I am the lemon-lily queen. Midnight crepe-myrtle is my hair, My face curves down to my pointed chin Betwixt my golden earrings like a warm seckle pear. My tunic is a withered buff rose. Palely my arms fall down. The fiddles leap behind me, a thin flute blows, Cr-r-racks a sudden trombone, then all notes drown. In the drum's eager rustle. Juggling the sticks Brown Joe tosses an aristocratic head -- Bow to right, smile to left, flourishing the tricks Of some fancy colonel his grandmother never wed. My walk is a poplar blown, Gift of a moon-white dame Whose star-white son left me besides My golden color of shame. The tom-tom is throbbing in my heart And the orchestra's catching surges; I sing you foolish airs -- That burst with shadowy dirges. I voice my wild black mothers: I drone them cool and low; I croon the winds that blew and ceased A thousand years ago. I wail my captive fathers, The violins complain; I hone for a passionate wilderness And the pelt of tropic rain. I beat my hands and cry, The 'cellos moan and quiver; I fling my curse to a far-off sky Over a jungled river. I lift my arms and lean To the white song's white embrace, But I yearn to a thousand lovers Of my black forgotten race. * * * * The sooty leader sways, The violins flicker and hum, The wood-winds speak, the cornet brays, Joe is in a frenzy at the drum. And I am the tea-rose queen, Daughter of milk and wine; Like a willow blown I bow and I bow, And my earrings tremble and shine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER WINTER by STERLING ALLEN BROWN SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE: 12. AT THE DRAPER'S by THOMAS HARDY TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT TOO SOON by ROBERT HERRICK THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE ABSTINENT LOVER by ABUL BAHR THE CALL OF THE DESERT by EMILY BALDWIN BEFORE VICKSBURG by GEORGE HENRY BOKER HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 37 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |