ARNA BONTEMPS

Once more, listening to the wind and rain, Once more, you and I, and above the hurting sound Of these comes back the throbbing of remembered rain, Treasured rain falling on dark ground. Once more, huddling birds upon the leaves And summer trembling on a withered vine. And once more, returning out of pain, The friendly ghost that was your love and mine.

Darkness brings the jungle to our room: The throb of rain is the throb of muffled drums. Darkness hangs our room with pendulums Of vine and in the gathering gloom Our walls recede into a denseness of Surrounding trees. This is a night of love Retained from those lost nights our fathers slept In huts; this is a night that must not die. Let us keep the dance of rain our fathers kept And tread our dreams beneath the jungle sky.

And now the downpour ceases. Let us go back once more upon the glimmering leaves And as the throbbing of the drums increases Shake the grass and dripping boughs of trees. A dry wind stirs the palm; the old tree grieves. Time has charged the years: the old days have returned. Let us dance by metal waters burned With gold of moon, let us dance With naked feet beneath the young spice trees. What was that light, that radiance On your face?—something I saw when first You passed beneath the jungle tapestries? A moment we pause to quench our thirst Kneeling at the water’s edge, the gleam Upon your face is plain: you have wanted this. Let us go back and search the tangled dream And as the muffled drum-beats throb and miss Remember again how early darkness comes To dreams and silence to the drums.

Let us go back into the dusk again, Slow and sad-like following the track Of blowing leaves and cool white rain Into the old gray dream, let us go back. Our walls close about us we lie and listen To the noise of the street, the storm and the driven birds. A question shapes your lips, your eyes glisten Retaining tears, but there are no more words.

I have sown beside all waters in my day. I planted deep, within my heart the fear That wind or fowl would take the grain away. I planted safe against this stark, lean year. I scattered seed enough to plant the land In rows from Canada to Mexico But for my reaping only what the hand Can hold at once is all that I can show. Yet what I sowed and what the orchard yields My brother’s sons are gathering stalk and root, Small wonder then my children glean in fields They have not sown, and feed on bitter fruit.

The hills are wroth; the stones have scored you bitterly Because you looked upon the naked sun Oblivious of them, because you did not see The trees you touched or mountains that you walked upon. But there will come a day of darkness in the land, A day wherein remembered sun alone comes through To mark the hills; then perhaps you’ll understand Just how it was you drew from them and they from you. For there will be a bent old woman in that day Who, feeling something of this country in her bones, Will leave her house tapping with a stick, who will (they say) Come back to seek the girl she was in these familiar stones.

I thought I saw an angel flying low, I thought I saw the flicker of a wing Above the mulberry trees; but not again. Bethesda sleeps. This ancient pool that healed A host of bearded Jews does not awake. This pool that once the angels troubled does not move. No angel stirs it now, no Saviour comes With healing in His hands to raise the sick And bid the lame man leap upon the ground. The golden days are gone. Why do we wait So long upon the marble steps, blood Falling from our open wounds? and why Do our black faces search the empty sky? Is there something we have forgotten? some precious thing We have lost, wandering in strange lands? There was a day, I remember now, I beat my breast and cried, “Wash me God, Wash me with a wave of wind upon The barley; O quiet One, draw near, draw near! Walk upon the hills with lovely feet And in the waterfall stand and speak. “Dip white hands in the lily pool and mourn Upon the harps still hanging in the trees Near Babylon along the river’s edge, But oh, remember me, I pray, before The summer goes and rose leaves lose their red.” The old terror takes my heart, the fear Of quiet waters and of faint twilights. There will be better days when I am gone And healing pools where I cannot be healed. Fragrant stars will gleam forever and ever Above the place where I lie desolate. Yet I hope, still I long to live. And if there can be returning after death I shall come back. But it will not be here; If you want me you must search for me Beneath the palms of Africa. Or if I am not there then you may call to me Across the shining dunes, perhaps I shall Be following a desert caravan. I may pass through centuries of death With quiet eyes, but I’ll remember still A jungle tree with burning scarlet birds. There is something I have forgotten, some precious thing. I shall be seeking ornaments of ivory, I shall be dying for a jungle fruit. You do not hear, Bethesda. O still green water in a stagnant pool! Love abandoned you and me alike. There was a day you held a rich full moon Upon your heart and listened to the words Of men now dead and saw the angels fly. There is a simple story on your face; Years have wrinkled you. I know, Bethesda! You are sad. It is the same with me.

