Jean Toomer Poems
|1.||A Poem From Transatlantic||5/14/2012|
|7.||Portrait In Georgia||1/20/2003|
|11.||Song Of The Son||1/3/2003|
|12.||November Cotton Flower||1/13/2003|
|13.||The Lost Dancer||1/3/2003|
|17.||A Certain Man||1/3/2003|
|18.||A Portrait In Georgia||1/3/2003|
|20.||Her Lips Are Copper Wire||1/3/2003|
To those fixed on white,
White is white,
To those fixed on black,
It is the same,
And red is red,
Surely there are such sights
In the many colored world,
Or in the mind.
The strange thing is that
These people never see themselves
Or you, or me.
Are they not in their minds?
Are we not in the world?
This is a curious blindness
For those that are color blind.
What queer beliefs
That men who believe in sights
Disbelieve in seers.
O people, if you but used
Your other eyes
You would see beings.
Her Lips Are Copper Wire
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes
telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate