Source of book: I own this.
Over the last couple of years, I have been adding to my increasingly extensive collection of poetry. Call it one of the benefits of the pandemic if you will, but my time in the evenings was more free (due to lack of music gigs), I have made a number of friends who share my interest, and poetry seems to be enjoying at least a modest resurgence, perhaps because it speaks to troubled times.
I was thrilled to see Library of America come out with an anthology of African American poetry in 2020, edited by Kevin Young, and including many works that are nearly impossible to find elsewhere. I snapped up a copy using my “mad money,” aka credit card rewards. Before I get into the book in more detail, let me just say that this is a wonderful collection. Kevin Young’s introduction alone is enlightening, and the poems and poets collected both carefully and creatively chosen. Library of America is known for its high standards, and this book is no exception: I expect it to be the definitive anthology for decades to come.
I didn’t officially read this for Black History Month, I read it during February. You can find all of my Black History Month selections here.
The book is divided into eight sections, based on eras, and representing a tradition building on tradition. As Young describes it in the wonderful introduction, as with all literature and human thought, African American poetry is an ongoing conversation, and to fully understand a modern poem, one should really know what has come before, and thus where the new poem fits into that running conversation.
As with all of my large anthologies, I try to read a section at a time, and in this case, I could use the divisions already in the book, rather than make my own, as I have with other books.
Thus, this post is about the first section, entitled “Bury Me in a Free Land,” and which covers the rather long period between 1770 and 1899.
Obviously, no anthology of African American poetry can be complete without acknowledging the writing of its queen mother, Phillis Wheatley. Ever since I discovered her in high school, she has been one of my heroes, and one of the poets I am always eager to share with others. In fact, I own and have read her complete poems - I wrote a post about her six years ago. Since I already quoted a few of her poems then, I will not do so in this post, not because she isn’t deserving, but because she has her own post and I want to highlight a few others. But by all means, I urge everyone to become familiar with her poetry, and the story of her life. In many ways, hers is the quintessential American story, and all us Americans should be proud to claim her as our own.
I want to start out with a few lines from the introduction, which I already mentioned. Kevin Young has finally gotten some recognition in the last few years, not least by being being appointed last year as the director of the National Museum of African American History and Culture. (That’s on my list if I ever get to visit DC.) The introduction doesn’t just introduce the anthology; rather, it is a powerful reflection on revolutionary power of poetry, and the way that poets (and their musical antecedents) have always been revolutionaries, speaking truth to power, even when power didn’t realize it was being subverted. It’s a wonderful journey, and it made me eager to read more by Young. Here is one bit that was particularly memorable, the opening lines:
For more than 250 years, African Americans have written and recited and published poetry about beauty and injustice, music and muses, Africa and America, freedoms and foodways, Harlem and history, funk and opera, boredom and longing, jazz and joy. The wrote about what they saw around them and also what they dreamt up - even if it was a dream deferred, derailed, or flat-out denied. In sonnets and anthems, odes and epics, Black poets in the Americas confronted violence and indifference, legal barriers to reading and writing, illegal suppression of voting rights, and outright threats to their personhood, livelihood, and neighborhoods. The wrote from a world they made and a world that, at times, seemed designed to distract at best, to dis or destroy at worst. For African Americans, the very act of composing poetry proves a form of protest.
Later in the introduction, Young quotes James Weldon Johnson, poet, writer, and lawyer, regarding what Johnson saw as the true greatness of a people. And Johnson would know - he wrote the “Negro National Anthem,” “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” By the way, Johnson was the subject of my very first Black History Month post, originally on Facebook, and republished on my blog here.
“A people may become great by many means, but there is only one measure by which its greatness is recognized and acknowledged. The final measure of the greatness of all peoples is the amount and standard of the literature and art they have produced.”
