Jean Toomer Poems
|2.||A Certain Man||1/3/2003|
|3.||Her Lips Are Copper Wire||1/3/2003|
|5.||The Lost Dancer||1/3/2003|
|6.||A Portrait In Georgia||1/3/2003|
|11.||November Cotton Flower||1/13/2003|
|14.||Song Of The Son||1/3/2003|
|16.||Portrait In Georgia||1/20/2003|
|21.||A Poem From Transatlantic||5/14/2012|
To those fixed on white,
White is white,
To those fixed on black,
It is the same,
And red is red,
Surely there are such sights
In the many colored world,
Or in the mind.
The strange thing is that
These people never see themselves
Or you, or me.
Are they not in their minds?
Are we not in the world?
This is a curious blindness
For those that are color blind.
What queer beliefs
That men who believe in sights
Disbelieve in seers.
O people, if you but used
Your other eyes
You would see beings.
A Portrait In Georgia
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
Breath-the last sweet scent of cane,
And her slim body, white as the ash
of black flesh after flame.