MANA'S SHORT STORY SERIES LIST ON SIDE COLUMN

MANA's BLACK LIT ALIVE! Podcast Featuring Poems by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper—Segment #9

MANA's BLACK LIT ALIVE! podcast is a special segment of MANA on literature produced by African American writers in the 18th century and beyond. 

Through literature, the writers, whether free or slaves, realized their identity and expressed their individuality at a time when African Americans were only viewed as mere property. 



In this podcast, MANA's DR C reads poems by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (September 24, 1825 - Febr
uary 22, 1911), one of the first African American women to be published in the United States. Born free in Baltimore, Maryland, she became an abolitionist, suffragist, teacher, public speaker, poet, and writer. Harper's short story, "Two Offers" was published in the Anglo-African in 1859, making literary history as the first short story published by a black woman. 


(DR C reads Harper's poem, "The Slave Mother," in another post. Click here to listen.)


Listen to DR C's podcast below where she reads the poems, "The Dying Bondman," "A Double Standard," and "Learning to Read."



Follow along with DR C as she recites Harper's poems:


The Dying Bondman


Life was trembling, faintly trembling

On the bondman's latest breath,

And he felt the chilling pressure

Of the cold, hard hand of Death.


He had been an Afric chieftain,

Worn his manhood as a crown;

But upon the field of battle

Had been fiercely stricken down.


He had longed to gain his freedom.

Waited, watched and hoped in vain,

Till his life was slowly ebbing—

Almost broken was his chain. 


By his bedside stood the master,

Gazing on the dying one,

Knowing by the dull grey shadows

That life's sands were almost run.


"Master," said the dying bondman,

"Home and friends I soon shall see;

But before I reach my country,

Master write that I am free;


"For the spirits of my fathers

Would shrink back from me in pride,

If I told them at our greeting

I a slave had lived and died;


"Give to me the precious token,

That my kindred dead may see—

Master! write it, write it quickly!

Master! write that I am free!"


At his earnest plea the master

Wrote for him the glad release,

O'er his wan and wasted features

Flitted one sweet smile of peace.


Eagerly he grasped the writing;

"I am free!" at last he said.

Backward fell upon the pillow,

He was free among the dead.



A Double Standard


Do you blame me that I loved him?

If when standing all alone

I cried for bread a careless world

Pressed to my lips a stone.


Do you blame me that I loved him,

That my heart beat glad and free,

When he told me in the sweetest tones

He loved but only me?


Can you blame me that I did not see

Beneath his burning kiss 

The serpent's wiles, nor even hear

The deadly adder hiss?


Can you blame me that my heart grew cold

That the tempted, tempter turned;

When he was feted and caressed

And I was coldly spurned? 


Would you blame him, when you draw from me

Your dainty robes aside,

If he with gilded baits should claim

Your fairest as his bride?


Would you blame the world if it should press

On him a civic crown;

And see me struggling in the depth

Then harshly press me down?


Crime has no sex and yet today

I wear the brand of shame;

Whilst he amid the gay and proud

Still bears an honored name.


Can you blame me if I've learned to think

Your hate of vice a sham,

When you so coldly crushed me down

And then excused the man?


Would you blame me if tomorrow

The coroner should say,

A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,

Has thrown her life away?


Yes, blame me for my downward course, 

But oh! remember well, 

Within your homes you press the hand 

That led me down to hell. 


I’m glad God’s ways are not our ways, 

He does not see as man, 

Within His love I know there’s room 

For those whom others ban. 


I think before His great white throne, 

His throne of spotless light, 

That whited sepulchres shall wear 

The hue of endless night. 


That I who fell, and he who sinned, 

Shall reap as we have sown; 

That each the burden of his loss 

Must bear and bear alone. 


No golden weights can turn the scale 

Of justice in His sight; 

And what is wrong in woman’s life 

In man’s cannot be right. 



Learning to Read


Very soon the Yankee teachers

Came down and set up school;

But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—

It was agin’ their rule.


Our masters always tried to hide

Book learning from our eyes;

Knowledge did’nt agree with slavery—

’Twould make us all too wise.


But some of us would try to steal

A little from the book.

And put the words together,

And learn by hook or crook.


I remember Uncle Caldwell,

Who took pot liquor fat

And greased the pages of his book,

And hid it in his hat.


And had his master ever seen

The leaves upon his head,

He’d have thought them greasy papers,

But nothing to be read.


And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben,

Who heard the children spell,

And picked the words right up by heart,

And learned to read ’em well.


Well, the Northern folks kept sending

The Yankee teachers down;

And they stood right up and helped us,

Though Rebs did sneer and frown.


And I longed to read my Bible,

For precious words it said;

But when I begun to learn it,

Folks just shook their heads,


And said there is no use trying,

Oh! Chloe, you’re too late;

But as I was rising sixty,

I had no time to wait.


So I got a pair of glasses,

And straight to work I went,

And never stopped till I could read

The hymns and Testament.


Then I got a little cabin

A place to call my own—

And I felt independent

As the queen upon her throne.

 


Have you written poems that you would like to self-publish? MANA can help. Contact MANA today at info@marketingnewauthors.com




No comments:

Post a Comment