Which is why we remember the ancient Greeks as a great civilization. Nobody would have cared about their senseless wars except that their great art has memorialized their culture in works as beautiful and timeless as any ever written. And, I believe with all my heart, the greatness that exists in the United States of America has always been seen, not it its military or economic might, but in the great art that it has contributed to the world - and the roots of our enduring contributions to art and culture and particularly music are in the African American traditions and culture that are the most truly American thing we can claim. (Stay tuned for my review of Albert Murray’s book on that theme…)
So, let’s get into the poetry. I am just hitting highlights that I particularly enjoyed this time. Because it is an anthology of the best, I would imagine that each reader might see different things each time they read.
First up is one by Benjamin Banneker, one of the most fascinating men of his era. A free black, he was a self-educated scientist, inventor, writer, and poet. Among his most famous writings are a series of what we would call “word problems” - mathematical questions posed in a story, and in his case, poetry.
A Mathematical Problem in Verse
A cooper and vintner sat down for a talk,
Both being so groggy that neither could walk;
Says cooper to vintner, "I'm the first of my trade,
There's no kind of vessel but what I have made,
And of any shape, sir, just what you will,
And of any size, sir, from a tun to a gill."
"Then," says the vintner, "you're the man for me.
Make me a vessel, if we can agree.
The top and the bottom diameter define,
To bear that proportion as fifteen to nine,
Thirty-five inches are just what I crave,
No more and no less in the depth will I have;
Just thirty-nine gallons this vessel must hold,
Then I will reward you with silver or gold, —
Give me your promise, my honest old friend."
"I'll make it tomorrow, that you may depend!"
So, the next day, the cooper, his work to discharge,
Soon, made the new vessel, but made it too large:
He took out some staves, which made it too small,
And then cursed the vessel, the vintner, and all.
He beat on his breast, "By the powers" he swore
He never would work at his trade any more.
Now, my worthy friend, find out if you can,
The vessel's dimensions, and comfort the man!
Feel free to solve it yourself, or you can check out “Puzzle 5” here
Next up is George Moses Horton. He has the distinction of being the first African American author first published in the United States. He attempted to earn enough with his first collection to buy his own freedom, but failed and had to wait until Lincoln and the Union army ended enslavement. The book includes several of his poems, and it was really hard to choose. But I am going with this one.
The Art of a Poet
True nature first inspires the man,
But he must after learn to scan,
And mark well every rule;
Gradual the climax then ascend,
And prove the contrast in the end,
Between the wit and fool.
A fool tho’ blind, may write a verse,
And seem from folly to emerge,
And rhyme well every line;
One lucky, void of light, may guess,
And safely to the point may press,
But this does not refine.
Polish mirror, clear to shine,
And streams must run if they refine.
Am widen as they flow;
The diamonds water lies concealed,
Till polished it is ne’re revealed,
Its glory bright to show.
A bard must traverse o’er the world,
Where things concealed must rise unfurled
And tread the foot of yore;
Tho’ he may sweetly harp and sing,
But strictly prune the mental wing,
Before the mind can soar.
Plenty of us have known the sort who haven’t put in the necessary work to learn how to polish. I have endured plenty of “poems” that were more like imitative stream of consciousness than word music. (I might add that the poems I wrote in my teens, both for school and for amusement, were both technically correct, and poor poetry. I’m better at enjoying the art of others than actually writing anything worth reciting.)
Female writers often tend to get the short shrift, particularly if they were from the Victorian Era and non-white. Thus, it is satisfying to see so many excellent female poets represented in this collection. The next poem is by Sarah Louisa Forten, badass abolitionist and early intersectional feminist.
The Grave of the Slave
The cold storms of winter shall chill him no more,
His woes and his sorrows, his pains are all o'er;
The sod of the valley now covers his form,
He is safe in his last home, he feels not the storm.
The poor slave is laid all unheeded and lone.
Where the rich and the poor find a permanent home;
Not his master can rouse him with voice of command;
He knows not and hears not his cruel demand;
Not a tear, nor a sigh to embalm his cold tomb,
No friend to lament him, no child to bemoan;
Not a stone marks the place where he peacefully lies,
The earth for the pillow, his curtain the skies.
Poor slave, shall we sorrow that death was thy friend,
The last and the kindest that heaven could send?
The grave of the weary is welcomed and blest;
And death to the captive is freedom and rest.
