.
Farewell, old master!
That’s enough for me—
I’m going straight to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I heard the old-soul driver say,
As he was passing by,
That darkey’s bound to run away,
I see it in his eye.
My heart responded to the charge,
And thought it was no crime;
And something seemed my mind to urge,
That now’s the very time.
O! old driver,
Don’t you cry for me,
I’m going up to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
Grieve not, my wife—grieve not for me,
O! do not break my heart,
For nought but cruel slavery
Would cause me to depart.
If I should stay to quell your grief,
Your grief I would augment;
For no one knows the day that we
Asunder might be rent.
O! Susannah,
Don’t you cry for me—
I’m going up to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I heard old master pray last night—
I heard him pray for me;
That God would come, and in his might
From Satan set me free;
So I from Satan would escape,
And flee the wrath to come—
If there’s a fiend in human shape,
Old master must be one.
O! old master,
While you pray for me,
I’m doing all I can to reach
The land of Liberty.
Ohio’s not the place for me;
For I was much surprised,
So many of her sons to see
In garments of disguise.
Her name has gone out through the world,
Free Labor, Soil, and Men;
But slaves had better far be hurled
Into the Lion’s Den.
Farewell, Ohio!
I am not safe in thee;
I’ll travel on to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I’ve now embarked for yonder shore,
Where man’s a man by law,
The vessel soon will bear me o’er,
To shake the Lion’s paw.
I no more dread the Auctioneer,
Nor fear the master’s frowns,
I no more tremble when I hear
The beying negro-hounds.
O! old Master,
Don’t think hard of me—
I’m just in sight of Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I’ve landed safe upon the shore,
Both soul and body free;
My blood and brain, and tears no more
Will drench old Tennesse.
But I behold the scalding tear,
Now stealing from my eye,
To think my wife—my only dear,
A slave must live and die.
O, Susannah!
Don’t grieve after me—
For ever at a throne of grace,
I will remember thee.
James Monroe Whitfield (1822-1871) wondered in a poem "How long, O gracious God! how long,/Shall power lord it over right?" before "all mankind, from bondage free,/Exult in glorious liberty."
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (1824-1911) became famous and financially independent.
Bury Me in a Free Land
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Make me a grave where’er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;
Make it among earth’s humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.
I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.
I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother’s shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.
I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.
If I saw young girls from their mother’s arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.
I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
James Madison Bell (1826-1902) was a plasterer from Ohio.
Charlotte L. Forten Grimke (1837-1914) taught freed slaves in South Carolina.
Alfred Islay Walden ( 1847?-1884) endured 18 years of slavery in North Carolina. He overcame destitution and blindness to earn a teaching degree at Howard University.
Alberry Alston Whitman (1851-1901) was "the Poet Laureate of the Negro Race." He was born a slave and wrote epic length Romantic poems.
Henrietta Cordelia Ray (1850?-1916) was a New York City school teacher for 30 years.
George Marion McClellan (1860-1934) was a teacher and minister. He reminds us in a poem that "Christ washed the feet of Judas!"
Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr. (1861-1949) was a prominent educator.
Josephine Delphine Henderson Heard (1861-1921) was the daughter of North Carolina slaves.
They Are Coming
by Josephine Delphine Henderson Heard
They are coming, coming slowly —
They are coming, surely, surely —
In each avenue you hear the steady tread.
From the depths of foul oppression,
Comes a swarthy-hued procession,
And victory perches on their banners' head.
They are coming, coming slowly —
They are coming; yes, the lowly,
No longer writhing in their servile bands.
From the rice fields and plantation
Comes a factor of the nation,
And threatening, like Banquo's ghost, it stands.
They are coming, coming proudly
They are crying, crying loudly:
O, for justice from the rulers of the land!
And that justice will be given,
For the mighty God of heaven
Holds the balances of power in his hand.
Prayers have risen, risen, risen,
From the cotton fields and prison;
Though the overseer stood with lash in hand,
Groaned the overburdened heart;
Not a tear-drop dared to start —
But the Slaves' petition reach'd the glory-land.
They are coming, they are coming,
From away in tangled swamp,
Where the slimy reptile hid its poisonous head;
Through the long night and the day,
They have heard the bloodhounds' bay,
While the morass furnished them an humble bed.
They are coming, rising, rising,
And their progress is surprising,
By their brawny muscles earning daily bread;
Though their wages be a pittance,
Still each week a small remittance,
Builds a shelter for the weary toiling head.
They are coming, they are coming —
Listen! You will hear the humming
Of the thousands that are falling into line:
There are Doctors, Lawyers, Preachers;
There are Sculptors, Poets, Teachers —
Men and women, who with honor yet shall shine.
They are coming, coming boldly,
Though the Nation greets them coldly;
They are coming from the hillside and the plain.
With their scars they tell the story
Of the canebrakes wet and gory,
Where their brothers' bones lie bleaching with the slain.
They are coming, coming singing,
Their Thanksgiving hymn is ringing.
For the clouds are slowly breaking now away,
And there comes a brighter dawning —
It is liberty's fair morning,
They are coming surely, coming, clear the way.
Yes, they come, their stopping's steady,
And their power is felt already —
God has heard the lowly cry of the oppressed:
And beneath his mighty frown,
Every wrong shall crumble down,
When the right shall triumph and the world be blest!
Daniel Webster Davis (1862-1913) was a popular orator.
Mary Weston Fordham (1862?-?) wrote poetry that resembled most 19th century sentimental poems.
James Edwin Campbell (1867-1896) wrote folk verses in "Gullah" dialect. They are musical and original. He made fascinating use of dialect.
James David Corrothers (1869-1919) also used dialect.
An Indignation Dinner
by James David Corrothers
DEY was hard times jes fo’ Christmas round our neighborhood one year;
So we held a secret meetin’, whah de white folks couldn’t hear,
To ’scuss de situation, an’ to see what could be done
Towa’d a fust-class Christmas dinneh an’ a little Christmas fun.
Rufus Green, who called de meetin’, ris an’ said: “In dis here town,
An’ throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin’ to keep us down.”
S’ ’e: “Dey’s bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey ’buse us ’ca’se we’s free;
But when dey tetch my stomach, dey’s done gone too fur foh me!
“Is I right?” “You sho is, Rufus!” roared a dozen hungry throats.
“Ef you’d keep a mule a-wo’kin’, don’t you tamper wid his oats.
Dat’s sense,” continued Rufus. “But dese white folks nowadays
Has done got so close and stingy you can’t live on what dey pays.
“Here ’tis Christmas-time, an’, folkses, I’s indignant ’nough to choke.
Whah’s our Christmas dinneh comin’ when we’s ’mos’ completely broke?
I can’t hahdly ’fo’d a toothpick an’ a glass o’ water. Mad?
Say, I’m desp’ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!”
Well, dey ’bused de white folks scan’lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris,
Leanin’ on his cane to s’pote him, on account his rheumatis’,
An’ s’ ’e: “Chilun, whut’s dat wintry wind a-sighin’ th’ough de street
’Bout yo’ wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus’ eat.
“Now, I seed a beau’ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun’s fahm.
He’s a-growin’ fat an’ sassy, an’ a-struttin’ to a chahm.
Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters—all de craps is fine dis year;
All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here.”
Well, we lit right in an’ voted dat it was a gran idee,
An’ de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin’ miles to see;
An’ we eat a full an’ plenty, big an’ little, great an’ small,
Not beca’se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat’s all.
James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938) was a man of many talents who worked for the NAACP. He once asked this question:
O black and unknown bards of long ago,
How came your lips to touch the sacred fire?
Priscilla Jane Thompson (1871-1942) and her siblings published seven volumes of verse.
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) published prolifically. He described a lynching in "The Haunted Oak."
Anne Spencer [Annie Bethel Scales Bannister] (1882-1975) won national attention in the 1920s.
Claude McKay (1890-1948) wrote a history of Harlem.
If We Must Die
by Claude McKay
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Jean Toomer (1894-1967) is best known for the experimental Cane.
Her Lips are Copper Wire
by Jean Toomer
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes
telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate
(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)
then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent
Langston Hughes (1902-1967) was called "the poet laureate of Harlem."
Countee Cullen (1903-1946) taught French in New York City.
George Moses Horton (1797?-1883?) was a North Carolina slave for 66 years.
On Liberty and Slavery
by George Moses Horton
Alas! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil and pain!
How long have I in bondage lain,
And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain—
Deprived of liberty.
Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave—
To soothe the pain—to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave?
Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears!
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,
And drive away my fears.
Say unto foul oppression, Cease:
Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,
Now bid the vassal soar.
Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,
And breathed her notes from Afric’s grove,
The sound of Liberty.
Oh, Liberty! thou golden prize,
So often sought by blood—
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of nature’s God!
Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And barbarism fly:
I scorn to see the sad disgrace
In which enslaved I lie.
Dear Liberty! upon thy breast,
I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,
I’d like to thy smiles retire.
Oh, blest asylum—heavenly balm!
Unto thy boughs I flee—
And in thy shades the storm shall calm,
With songs of Liberty!
Joshua McCarter Simpson (1820?-1876) wrote satirical protest poems set to popular tunes and sung by fugitives on the Underground Railroad.
Away to Canada
by Joshua McCarter Simpson
Sing to "O, Susannah"
Adapted to the case of Mr. S.,
Fugitive from Tennessee.
I’m on my way to Canada,
That cold and dreary land;
The dire effects of slavery,
I can no longer stand.
My soul is vexed within me so,
To think that I’m a slave;
I’ve now resolved to strike the blow
For freedom or the grave.
O righteous Father,
Wilt thou not pity me?
And aid me on to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I heard Victoria plainly say,
If we would all forsake
Our native land of slavery,
And come across the Lake.
That she was standing on the shore,
With arms extended wide,
To give us all a peaceful home,
Beyond the rolling tide.
Farewell, old master!
That’s enough for me—
I’m going straight to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I heard the old-soul driver say,
As he was passing by,
That darkey’s bound to run away,
I see it in his eye.
My heart responded to the charge,
And thought it was no crime;
And something seemed my mind to urge,
That now’s the very time.
O! old driver,
Don’t you cry for me,
I’m going up to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
Grieve not, my wife—grieve not for me,
O! do not break my heart,
For nought but cruel slavery
Would cause me to depart.
If I should stay to quell your grief,
Your grief I would augment;
For no one knows the day that we
Asunder might be rent.
O! Susannah,
Don’t you cry for me—
I’m going up to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I heard old master pray last night—
I heard him pray for me;
That God would come, and in his might
From Satan set me free;
So I from Satan would escape,
And flee the wrath to come—
If there’s a fiend in human shape,
Old master must be one.
O! old master,
While you pray for me,
I’m doing all I can to reach
The land of Liberty.
Ohio’s not the place for me;
For I was much surprised,
So many of her sons to see
In garments of disguise.
Her name has gone out through the world,
Free Labor, Soil, and Men;
But slaves had better far be hurled
Into the Lion’s Den.
Farewell, Ohio!
I am not safe in thee;
I’ll travel on to Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I’ve now embarked for yonder shore,
Where man’s a man by law,
The vessel soon will bear me o’er,
To shake the Lion’s paw.
I no more dread the Auctioneer,
Nor fear the master’s frowns,
I no more tremble when I hear
The beying negro-hounds.
O! old Master,
Don’t think hard of me—
I’m just in sight of Canada,
Where colored men are free.
I’ve landed safe upon the shore,
Both soul and body free;
My blood and brain, and tears no more
Will drench old Tennesse.
But I behold the scalding tear,
Now stealing from my eye,
To think my wife—my only dear,
A slave must live and die.
O, Susannah!
Don’t grieve after me—
For ever at a throne of grace,
I will remember thee.
James Monroe Whitfield (1822-1871) wondered in a poem "How long, O gracious God! how long,/Shall power lord it over right?" before "all mankind, from bondage free,/Exult in glorious liberty."
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (1824-1911) became famous and financially independent.
Bury Me in a Free Land
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Make me a grave where’er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;
Make it among earth’s humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.
I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.
I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother’s shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.
I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.
If I saw young girls from their mother’s arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.
I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
James Madison Bell (1826-1902) was a plasterer from Ohio.
Charlotte L. Forten Grimke (1837-1914) taught freed slaves in South Carolina.
Alfred Islay Walden ( 1847?-1884) endured 18 years of slavery in North Carolina. He overcame destitution and blindness to earn a teaching degree at Howard University.
Alberry Alston Whitman (1851-1901) was "the Poet Laureate of the Negro Race." He was born a slave and wrote epic length Romantic poems.
Henrietta Cordelia Ray (1850?-1916) was a New York City school teacher for 30 years.
George Marion McClellan (1860-1934) was a teacher and minister. He reminds us in a poem that "Christ washed the feet of Judas!"
Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr. (1861-1949) was a prominent educator.
Josephine Delphine Henderson Heard (1861-1921) was the daughter of North Carolina slaves.
They Are Coming
by Josephine Delphine Henderson Heard
They are coming, coming slowly —
They are coming, surely, surely —
In each avenue you hear the steady tread.
From the depths of foul oppression,
Comes a swarthy-hued procession,
And victory perches on their banners' head.
They are coming, coming slowly —
They are coming; yes, the lowly,
No longer writhing in their servile bands.
From the rice fields and plantation
Comes a factor of the nation,
And threatening, like Banquo's ghost, it stands.
They are coming, coming proudly
They are crying, crying loudly:
O, for justice from the rulers of the land!
And that justice will be given,
For the mighty God of heaven
Holds the balances of power in his hand.
Prayers have risen, risen, risen,
From the cotton fields and prison;
Though the overseer stood with lash in hand,
Groaned the overburdened heart;
Not a tear-drop dared to start —
But the Slaves' petition reach'd the glory-land.
They are coming, they are coming,
From away in tangled swamp,
Where the slimy reptile hid its poisonous head;
Through the long night and the day,
They have heard the bloodhounds' bay,
While the morass furnished them an humble bed.
They are coming, rising, rising,
And their progress is surprising,
By their brawny muscles earning daily bread;
Though their wages be a pittance,
Still each week a small remittance,
Builds a shelter for the weary toiling head.
They are coming, they are coming —
Listen! You will hear the humming
Of the thousands that are falling into line:
There are Doctors, Lawyers, Preachers;
There are Sculptors, Poets, Teachers —
Men and women, who with honor yet shall shine.
They are coming, coming boldly,
Though the Nation greets them coldly;
They are coming from the hillside and the plain.
With their scars they tell the story
Of the canebrakes wet and gory,
Where their brothers' bones lie bleaching with the slain.
They are coming, coming singing,
Their Thanksgiving hymn is ringing.
For the clouds are slowly breaking now away,
And there comes a brighter dawning —
It is liberty's fair morning,
They are coming surely, coming, clear the way.
Yes, they come, their stopping's steady,
And their power is felt already —
God has heard the lowly cry of the oppressed:
And beneath his mighty frown,
Every wrong shall crumble down,
When the right shall triumph and the world be blest!
Daniel Webster Davis (1862-1913) was a popular orator.
Mary Weston Fordham (1862?-?) wrote poetry that resembled most 19th century sentimental poems.
James Edwin Campbell (1867-1896) wrote folk verses in "Gullah" dialect. They are musical and original. He made fascinating use of dialect.
James David Corrothers (1869-1919) also used dialect.
An Indignation Dinner
by James David Corrothers
DEY was hard times jes fo’ Christmas round our neighborhood one year;
So we held a secret meetin’, whah de white folks couldn’t hear,
To ’scuss de situation, an’ to see what could be done
Towa’d a fust-class Christmas dinneh an’ a little Christmas fun.
Rufus Green, who called de meetin’, ris an’ said: “In dis here town,
An’ throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin’ to keep us down.”
S’ ’e: “Dey’s bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey ’buse us ’ca’se we’s free;
But when dey tetch my stomach, dey’s done gone too fur foh me!
“Is I right?” “You sho is, Rufus!” roared a dozen hungry throats.
“Ef you’d keep a mule a-wo’kin’, don’t you tamper wid his oats.
Dat’s sense,” continued Rufus. “But dese white folks nowadays
Has done got so close and stingy you can’t live on what dey pays.
“Here ’tis Christmas-time, an’, folkses, I’s indignant ’nough to choke.
Whah’s our Christmas dinneh comin’ when we’s ’mos’ completely broke?
I can’t hahdly ’fo’d a toothpick an’ a glass o’ water. Mad?
Say, I’m desp’ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!”
Well, dey ’bused de white folks scan’lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris,
Leanin’ on his cane to s’pote him, on account his rheumatis’,
An’ s’ ’e: “Chilun, whut’s dat wintry wind a-sighin’ th’ough de street
’Bout yo’ wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus’ eat.
“Now, I seed a beau’ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun’s fahm.
He’s a-growin’ fat an’ sassy, an’ a-struttin’ to a chahm.
Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters—all de craps is fine dis year;
All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here.”
Well, we lit right in an’ voted dat it was a gran idee,
An’ de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin’ miles to see;
An’ we eat a full an’ plenty, big an’ little, great an’ small,
Not beca’se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat’s all.
James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938) was a man of many talents who worked for the NAACP. He once asked this question:
O black and unknown bards of long ago,
How came your lips to touch the sacred fire?
Priscilla Jane Thompson (1871-1942) and her siblings published seven volumes of verse.
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) published prolifically. He described a lynching in "The Haunted Oak."
Anne Spencer [Annie Bethel Scales Bannister] (1882-1975) won national attention in the 1920s.
Claude McKay (1890-1948) wrote a history of Harlem.
If We Must Die
by Claude McKay
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Jean Toomer (1894-1967) is best known for the experimental Cane.
Her Lips are Copper Wire
by Jean Toomer
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes
telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate
(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)
then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent
Langston Hughes (1902-1967) was called "the poet laureate of Harlem."
Countee Cullen (1903-1946) taught French in New York City.
August 26, 2025
As a representative of an anthology, this book is pretty lacking: it is lamentably short, it has virtually no footnotes and the introductions of the poets are dull and brief. As for the poetry itself, it was occasionally very powerful. The verse was at its best when the bards were gritting their teeth and inveighing, in tones reminiscent of the Romantic masters, at the injustice that African Americans have had to suffer, but there were also some amusing dialectal pieces and also a handful of splendidly atmospheric songs. Not everything here is solid gold though, especially when the religious themes are broached (one can appreciate the role that religion played for the communities, but the treatment thereof tends to be rather bland in this anthology). It's also unfortunate that the very first poem, "On Being Brought From Africa to America" by Phillis Wheatley Peters (1753?–1784), is essentially an expression of relief that the poet was made a slave and thus saved from heathendom.
But while the edition is pretty humble, it's obviously a better introduction than nothing at all.
But while the edition is pretty humble, it's obviously a better introduction than nothing at all.
June 7, 2012
African-American Poetry: An Anthology, 1773-1927, is a slim volume which gives a taste of the African American experience from the dawning of the Revolution to the heyday of the Harlem Renaissance. There are many fine pieces found within, and it is interesting to see the attitudes change over time, such as when Phillis Wheatley, an Eighteenth Century slave, expresses gratitude for have left Africa to learn about Christ (“On Being Brought from Africa to America”), gives way to Langston Hughes’s romanticism of his ancestral roots in the continent’s past “The Negro Speaks of Rivers”).
The only grievance which I can muster lies in a lack of notation that may have given many of the poems their proper context. This is especially so in the many dialectical poems where frames of reference would have been helpful. In particular, James Edwin Campbell’s “The Cunjah Man” was so dialectically dense that I had to read it several times to get even a sense of what the subject was. As it stands, I am not sure the “Cunjah Man” is a hoodoo conjurer, the Devil, or something entirely unrelated.
The only grievance which I can muster lies in a lack of notation that may have given many of the poems their proper context. This is especially so in the many dialectical poems where frames of reference would have been helpful. In particular, James Edwin Campbell’s “The Cunjah Man” was so dialectically dense that I had to read it several times to get even a sense of what the subject was. As it stands, I am not sure the “Cunjah Man” is a hoodoo conjurer, the Devil, or something entirely unrelated.
February 8, 2015
As an academic exercise, this collection is easily successful in its goal: offering the reader a brief glimpse at various African-American poets over the last few centuries. Although it gives short thrift to the 20th century once we get to that point, it does what is says. Unfortunately, most of the poems presented here are pretty terrible. Now, I am not a fan of traditional, narrative, polemical rhyming poetry which is what most of this is, so many better poetry aficionados besides me might find much of value here, I just didn't enjoy the poetry so much, save for the Langston Hughes and a few early 20th century selections.
July 28, 2017
Deep & emotional, especially for me. I'm a black woman born, raised, & still living in Alabama. I know innocent blood was shed like crazy in this State & in this Country. It's still happening & it's still legal.
February 22, 2012
Best poerty book I've read so far this year.
August 26, 2016
A wonderful collection of African American poets and their wonderful contribution to literature in America. A must read for poetry fans everywhere.
November 28, 2015
Good, of course, but I want to know more about the lesser known poets.
February 16, 2016
Beautiful poetry, both the regular and the dialect.
Read
February 17, 2016Great poems about slavery, and the black americans struggle against marginalization by the White Majority
February 3, 2017
A nice smattering of poets at a reasonable price. Good for sometime who wants an introduction to African Poetry from the late 18th century through the Harlem Renaissance of the early 20th century.
September 30, 2018
decent selection of some lovely works (spanning 1773-1927) - another simple, sweet Dover Thrift edition
July 2, 2020
The fact that I was expecting all (or most) of the poems to deal with slavery and how hard it is to be Black in America is probably me being a little racist. Which is part of the point of reading this in the first place - helping to check those expectations and my own biases.
I was honestly surprised (though pleasantly) by how many of these poems were just... poems, and had pretty imagery or humor in them. Obviously quite a few of them dealt with the concepts of freedom and bondage, and I think those were more what I was expecting when I picked up the book, but always important to get that reality check that Black people (and Black art) are not a monolith and are not limited to what we "expect."
Favorite poem: Would have to be a toss-up. I've always loved 'We Wear The Mask,' but knew nothing about Paul Laurence Dunbar, and was delighted to see it here. I also enjoyed James David Curruther's 'De Black Cat Crossed His Luck' (I have a black cat, so it struck me as particularly humorous), and Jean Toomer's 'Her Lips Are Copper Wire' was just gorgeous.
Also, does anyone know what a 'cunjah man' is? Is that an old-timey slur? Google had no information for me.
I was honestly surprised (though pleasantly) by how many of these poems were just... poems, and had pretty imagery or humor in them. Obviously quite a few of them dealt with the concepts of freedom and bondage, and I think those were more what I was expecting when I picked up the book, but always important to get that reality check that Black people (and Black art) are not a monolith and are not limited to what we "expect."
Favorite poem: Would have to be a toss-up. I've always loved 'We Wear The Mask,' but knew nothing about Paul Laurence Dunbar, and was delighted to see it here. I also enjoyed James David Curruther's 'De Black Cat Crossed His Luck' (I have a black cat, so it struck me as particularly humorous), and Jean Toomer's 'Her Lips Are Copper Wire' was just gorgeous.
Also, does anyone know what a 'cunjah man' is? Is that an old-timey slur? Google had no information for me.
Read
February 23, 2021Billy Collins says, “poetry is really the only history we have of the human heart.”
While I only enjoyed a handful of these poems, I’m glad I read it, if only to hear that heartbeat a little fuller; if only not to skip a beat.
Poems I’ll be returning to:
• “On Being Brought from Africa to America” by Phillis Wheatley Peters
• “Bury Me in a Free Land” by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
• “They Are Coming?” by Josephine Delphine Henderson Heard
• “I, Too” by Langston Hughes
• “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes
While I only enjoyed a handful of these poems, I’m glad I read it, if only to hear that heartbeat a little fuller; if only not to skip a beat.
Poems I’ll be returning to:
• “On Being Brought from Africa to America” by Phillis Wheatley Peters
• “Bury Me in a Free Land” by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
• “They Are Coming?” by Josephine Delphine Henderson Heard
• “I, Too” by Langston Hughes
• “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes
April 4, 2020
I wish this was the type of books mandatory for High school readings and these were the poems we attempted to dissect. Amazing collection that leaves you wanting more.
September 4, 2020
What a great collection of African-American poetry from 1773-1927! I think this is a very important book to read.
November 19, 2020
A stunning anthology - highly recommend.
A great overview of poetry from some of the most important and definitive writers of this period inc. anthems and Langston Hughes.
A great overview of poetry from some of the most important and definitive writers of this period inc. anthems and Langston Hughes.
October 3, 2021
Hauntingly beautiful. Why don’t they have us read these in school?
August 8, 2023
Some really great stuff in here, lots of poets whose work I was not familiar with, this is a great starting point to delve deeper into early African-American poetry.
October 10, 2023
Not terrible but old Anthology with old style poems that rhyme and the speaking is very last century .
December 4, 2024
Wonderful selections of poetry. Parts of the history of slavery, Jim Crow, and Black resilience clicked for me in a way they never have thanks to these poets.
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