harlem: a poem by walter dean myers found on the internet:
TRANSCRIPT
Harlem: A Poem
By Walter Dean MyersFound on the Internet:
http://faculty.lagcc.cuny.edu/eiannotti/harlem/harlem.htm
They took the road in Waycross, GeorgiaSkipped over the tracks in East St. Louis
Took the bus from Holly SpringsHitched a ride from Gee’s Bend
Took the long way through MemphisThe third deck down from Trinidad
A wrench of heart from Goree Island A wrench of heart from Goree Island
To a place calledHarlem
Harlem was a promiseOf a better life,
of a place where a manDidn’t have to know his place
Simply becauseHe was Black
They brought a callA song
First heard in the villages ofGhana/Mali/Senegal
Calls and songs and shoutsHeavy hearted tambourine rhythms
Loosed in the hard cityLike a scream torn from the throat
Of an ancient clarinet
A new sound, raucous and sassyCascading over the asphalt village
Breaking against the black sky over1-2-5 Street
Announcing HallelujahRiffing past resolution
Yellow, tan, brown, black, redGreen, gray, bright
Colors loud enough to be heardLight on asphalt streets
Sun yellow shirts on burnt umberBodies
Demanding to be heardSeen
Sending out warriors
From streets known to beMourning still as a lone radio tells us how
Jack JohnsonJoe LouisSugar Ray
Is doing with our hopes.
We hopeWe pray
Our black skinsReflecting the face of God
In storefront temples
Jive and Jehovah artistsLay out the human canvas
The mood indigo
A chorus of summer herbsOf mangoes and bar-b-que
Of perfumed sistersHip strutting pastFried fish joints
On Lenox Avenue in steamy August
A carnival of childrenPeople in the daytime streets
Ring-a-levio warriorsStickball heroes
Hide-and-seek knights and ladiesWaiting to sing their own sweet songsLiving out their own slam-dunk dreams
ListeningFor the coming of the blues
A weary blues that Langston knewAnd Countee sung
A river of bluesWhere Du Bois wadedAnd Baldwin preached
There is liltTempo
CadenceA language of darkness
Darkness knownDarkness sharpened at Mintons
Darkness lightened at the Cotton ClubSent flying from Abyssinian Baptist
To the Apollo.
The uptown ARattles past 110th Street
Unreal to realRelaxing the soul
Shango and JesusAsante and Mende
One peopleA hundred different people
Huddled massesAnd crowded dreams
SquaresBlocks, bricks
Fat, round woman in a rectangleSunday night gospel
“Precious Lord…take my hand,Lead me on, let me stand…”
Caught by a full lippedFull hipped Saint
Washing collard greensIn a cracked porcelain sink
Backing up Lady Day on the radio
Brother so black and bluePatting a wide foot outside the
Too hot Walk-up“Boy,
You ought to find the guys who told youyou could play some checkers‘cause he done lied to you!”
Cracked reed and soprano sax laughter
Floats overa fleet of funeral cars
In HarlemSparrows sit on fire escapes
Outside rent partiesTo learn the tunes.
In HarlemThe wind doesn’t blow past Smalls
It stops to listen to the sounds
Serious businessA poem, rhapsody tripping along
Striver’s RowNot getting it’s metric feel soiled
On the well-swept walksHustling through the hard rain at two o’clock
In the morning to its next gig.
A huddle of hornsAnd a tinkle of glass
A noteHanded down from Marcus to Malcolm
To a brotherToo bad and too cool to give his name.
Sometimes despairMakes the stoops shudder
Sometimes there are endless depths of painSinging a capella on street corners
And sometimes not.
Sometimes it is the artistlooking into the mirror
Painting a portrait of his own heart.
PlaceSound
CelebrationMemories of feelings
Of place
A journey on the A trainThat started on the banks of the Niger
And has not ended
Harlem.