Ah yes, Death the great leveler. But also, the horror of the feeling that death is better than life. It is something that has haunted me since childhood. And something I see played out daily in our own time, when LGBTQ kids feel death is preferable to life. I cannot understand being so obsessed with one’s ideology that one accepts the death of children - or human beings generally - as acceptable collateral damage in the culture wars. Forten certainly got that, as her writings attest.
One of the amusing authors in this collection was David Drake, who was best known as a potter. A potter who put poetic aphorisms on his pots: witty, poignant, and just bizarre by turns. Here are a few:
I wonder where is all my relations
Friendship to all - and every nation
---
A noble jar
For lard or tar
---
The sun moon and - stars =
In the west are a plenty of - bears
There is also a collection of poems from Les Cenelles, a collection of poems by free creoles of color in New Orleans. The poems were originally in French, but are translated in this collection. This one by Pierre Dalcour was translated by Langston Hughes.
The evening start that in the vaulted skies
Sweetly sparkles, gently flashes,
To me is less lovely than a glance of your eyes
Beneath their brown lashes.
Next up is a devastating critique of the United States, by James M. Whitfield. The son of parents who fled enslavement, he was both the friend of Frederick Douglass, and his opponent on the issue of whether American Blacks should return to Africa. (Douglass believed African Americans were as American as anyone and belonged here. Whitfield believed a return to Africa was best. After emancipation, however, Whitfield decided to move to California instead, where he believed there was sufficient opportunity for blacks.) In any event, this is a moving poem, and it certainly is evidence that “Critical Race Theory” is nothing new either as an idea, or as a bogeyman for racist reactionary whites.
America
America, it is to thee,
Thou boasted land of liberty,—
It is to thee I raise my song,
Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong.
It is to thee, my native land,
From whence has issued many a band
To tear the black man from his soil,
And force him here to delve and toil;
Chained on your blood-bemoistened sod,
Cringing beneath a tyrant's rod,
Stripped of those rights which Nature's God
Bequeathed to all the human race,
Bound to a petty tyrant's nod,
Because he wears a paler face.
Was it for this, that freedom's fires
Were kindled by your patriot sires?
Was it for this, they shed their blood,
On hill and plain, on field and flood?
Was it for this, that wealth and life
Were staked upon that desperate strife,
Which drenched this land for seven long years
With blood of men, and women's tears?
When black and white fought side by side,
Upon the well-contested field,—
Turned back the fierce opposing tide,
And made the proud invader yield—
When, wounded, side by side they lay,
And heard with joy the proud hurrah
From their victorious comrades say
That they had waged successful war,
The thought ne'er entered in their brains
That they endured those toils and pains,
To forge fresh fetters, heavier chains
For their own children, in whose veins
Should flow that patriotic blood,
So freely shed on field and flood.
Oh no; they fought, as they believed,
For the inherent rights of man;
But mark, how they have been deceived
By slavery's accursed plan.
They never thought, when thus they shed
Their heart's best blood, in freedom's cause
That their own sons would live in dread,
Under unjust, oppressive laws:
That those who quietly enjoyed
The rights for which they fought and fell,
Could be the framers of a code,
That would disgrace the fiends of hell!
Could they have looked, with prophet's ken,
Down to the present evil time,
Seen free-born men, uncharged with crime,
Consigned unto a slaver's pen,—
Or thrust into a prison cell,
With thieves and murderers to dwell—
While that same flag whose stripes and stars
Had been their guide through freedom's wars
As proudly waved above the pen
Of dealers in the souls of men!
Or could the shades of all the dead,
Who fell beneath that starry flag,
Visit the scenes where they once bled,
On hill and plain, on vale and crag,
By peaceful brook, or ocean's strand,
By inland lake, or dark green wood,
Where'er the soil of this wide land
Was moistened by their patriot blood,—
And then survey the country o'er,
From north to south, from east to west,
And hear the agonizing cry
Ascending up to God on high,
From western wilds to ocean's shore,
The fervent prayer of the oppressed;
The cry of helpless infancy
Torn from the parent's fond caress
By some base tool of tyranny,
And doomed to woe and wretchedness;
The indignant wail of fiery youth,
Its noble aspirations crushed,
Its generous zeal, its love of truth,
Trampled by tyrants in the dust;
The aerial piles which fancy reared,
And hopes too bright to be enjoyed,
Have passed and left his young heart seared,
And all its dreams of bliss destroyed.
