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.

by Claude McKay

Comments (3)

Sometimes blinding ourselves to what we do to survive is the only way to keep going another day
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
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