Edgar A Guest – Myself

I have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able as days go by,
always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don’t want to stand with the setting sun
and hate myself for the things I have done.

I don’t want to keep on a closet shelf
a lot of secrets about myself
and fool myself as I come and go
into thinking no one else will ever know
the kind of person I really am,
I don’t want to dress up myself in sham.

I want to go out with my head erect
I want to deserve all men’s respect;
but here in the struggle for fame and wealth
I want to be able to like myself.
I don’t want to look at myself and know that
I am bluster and bluff and empty show.

I never can hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself and so,
whatever happens I want to be
self respecting and conscience free.

ModPo 2019 – week 1 – pt 1

During today’s live webcast I actually wished I had done this last night. So pertinent to the discussion.

OK, Let’s take the plunge. Three PhD’s in Brazil decided to take on Augusto de Campos, noted Brazilian Dickinson translator. What follows is a brief drive by of what they mentioned (and what they missed, IMHO).

The poems were #760 and #448. Let me see if I can pull it into the block here:

OK, that worked.

  1. A constant Dickinson theme: pain. Calling it an “Element of Blank” doesn’t really translate well. A word is used, “Vazio” which connotes emptiness.
  2. They pay a lot of attention to Dickinson’s rhyming schemes, often hidden through the use of imperfect rhymes in English, but brought to the forefront in Portuguese, though still, at best, though not always, imperfect (in short, looks like a rhyme but does not sound like one), Dickinson using ABCB, while in translation, ABAB, makes the “pain” more focused and more acute by concentrating it in a tighter rhyme).
  3. Here is something they miss. Dickinson’s English uses the subjunctive (where it begun-or if there were a time) while in translation the preterite (begun) and the imperfect (it were) are used to express the same uncertainty. Not cool, really, for conveying the uncertainty of pain’s origin. Should have gone straight subjunctive.
  4. In exchange of just getting the grammar right, they focus on line breaks, or enjambment, as a way to maintain the “syntactical anomaly” of the subjunctive mood, “if there were/a time.
  5. In line two of verse one, the Brazilian translation abandons “cannot recollect” (which I think has a certain strength, especially in its alliteration) and replaces it with “nao sabe (One does not know), leaving the reader a bit flatter than had they used “recordar, as in nao pode recordar, which provides the slight sound repetition effect of the English original.
  6. More stuff in the second verse but let me not bore you to tears. Suffice it to say translation of poetry is a tricky proposition. And we are merely amateurs!
  7. OK. What do y’all think?

Anne Spencer’s “Lady, Lady”

(Note: I was a bit tossed about whether to make this final submission a poem or another of her beautiful notes to Professor Locke. At length I decided upon this poem, Lady, Lady, for two reasons: one, because the draft included in the correspondence has a stanza that has been excluded from the anthologized version; and two, because the excluded stanza contains the referenced words, “air” and “shepherdess,” contained in the first handwritten note we discussed.)

Lady, Lady, I saw your face
Dark as night witholding a star. . .
The chisel fell, or it might have been
You had borne so long the yoke of men.

Lady, lady, I saw your hands,
Twisted, awry, like crimpled roots,
Bleached poor white in a sudsy tub,
Wrinkled and drawn from your ruba-dub.

(the excluded stanza)
Lady, lady, I saw your air:
Oh, delicate, distant shepherdess,
Pastoral fold and hours that run,
Held by clouds from the burning sun.

Lady, Lady, I saw your heart,
And altared there in its darksome place
Were the tongues of flame the ancients knew,
There the good God sits to spangle through!


(And handwritten at the bottom of the page)

“Lady – Lady is in general the hub of our group. Specifically, she is my laundress.”

this is one of my favorite Anne Spencer poems: Translation

This is one of my favorite Anne Spencer poems. Nothing beats taking a long walk with a dear friend. Linked to Poetry Foundation site.


We trekked into a far country,

My friend and I.

Our deeper content was never spoken,

But each knew all the other said.

He told me how calm his soul was laid

By the lack of anvil and strife.

“The wooing kestrel,” I said, “mutes his mating-note

To please the harmony of this sweet silence.”

And when at the day’s end

We laid tired bodies ’gainst

The loose warm sands,

And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet;

When star after star came out

To guard their lovers in oblivion—

My soul so leapt that my evening prayer

Stole my morning song!

a summer ModPo discussion

Note: I chose this because I was able to find some of the poet’s thoughts on it in a letter she wrote to one of the professors at Howard, Alain Locke, called by some the Father of the New Negro Renaissance. I’ll include the text of the note at the end and we can discuss.

