(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.

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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