Jean Toomer

(26 December 1894 – 30 March 1967 / Washington D.C.)


Poem by 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.

Comments about Reapers by Jean Toomer

  • anonymous (2/28/2019 12:45:00 PM)

    This is kind of creepy.(Report)Reply

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  • -You- (2/22/2018 1:52:00 PM)

    - - -This poem is gucci- - -(Report)Reply

    1 person liked.
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Read poems about / on: horse

Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003