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(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

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Enslaved

Oh when I think of my long-suffering race,
For weary centuries despised, oppressed,
Enslaved and lynched, denied a human place
In the great life line of the Christian West;
And in the Black Land disinherited,
Robbed in the ancient country of its birth,
My heart grows sick with hate, becomes as lead,
For this my race that has no home on earth.
Then from the dark depths of my soul I cry
To the avenging angel to consume
The white man's world of wonders utterly:
Let it be swallowed up in earth's vast womb,
Or upward roll as sacrificial smoke
To liberate my people from its yoke!

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: sick, angel, birth, hate, people, home, dark, world, heart, life

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Comments about this poem (Dawn in New York by Claude McKay )

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  • Lewis Colyar (5/10/2007 1:57:00 AM)

    We often hang our heads when things make us sad to painful to speak of. The voice in this poem speaks of a time when slavery happen to America. Happen to the African me.

    LHPS of Pittsburgh

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