Treasure Island

Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

The Harlem Dancer


Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Pckdragon Anonymous (5/12/2013 4:12:00 AM)

    Poop

    poop is such a relief to do
    getting rid of all the crap in you

    food in your mouth
    shit out your south
    the cycle relentessly continue

    whether many or a few
    turds in you
    eject easily or slowly drag thru

    daily it's the same
    as your bowels proclaim
    'once again the shit is due! '

    this poem isn't profound
    about that lovely brown mound
    some in fact will think it crap
    and i humbly agree
    with all that's bottled up
    inside me (Report) Reply

  • Sylva Portoian (11/4/2011 3:44:00 PM)

    Wikipedia Says...It is one of his best poems...
    And I feel the same
    He felt with his race
    With his girl friends
    Why they sell them selves...
    He was real poet...Honest
    Never a play boy (Report) Reply

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