Harlem: A Poem
By
Walter Dean Myers
They
took the road in Waycross, Georgia
Skipped
over the tracks in East St. Louis
Took
the bus from Holly Springs
Hitched
a ride from Gee’s Bend
Took
the long way through Memphis
The
third deck down from Trinidad
A
wrench of heart from Goree
Island
A
wrench of heart from Goree Island
To
a place called
Harlem
Harlem
was a promise
Of
a better life,
of
a place where a man
Didn’t
have to know his place
Simply
because
He
was Black
They
brought a call
A
song
First
heard in the villages of
Calls
and songs and shouts
Heavy
hearted tambourine rhythms
Loosed
in the hard city
Like
a scream torn from the throat
Of
an ancient clarinet
A
new sound, raucous and sassy
Cascading
over the asphalt village
Breaking
against the black sky over
Announcing
Hallelujah
Riffing
past resolution
Yellow,
tan, brown, black, red
Green,
gray, bright
Colors
loud enough to be heard
Light
on asphalt streets
Sun
yellow shirts on burnt umber
Bodies
Demanding
to be heard
Seen
Sending
out warriors
From
streets known to be
Mourning
still as a lone radio tells us how
Is
doing with our hopes.
We
hope
We
pray
Our
black skins
Reflecting
the face of God
In
storefront temples
Jive
and Jehovah artists
Lay
out the human canvas
The
mood
indigo
A
chorus of summer herbs
Of
mangoes and bar-b-que
Of
perfumed sisters
Hip
strutting past
Fried
fish joints
On
Lenox
Avenue in steamy August
A
carnival of children
People
in the daytime streets
Ring-a-levio warriors
Stickball heroes
Hide-and-seek
knights and ladies
Waiting
to sing their own sweet songs
Living
out their own slam-dunk dreams
Listening
For
the coming of the blues
A
weary blues that Langston
knew
And
Countee
sung
A
river of blues
Where
Du
Bois waded
And
Baldwin
preached
There
is lilt
Tempo
Cadence
A
language of darkness
Darkness
known
Darkness
sharpened at Mintons
Darkness
lightened at the Cotton
Club
Sent
flying from Abyssinian
Baptist
To
the Apollo.
The
uptown
A
Rattles
past 110th
Street
Unreal
to real
Relaxing
the soul
Shango
and Jesus
One
people
A
hundred different people
Huddled
masses
And
crowded dreams
Squares
Blocks,
bricks
Fat,
round woman in a rectangle
Sunday
night gospel
“Precious
Lord…take my hand,
Lead
me on, let me stand…”
Caught
by a full lipped
Full
hipped Saint
Washing
collard
greens
In
a cracked porcelain sink
Backing
up Lady
Day on the radio
Brother
so black and blue
Patting
a wide foot outside the
Too
hot Walk-up
“Boy,
You
ought to find the guys who told you
you
could play some checkers
‘cause
he done lied to you!”
Cracked
reed and soprano sax laughter
Floats
over
a
fleet of funeral cars
In
Harlem
Sparrows
sit on fire escapes
Outside
rent
parties
To
learn the tunes.
In
Harlem
The
wind doesn’t blow past Smalls
It
stops to listen to the sounds
Serious
business
A
poem, rhapsody tripping along
Not
getting it’s metric feel soiled
On
the well-swept walks
Hustling
through the hard rain at two o’clock
In
the morning to its next gig.
A
huddle of horns
And
a tinkle of glass
A
note
Handed
down from Marcus
to Malcolm
To
a brother
Too
bad and too cool to give his name.
Sometimes
despair
Makes
the stoops shudder
Sometimes
there are endless depths of pain
Singing
a capella on street corners
And
sometimes not.
Sometimes
it is the artist
looking
into the mirror
Painting
a portrait of his own heart.
Place
Sound
Celebration
Memories
of feelings
Of
place
A
journey on the A train
That
started on the banks of the Niger
And
has not ended
Harlem.