Then the golden hour Will tick its last And the flame will go down in the flower. A briefer length of moon Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune. Then we may think of this, yet There will be something forgotten And something we should forget. It will be like all things we know: The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go. It will be quiet then and we may stay As long at the picket gate But there will be less to say.

The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine, And leaves are crisping on the garden wall. Leaves on the garden path are wet and rain Drips from the low shrubs with a steady fall. It is long, so long since I was here, Elaine, Moles have gnawed the rose tree at its root; You did not think that I would come again, Least of all in the day of falling fruit.

All that night I walked alone and wept. I tore a rose and dropped it on the ground. My heart was lead; all that night I kept Listening to hear a dreadful sound. A tree bent down and dew dripped from its hair. The earth was warm; dawn came solemnly. I stretched full-length upon the grass and there I said your name but silence answered me.

A tree is more than a shadow Blurred against the sky, More than ink spilled on the fringe Of white clouds floating by. A tree is more than an April design Or a blighted winter bough Where love and music used to be. A tree is something in me, Very still and lonely now.

I have seen a lovely thing Stark before a whip of weather: The tree that was so wistful after spring Beating barren twigs together. The birds that came there one by one, The sensuous leaves that used to sway And whisper there at night, all are gone, Each has vanished in its way. And this whip is on my heart; There is no sound that it allows, No little song that I may start But I hear the beating of dead boughs.

We are not come to wage a strife With swords upon this hill. It is not wise to waste the life Against a stubborn will. Yet would we die as some have done: Beating a way for the rising sun.

Go through the gates with closed eyes. Stand erect and let your black face front the west. Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies; A woodman on the hill must have his rest. Go where leaves are lying brown and wet. Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you, And every face you ever loved forget. Close your eyes; walk bravely through.

God give the yellow man An easy breeze at blossom time. Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover Every land and dream Of afterwhile. Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs To whirl in tall buildings. Allow them many ships at sea, And on land, soldiers And policemen. For black man, God, No need to bother more But only fill afresh his meed Of laughter, His cup of tears. God suffer little men The taste of soul’s desire.

Sweet timber land Where soft winds blow The high green tree And fan away the fog! Ah fragrant stream Where thirsty creatures go And strong black men Hew the heavy log! Oh broken house Crumbling there alone, Wanting me! Oh silent tree Must I always be A wild bird Riding the wind And screaming bitterly?

Golgotha is a mountain, a purple mound Almost out of sight. One night they hanged two thieves there, And another man. Some women wept heavily that night; Their tears are flowing still. They have made a river; Once it covered me. Then the people went away and left Golgotha Deserted. Oh, I’ve seen many mountains: Pale purple mountains melting in the evening mists and blurring on the borders of the sky. I climbed old Shasta and chilled my hands in its summer snows. I rested in the shadow of Popocatepetl and it whispered to me of daring prowess. I looked upon the Pyrenees and felt the zest of warm exotic nights. I slept at the foot of Fujiyama and dreamed of legend and of death. And I’ve seen other mountains rising from the wistful moors like the breasts of a slender maiden. Who knows the mystery of mountains! Some of them are awful, others are just lonely. Italy has its Rome and California has San Francisco, All covered with mountains. Some think these mountains grew Like ant hills Or sand dunes. That might be so— I wonder what started them all! Babylon is a mountain And so is Ninevah, With grass growing on them; Palaces and hanging gardens started them. I wonder what is under the hills In Mexico And Japan! There are mountains in Africa too. Treasure is buried there: Gold and precious stones And moulded glory. Lush grass is growing there Sinking before the wind. Black men are bowing. Naked in that grass Digging with their fingers. I am one of them: Those mountains should be ours. It would be great To touch the pieces of glory with our hands. These mute unhappy hills, Bowed down with broken backs, Speak often one to another: “A day is as a year,” they cry, “And a thousand years as one day.” We watched the caravan That bore our queen to the courts of Solomon; And when the first slave traders came We bowed our heads. “Oh, Brothers, it is not long! Dust shall yet devour the stones But we shall be here when they are gone.” Mountains are rising all around me. Some are so small they are not seen; Others are large. All of them get big in time and people forget What started them at first. Oh the world is covered with mountains! Beneath each one there is something buried: Some pile of wreckage that started it there. Mountains are lonely and some are awful. One day I will crumble. They’ll cover my heap with dirt and that will make a mountain. I think it will be Golgotha.