Place the new hands In the old hands Of the old generation, And let us tilt tables
In the high room Of our imagination. Let the thick veil glow thin, At sunrise — at sunrise —
Let the strange eyes peer in, The red, the black, and the white faces Of the still living dead Of the three races.
Let a quaint voice begin: Voice of an Indian “Gone from the land, We leave the music of our names,
As pleasant as the sound of waters; Gone is the log-lodge and the skin tepee, And moons ago the ghost-canoe brought home The latest of our sons and daughters —
Yet still we linger in tobacco smoke And in the rustling fields of maize; Faint are the tracks our moccasins have left, But they are there, down all your ways.”
Voice of a Slave “We do not talk Of hours in the rice When days were long,
Nor of old masters Who are with us here Beyond all right or wrong. Only white afternoons come back,
When in the fields We reached the Mercy Seat On wings of song.” Voice of a Planter
“Nothing moves there but the night wind, Blowing the mosses like smoke; All would be silent as moonlight But for the owl in the oak —
Stairways that lead up to nothing — Windows like terrible scars — Snakes on a log in the cistern Peering at stars....”
Spirit of Prophecy “Dawn with its childish colors Stipples the solemn vault of night; Behind the horizon the sun shakes a bloody fist;
Mysteries stand naked by the lakes of mist; Spirits take flight, The medicine man, The voodoo doctor —
Witches mount brooms. The day looms. Faster it comes, Bringing young giants
Who hate solitude, And march with drums — Beat — beat — beat, Down every ancient street,
The young giants! Minded like boys: Action for action's sake they love And noise for noise.” Voice of a Poet
“The fire of the sunset Is remembered at midnight, But forgotten at dawn. While the old stars set,
Let us speak of their glory Before they are gone.”
Cookies on Poetry Cove