The shriek of virgin purity,
Doomed to some libertine's embrace,
Should rouse the strongest sympathy
Of each one of the human race;
And weak old age, oppressed with care,
As he reviews the scene of strife,
Puts up to God a fervent prayer,
To close his dark and troubled life.
The cry of fathers, mothers, wives,
Severed from all their hearts hold dear,
And doomed to spend their wretched lives
In gloom, and doubt, and hate, and fear;
And manhood, too, with soul of fire,
And arm of strength, and smothered ire,
Stands pondering with brow of gloom,
Upon his dark unhappy doom,
Whether to plunge in battle's strife,
And buy his freedom with his life,
And with stout heart and weapon strong,
Pay back the tyrant wrong for wrong,
Or wait the promised time of God,
When his Almighty ire shall wake,
And smite the oppressor in his wrath,
And hurl red ruin in his path,
And with the terrors of his rod,
Cause adamantine hearts to quake.
Here Christian writhes in bondage still,
Beneath his brother Christian's rod,
And pastors trample down at will,
The image of the living God.
While prayers go up in lofty strains,
And pealing hymns ascend to heaven,
The captive, toiling in his chains,
With tortured limbs and bosom riven,
Raises his fettered hand on high,
And in the accents of despair,
To him who rules both earth and sky,
Puts up a sad, a fervent prayer,
To free him from the awful blast
Of slavery's bitter galling shame—
Although his portion should be cast
With demons in eternal flame!
Almighty God! Ât is this they call
The land of liberty and law;
Part of its sons in baser thrall
Than Babylon or Egypt saw—
Worse scenes of rapine, lust and shame,
Than Babylonian ever knew,
Are perpetrated in the name
Of God, the holy, just, and true;
And darker doom than Egypt felt,
May yet repay this nation's guilt.
Almighty God! thy aid impart,
And fire anew each faltering heart,
And strengthen every patriot's hand,
Who aims to save our native land.
We do not come before thy throne,
With carnal weapons drenched in gore,
Although our blood has freely flown,
In adding to the tyrant's store.
Father! before thy throne we come,
Not in the panoply of war,
With pealing trump, and rolling drum,
And cannon booming loud and far;
Striving in blood to wash out blood,
Through wrong to seek redress for wrong;
For while thou 'rt holy, just and good,
The battle is not to the strong;
But in the sacred name of peace,
Of justice, virtue, love and truth,
We pray, and never mean to cease,
Till weak old age and fiery youth
In freedom's cause their voices raise,
And burst the bonds of every slave;
Till, north and south, and east and west,
The wrongs we bear shall be redressed.
That is an indictment of the true history of America on par with that of the Hebrew prophets - and every bit as true and necessary as what they wrote.
On a related note is this poem by Benjamin Clark. His narrator chooses to leave the land of his birth, and seek freedom and equality.
The Emigrant
Adieu to the land of my birth—
Proud land of the slave and the free!
What charms have thy bosom on earth
For men of complexion like me?
In this boasted land of the free
I've suffered contumely and scorn;
And cannot relate what I see
Is reserved for millions unborn.
If places on earth can be found
Untainted by slavery's breath,
I'll find them, or search the world round
Till my sorrows are ended in death.
Thy liberty is but a name—
A byword—a jargon, in fine!
Thy freemen of colour—oh shame!—
Are glad to escape from thy clime!
Adieu to thy stripes and thy stars,
That vauntingly float o'er the main!
Adieu to thy Lynch-laws and jars,
Thy fetters, thy charter, and chain!
I go to the Isles of the Sea,
Where men are not judged by their hue!
Where all are protected and free—
My native land, therefore, adieu!
