The Works of
Arna W. Bontemps
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The Works of |
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FICTION Chariot
in the Sky
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BIOGRAPHIES Frederick
Douglas
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CHILDREN'S BOOKS The
Fast Sooner Hound |
HISTORIES Story
of the Negro
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ESSAY The Harlem Renaissance Remembered PLAY St. Louis Woman
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POETRY Golden
Slippers
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The
coon whined. Then Bubber felt the tree sway, heard a cracking
sound, and knew that the limb had broken with him and the coon. In
the next instant he felt himself plunging downward and everything got
blacker then midnight.
The next thing he knew somebody was taking him in their hands. They lifted him carefully with strong arms. At first Bubber could not talk, but after a short time he said, "Dat you, Uncle Demus? Dat you, Zeke and King?" And a voice answered, "Nah, we ain't your Uncle Demus, and we ain't Zeke and King. We is God's big angels, and we's taking you to heaven, Bubber." --- from Chapter 1, "The Coon Hunt" |
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He
was only six inches tall, and there were many people who hadn't even
noticed him at the fair. But that did not matter to Tito. He
knew that by and by somebody would come along and pay attention to his
big white sombrero, his shaggy hair, his bushy black whiskers and his
little round eyes. Somebody, he was sure, would admire the way he
clinched his tiny fist and held one hand in the air."
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from Chapter 1, |
A Black Man Talks of Reaping
I have sown beside all waters in my day.
I planted deep, within my heart the fear
that wind or fowl would take the grain away.
I planted safe against this stark, lean year.
I scattered seed enough to plant the land
in rows from Canada to Mexico
but for my reaping only what the hand
can hold at once is all that I can show.
Yet what I sowed and what the orchard yields
my brother's sons are gathering stalk and root;
small wonder then my children glean in fields
they have not sown, and feed on bitter fruit.
Southern Mansion
Poplars
are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.
There is
a sound of music echoing
Through the open door
And in the field there is
Another sound tinkling in the cotton:
Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.
The
years go back with an iron clank,
A hand is on the gate,
A dry leaf trembles on the wall.
Ghosts are walking.
They have broken roses down
And poplars stand there still as death.