Jean Toomer Poems
|1.||A Poem From Transatlantic||5/14/2012|
|5.||Portrait In Georgia||1/20/2003|
|9.||Song Of The Son||1/3/2003|
|11.||The Lost Dancer||1/3/2003|
|12.||November Cotton Flower||1/13/2003|
|15.||Her Lips Are Copper Wire||1/3/2003|
|18.||A Portrait In Georgia||1/3/2003|
|19.||A Certain Man||1/3/2003|
Comments about Jean Toomer
Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.
A Certain Man
A certain man wishes to be a prince
Of this earth; he also wants to be
A saint and master of the being-world.
Conscience cannot exist in the first:
The second cannot exist without conscience.
Therefore he, who has enough conscience
To be disturbed but not enough to be
Compelled, can neither reject the one
Nor follow the other...