I would be remiss if I failed to include a sonnet. After all, it is my favorite poetic form, and one which requires great skill to execute well. Oh, and the author of this one, Henrietta Cordelia Ray, has “Cordelia” in her name - the name of one of my children. Also, I like the poem.
Self-Mastery
To catch the spirit in its wayward flight
Through mazes manifold, what task supreme!
For when to floods has grown the quiet stream,
Much human skill must aid its rage to fight;
And when wild winds invade the solemn night,
Seems not man’s vaunted power but a dream?
And still more futile, ay, we e’en must deem
This quest to tame the soul, and guide aright
Its restless wanderings, – to lure it back
To shoals of calm. Full many a moan and sigh
Attend the strife; till, effort merged in prayer,
Oft uttered, clung to – when of strength the lack
Seems direst – brings the answer to our cry:
A gift from Him who lifts our ev’ry care.
This is a Petrarchan sonnet, with two quatrains setting out the problem or idea. I love that she puts the “turn” mid-sentence - at exactly the right place. So, we have the wandering soul that needs a bit of discipline, so to speak. And at the point of “this quest to tame the soul and guide aright,” the poem switches to the second part, the contrast, with “its restless wanderings.” The soul has wandered just over the break, to be corralled with the last six lines, that taming and direction hard earned. And indeed, even then, the last lines twist and turn, start and stop, as the wayward soul is only barely tied down. And indeed, the form of the poem undermines its ostensible meaning. Is the taming of that soul a good thing…or is it maybe not. As I feel the poem, the poet indeed laments the “self-mastery” she praises. She mourns the capture of the soul even as she insists that some boundaries are necessary. Does she intend a subtle dig at the system of enslavement itself, which “tames” human souls in the name of order? It is a deliciously ambiguous poem, which is why I love it. It also reminds me of the works of Soviet Era composers, who hid protest in garishly patriotic works. Satire is too subtle for those without imagination.
The book quotes some sections of a much longer poem, The Rape of Florida, by Albery A. Whitman. Even the section reproduced is a bit long to quote, but I did want to quote one stanza that is particularly good.
XII.
If earth were freed from those who buy and sell,
It soon were free from most, or all its ills;
For that which makes it, most of all, a hell,
Is what the stingy of purse and Fortune fills:
The man who blesses and the man who kills,
Oft have a kindred purpose after all,
A purpose that will ring in Mammon’s tills;
And that has ne’re unheeded made a call,
Since Eva and Adam trod the thistles of their Fall.
I will end with a few selections of Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, whose poems are some of my favorites in this collection. Another badass feminist, she fought back against the stereotypes of “hypersexuality” used by white men to justify their rape of black women. In addition to poetry, she wrote novels and non-fiction.
Pictures of authors from this period are difficult or impossible to find. However, there is one of Frances Harper.
Let me start with a couple stanzas from “Learning to Read,” a powerful narrative about the way African Americans defied their enslavers and educated themselves. These stanzas seem so applicable to the way that our current Southern (formerly Confederate) states are trying to muzzle teachers to prevent them from teaching accurate history about minorities and LGBTQ people. The more things change…
Very soon the Yankee teachers
Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it, -
It was agin’ their rule.
Our masters always tried to hide
Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge did’nt agree with slavery -
‘Twould make us all too wise.
When you hear “elitists” today, understand this is the exact same dynamics of the “Yankees” and “Rebs” described here. The racists don’t want accurate history taught, and they don’t want critical thinking or factual knowledge. They want propaganda that makes them feel good about themselves.
Also powerful is “A Double Standard,” a tale of a black woman who commits suicide after being impregnated by a white man. Harper takes on both double standards: the one that blames women for sex, and the one that excuses whites as they prey on blacks. Throughout, she uses the metaphorical meanings of black and white as well - the supposedly pure “white” and fallen “black.” And then she turns them on their heads. Here is the killer stanza:
I think before His great white throne,
His throne of spotless light,
That whited sepulchers shall wear
The hue of endless night.
I will end with the title poem for this section, a beautiful poem of longing and a poignant cry for justice.
Bury Me in a Free Land
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.
I hope all of us decent human beings can resonate with that cry, that longing, that vision for a better future for all of us.
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