Jean Toomer Poems
|1.||A Poem From Transatlantic||5/14/2012|
|6.||Portrait In Georgia||1/20/2003|
|10.||Song Of The Son||1/3/2003|
|11.||November Cotton Flower||1/13/2003|
|13.||The Lost Dancer||1/3/2003|
|17.||A Portrait In Georgia||1/3/2003|
|19.||A Certain Man||1/3/2003|
|20.||Her Lips Are Copper Wire||1/3/2003|
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.
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night's barbeque,
A feast of moon and men and barking hounds.
An orgy for some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.