Additional Poems By Casely-Hayford Essay, Research Paper

Dawn

Dawn for the rich, the artistic and the

wise,

Is beauty splashed on canvas of the skies,

The brushes being the clouds that float

the blue,

Dipped in the breeze for paint, and washed

by dew.

But dawn to those who bathe the night in

tears,

Squeeze sustenance from hard unyielding

years,

Is full of strange imaginings and fears.

The dawn renews the terror of the day

Where harassing uncertainties hold sway;

And pain held in surcease through brief

hours of rest

Roars up its head in its unceasing quest

To wear out body, brain and mind and soul

Till death is a resolve, and death a goal.

For those life holds no beauty, dawn no

light,

For day is hopeless, dawn is struck with

blight.

Rainy Season Love Song

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes:

Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of

thunder drums,

My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,

As, storms within and storms without, I meet my love in the

rain.

"The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you

everywhere,

Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly

hair;

Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate

mounds they rise;

I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills

your eyes."

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire

Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;

"The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so

much

That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.

When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin

flowers apart,

I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your

heart."

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note

As your warm arms steal around me, and I kiss your dusky

throat;

"The thunder’s in love with you darling; it hides its power in

your breast,

And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.

I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered

bowl,

Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your

soul."

Out of my arms she stealeth, and I am left alone with the night,

Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.

Into some quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.

Is there peace within the peace without? Only the darkness

knows.

From Caroling Dusk, ed. Count?e Cullen (1927)

My Lips

My lips were buds of innocence until you

came one day

And drew a fountain from my heart and

careless went your way,

My lips were hungry, eager flowers curved

in ecstatic bliss

To gather the soft sweetness of my next

lover’s kiss.

My lips were luscious ripeness of a crushed

and poisoned vine

When you bent your lips upon me and my soft

ones clung to thine

My lips are withering fading flowers, full

weary unto death

Dew without moisture is thy kiss; wind

without heat thy breath.

A fugitive tear wells up from my eyes and

is secretly, silently shed.

Are lips that once were innocent, so

withered, so parched, so dead?

Realisation

I did not know that you had the power to

hurt me,

I think I must have bequeathed it to you

unknowingly

One starlit night when I read the secret in

your eyes.

Did you read mine? I know now that you did.

Use your power gently, beloved, for in your

hands it becomes a merciless whip.

I did not know that you had the power to

make me happy,

I think I must have bequeathed it to you

unconsciously

In the warm darkness when your lips met mine

and pressed their weight of love on them.

Did your soul leap to meet mine? I know now

that it did.

Use your power gently, beloved, lest in your

hands it grows too great for me.

The Cart-Horse

When blue becomes intense and dusks to grey,

Grey unto darkness shrouding the worn day,

I like to lie awake and gaze upon the

cloudless sky

And hear the song of the cart-wheels as the

old cart-horse goes by.

The squeaking boards,

The rusty chains,

The clank of steel and brass,

The intermittent hoof-beats as the old

cart-horse goes past.

When darkness turns to grey again and grey

to light,

When little wrens awake prepared for flight,

I like to lie awake with the warm sun

streaming in,

And try to understand the tune the good old

cart-wheels sing.

The squeaking boards,

The rusty chains,

The clank of steel and brass;

Oh, I love to hear the music of the cart-

horse going past!

The Chief of Kitchom

Down to the Government Wharf

The Chief of Kitchom came,

Direct descendant of the line

That reigns in Kitchom’s name.

His face was like a hawk,

His eyes were bright and keen,

His mouth, a twist of irony,

His smile, swift cut and clean.

His pride sat on his brow

Like broad philactery,

His royalty like bands of steel

Girt round his dignity.

His gown was gara blue,

His red fez bound with white;

Nested each charm and prayer encased

In leather from our sight.

He looked a tower of strength,

His muscles easy played,

Rippled beneath his jet black skin

With every step he essayed.

His fingers gleamed with rings,

His feet were sandal-shod,

Girdles and chains hung round his neck,

His strong hand held a sword.

Thus Kitchom’s naked blade

Gleamed in the setting sun,

And Kitchom’s drums with throbbing beats

Mingled their tones as one.

Thirty slim, dark brown girls

stepped to the water’s side,

‘Behold the great-chief’s wives,’ they said,

For each had been a bride.

A great crowd pressed about

Whilst from the boat’s shaped stern,

Soft music poured from balanges

As water from an urn.

Put out, away to the west,

We breast the open main;

The Chief of Kitchom has been from home

And now returns again.

The boat is a tiny speck,

We stand on the quay alone;

While the sun breaks its red aureole

O’er the Chief that is going home.

[gara = indigo dye]