Skip to main content

Poetry Sunday: America by Claude McKay

Claude McKay was a Jamaican writer who moved to the United States in 1912. He was a prominent and influential voice in the literary movement known as the Harlem Renaissance. In 1921, he wrote this poem expressing his feelings about America. I think many of us can appreciate and empathize with those feelings. I am particularly affected by that last stanza:

Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Often the days ahead appear particularly dark just now and we may feel that we are sinking, but perhaps it really is darkest before the dawn. Here's hoping...

America

by Claude McKay

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Labels:

Comments

  1. David M. Gascoigne,July 5, 2020 at 4:49 AM

    I have serious doubts that it is the darkest before the dawn. I think that America is spiralling into decline and when a great democracy can only offer its people a choice between Joe Biden and Donald Trump it speaks of malaise writ large. Out of 330 millions of Americans this is the best you can do? I highly recommend "America, The Farewell Tour" by Chris Hedges.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Dorothy BordersJuly 5, 2020 at 10:24 AM

      You could be right, but I wouldn't write us off just yet, any more than Claude McKay would.

      Delete
  2. Judy KruegerJuly 5, 2020 at 11:18 AM

    Excellent choice. I am currently reading a biography of James Baldwin, perhaps our most eloquent writer to the condition of racism in America. Last night I started my first book by Octavia Butler, whom I have been meaning to read for years. How long, oh Lord?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Dorothy BordersJuly 5, 2020 at 11:57 AM

      Baldwin certainly saw this country clearly for what it is as well as what it aspires to be. I've enjoyed all the books by Butler that I have read. Maybe I'll get to more of them one of these days...

      Delete
  3. AlanaJuly 5, 2020 at 3:39 PM

    What if Claude McKay had been able to see into the future - this is the first of his works I've read. I read James Baldwin in college, which was too many years ago, and I don't remember any of it. I'm more familiar with Octavia Butler's SF works than her dystopian literature, but I have read part of her Parable of the Sower. It was so painful I had to stop. She was an excellent writer who died too young.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Dorothy BordersJuly 5, 2020 at 5:48 PM

      Perhaps he did have some inkling of the future which may have been the impetus for this poem. It's been years since I read Baldwin as well. There seems to be renewed interest in his work just now and that is a good thing. I agree that the Parable books make for intense reading. I think I would find them hard to read at this moment.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...
19 comments
Read more

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters!  Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...
6 comments
Read more

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...
24 comments
Read more