Lines to a Nasturtium – Anne Spencer

A lover muses

Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,
I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,
Into your flaming heart;
Then did I hear crisp crinkled laughter
As the furies after tore him apart?
A bird, next, small and humming,
Looked into your startled depths and fled…
Surely, some dread sight, and dafter
Than human eyes as mine can see,
Set the stricken air waves drumming
In his flight.

Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty,
I cannot see, I cannot hear your fluty
Voice lure your loving swain,
But I know one other to whom you are in beauty
Born in vain;
Hair like the setting sun,
Her eyes a rising star,
Motions gracious as reeds by Babylon, bar
All your competing;
Hands like, how like, brown lilies sweet,
Cloth of gold were fair enough to touch her feet…
Ah, how the senses flood at my repeating,
As once in her fire-lit heart I felt the furies
Beating, beating.

Here is the note (transcribed): (from the papers of Alain Locke, Box 164-86, Folder 39. Howard University Moorland Spingarn Research Center)

Dunbar Branch
Jones Memorial Library
Lynchburg, Virginia


No, My dear, I do not feel that ‘air” and “shepherdess” are responsible for throwing the mind away from the central theme – “idealization of the commonplace.” I used “air” to indicate bearing, spiritual bearing: the ‘shepherdess,’ Sir, hails not from Montana Expanses, but from all-souls Arcady. Alas, never to’ve see black women with this inside (underlined) air!

I read your letter slowly, so’s my joy in it might be lengthened.


Anne Spencer

(On the back, a postscript, sort of)

Do not bother to return “Nasturtium.” I have a copy. In that poem a burnt and disappointed lover soliliquises. Thanks.

Prelude to Our Age – A Negro History Poem – Langston Hughes (pt. 6)

Other hands whose fingers intertwine
With mine tell our story, too:
Park, Myrdal, Sinclair lewis,
Smith, Van Vechten, Bucklin Moon.
Surveys, novels, movies, plays
That trace the maze of patterns
Woven by democracy and me,
Now free.

And all the while
The rising power of my vote
Helping to build democracy –
My vote, my labor, lodges, clubs,
My N.A.A.C.P. –
The National Association
For the Advancement
Of Colored People –

All the way from a Jim Crow dining car
To the United States Supreme Court –
For the right to get a meal on a train.

All the way from a Jim crow School
To the United States Supreme Court –
For the right to equal education.

All the way from ghetto covenants
To the United States Supreme Court –
For the right to housing free from segregation.

Thus I help to build democracy
For our nation.
Thus by decree across the history of our land –
The shadow of my hand:

All this
A prelude to our age:

Is another

Prelude to Our Age: A Negro History Poem – Langston Hughes (pt. 5)

Booker T. –
A school, Tuskegee.
Paul Laurence Dunbar –
A poem,a song, a “Lindy Lou.”
Fisk University and its Jubilees.
Black Congressmen of Reconstruction days.
Black comics with their minstrel ways,
Then Williams & Walker, “In Dahomey,” “Bandana Land”
Ragtime sets the pattern for a nation’s songs
and Handy writes the blues
For me –
Now free.

Free to build my churches and my schools –
Mary McLeod Bethune.
Free to explore clay and sweet potatoes –
Dr. Carver.
Free to take our songs across the world –
Anderson, Maynor, Robeson,
Josephine Baker, Florence Mills,
Free to sit in councils of the nation –
Johnson, Hastie, Dawson, Powell.
Free to make blood plasma –
Charles R. Drew.
Free to move at will in great migrations
South to North across the nation –
Savannah to Sugar Hill,
Rampart Street to Paradise Valley,
Yamakraw to yale.
Free to fight in wars as other s do –
Free – yet segregated.

As man or soldier

The 10th Calvary at San Juan Hill:
“As I heard one of the Rough Riders say,”
Wrote Theodore Roosevelt,
“‘They can drink out of our canteens.'”

The 369th Infantry at Champagne:
To Henry Johnson
and to Needham Roberts,
The Croix de Guerre.

The 322nd Fighter Group over the Mediterranean:
To more than 80 pilots,
The Distinguished Flying Cross.

In the Pacific, the Navy Cross to Dorie Miller.
Me, hero and Killer.
(Yet segregated.)

Me, peacemaker, too –
Ralph Bunche
Between the Arab
and the Jew.

Du Bois, Woodson, Johnson, Frazier,
Robert S. Abbott, T. Thomas Fortune,
“The Afro-American,” “The Black Dispatch.”
All the time the written record grows –
“The Crisis,” “Phylon,” “Opportunity,”
Schomburg, McKay, Cullen, “Native Son,”
Papers, stories, poems the whole world knows –
The ever growing History of man
Shadowed by my hand: