Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LINES TO CASTE, by SAMUEL ALFRED BEADLE Poet's Biography First Line: The things I love I may not touch Last Line: Of wanton, faithless infidel. Subject(s): Racism; Racial Prejudice; Bigotry | ||||||||
The things I love I may not touch, But kiss the hand that shackles bring; The thraldom of my soul is such I can but nurse my thongs and sing, And hope and pray that destiny Will somehow yet unfetter me. I simply trust fate as I ought, While hate defames, malice reviles, And so distorts the public thought That even innocence defiles All who are not adjudged by caste, Superior and nobly classed. I may not ponder here nor muse, Nor let the plain truth designate The things it would. The hangman's noose Unmans, deters, doth reinstate The inquisition and its hell Of terror, tyrannous and fell. Oh! that thou'd grant me grace, despair, My dread, my sore distress, my pain, Or I could breathe some form of prayer, Or might some suasive word obtain, Through which to move to clemency The iron hand that shackles me. Fanciful thought; I must not hope, Nor question prejudice and hate; For they who read my horoscope Say that the stars which rule my fate Designed me for vile tyranny, And plunder while they fetter me. They bid me grovel, squirm and whine, Nor strive against vile calumny; And vain the thought that would decline Submission to such tyranny; For like a wild beast from its lair, The state doth hound me to despair. My fancy, sure, revives at times, Soars, but to beat its weary wings Against a bar, that basely limes Me in my hope; vilest of things, So dire, so fell, but strong my prison, Hope to escape it is derision. And yet there often comes to me, I know not how, from whence nor where; But comes the thought perpetually, That justice is not deft to prayer. Though it seems barren, yet for me, With good is pregnant destiny. Then wherefore should my soul repine, Why be disconsolate and sad; All things are well in Fate's design, Nor great, nor small, nor good, nor bad Has aught to boast of o'er the clay, Tyranny plunders, day by day. Fret not, dear soul, whene'r the proud, The haughty proud, would press you hard. Have they so far subdued the shroud, That clay can now assume the God? Whate'er its form, or hue, or clan, Clay's not the measure of the man. The cup where dazzles bright the wine Was in some distant day and clime Crysalis of a soul like thine; There spirit, daring, once did climb, There dwelt and thought itself a god -- 'Twas but a tenant of the sod. Who is so great among mankind, His infancy knew not the womb; And, coming thence, still is not blind, To wombed life, as he the tomb Enfolds within its dank embrace, Whate'er his prowess, clan or race. And who's so small that, should he fall, Jehovah takes no note of him? Though he be spurned by kings, and all Who frown men down with visage grim, Methinks he'll be as grand in clay As he who tortures him today. I know not why I live or die, Nor why of me the Lord should reck, When like the bruis'd reed prone I lie, The tyrant's heel upon my neck; I simply know that Caste is blind, And that its hope is vicious mind. Because God loves He doth chastise, And makes another race the rod; Then let the chasten race be wise And know the lash is not the God; 'Tis not the rod's; chastisement is Eternally and justly His. We have forgot our own household, To take our tribute to the strong -- The willing vassal, young or old, Deserve chastisement late and long; And ours is but the well-earned hell Of wanton, faithless infidel. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BLACK WOMAN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FOREDOOM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON I MUST BECOME A MENACE TO MY ENEMIES by JUNE JORDAN A SONG FOR SOWETO by JUNE JORDAN ON THE LOSS OF ENERGY (AND OTHER THINGS) by JUNE JORDAN POEM ABOUT POLICE VIOLENCE by JUNE JORDAN DRAFT OF A RAP FOR WEN HO LEE by JUNE JORDAN THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES by BOB KAUFMAN THE MYSTIC RIVER by GALWAY KINNELL |
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