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Best Famous Jean Toomer Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Jean Toomer poems. This is a select list of the best famous Jean Toomer poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Jean Toomer poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Jean Toomer poems.

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by Jean Toomer | |

Cotton Song

 Come, brother, come.
Lets lift it; come now, hewit! roll away! Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day But lets not wait for it.
God's body's got a soul, Bodies like to roll the soul, Cant blame God if we dont roll, Come, brother, roll, roll! Cotton bales are the fleecy way, Weary sinner's bare feet trod, Softly, softly to the throne of God, "We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day! Nassur; nassur, Hump.
Eoho, eoho, roll away! We aint agwine to wait until th Judgment Day!" God's body's got a soul, Bodies like to roll the soul, Cant blame God if we dont roll, Come, brother, roll, roll!


by Jean Toomer | |

Tell Me

 Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk,
When purple ribbons bind the hill,
Do dreams your secret wish fulfill,
Do prayers, like kernels from the husk
Come from your lips? Tell me if when
The mountains loom at night, giant shades
Of softer shadow, swift like blades
Of grass seeds come to flower.
Then Tell me if the night winds bend Them towards me, if the Shenandoah As it ripples past your shore, Catches the soul of what you send.


by Jean Toomer | |

November Cotton Flower

 Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
Failed in its function as the autumn rake;
Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take
All water from the streams; dead birds were found
In wells a hundred feet below the ground--
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed Significance.
Superstition saw Something it had never seen before: Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear, Beauty so sudden for that time of year.


by Jean Toomer | |

People

 To those fixed on white,
White is white,
To those fixed on black,
It is the same,
And red is red,
Yellow, yellow-
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.


by Jean Toomer | |

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.
.
.


by Jean Toomer | |

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

(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)

then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent


by Jean Toomer | |

The Lost Dancer

 Spatial depths of being survive
The birth to death recurrences
Of feet dancing on earth of sand;
Vibrations of the dance survive
The sand; the sand, elect, survives
The dancer.
He can find no source Of magic adequate to bind The sand upon his feet, his feet Upon his dance, his dance upon The diamond body of his being.


by Jean Toomer | |

Reapers

 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.


by Jean Toomer | |

Song of the Son

 Pour O pour that parting soul in song
O pour it in the sawdust glow of night
Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight,
And let the valley carry it along.
And let the valley carry it along.
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree, So scant of grass, so proligate of pines, Now hust before an epoch's sun declines Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee, Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.
In time, for though the sun is setting on A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set; Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone, Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.
O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums, Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air, Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes an everlasting song, a singing tree, Caroling softly souls of slavery, What they were, and what they are to me, Caroling softly souls of slavery.


by Jean Toomer | |

Conversion

 African Guardian of Souls,
Drunk with rum,
Feasting on strange cassava,
Yielding to new words and a weak palabra
Of a white-faced sardonic god--
Grins, cries
Amen,
Shouts hosanna.


by Jean Toomer | |

Unsuspecting

 There is a natty kind of mind
That slicks its thoughts,
Culls its oughts,
Trims its views,
Prunes its trues,
And never suspects it is a rind.


by Jean Toomer | |

Evening Song

 Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Cloine tires,
Holding her lips apart.
Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon, Miracle made vesper-keeps, Cloine sleeps, And I'll be sleeping soon.
Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters whtere the moonwaves start, Radiant, resplendently she gleams, Cloine dreams, Lips pressed against my heart.


by Jean Toomer | |

A Portrait in Georgia

 Hair-braided chestnut,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Eyes-fagots,
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
Breath-the last sweet scent of cane,
And her slim body, white as the ash
of black flesh after flame.


by Jean Toomer | |

Portrait in Georgia

 Hair--braided chestnut,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Eyes--fagots,
Lips--old scars, or the first red blisters,
Breath--the last sweet scent of cane,
And her slim body, white as the ash
of black flesh after flame.


by Jean Toomer | |

For M.W.

 There is no transcience of twilight in
 The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face,
 No flicker of a slender flame in space,
In crucibles, fragility crystalline.
There is no fragrance of the jessamine About you, no pathos of some old place At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eaten lace Beneath the touch.
Nor has there ever been.
Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul Which burst its bondage in a bold travail; Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise, Your face, sweetly effulgent of the whole, Inviolate of ways that would fail.