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Best Famous Robert Hayden Poems

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

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Written by Robert Hayden |


 The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering

Head alone shows you in the prodigious act
Of digesting what centuries alone digest:
The mammoth, lumbering statuary of sorrow,
Indissoluble enough to riddle the guts
Of a whale with holes and holes, and bleed him white
Into salt seas.
Hercules had a simple time, Rinsing those stables: a baby's tears would do it.
But who'd volunteer to gulp the Laocoon, The Dying Gaul and those innumerable pietas Festering on the dim walls of Europe's chapels, Museums and sepulchers? You.
You Who borrowed feathers for your feet, not lead, Not nails, and a mirror to keep the snaky head In safe perspective, could outface the gorgon-grimace Of human agony: a look to numb Limbs: not a basilisk-blink, nor a double whammy, But all the accumulated last grunts, groans, Cries and heroic couplets concluding the million Enacted tragedies on these blood-soaked boards, And every private twinge a hissing asp To petrify your eyes, and every village Catastrophe a writhing length of cobra, And the decline of empires the thick coil of a vast Anacnoda.
Imagine: the world Fisted to a foetus head, ravined, seamed With suffering from conception upwards, and there You have it in hand.
Grit in the eye or a sore Thumb can make anyone wince, but the whole globe Expressive of grief turns gods, like kings, to rocks.
Those rocks, cleft and worn, themselves then grow Ponderous and extend despair on earth's Dark face.
So might rigor mortis come to stiffen All creation, were it not for a bigger belly Still than swallows joy.
You enter now, Armed with feathers to tickle as well as fly, And a fun-house mirror that turns the tragic muse To the beheaded head of a sullen doll, one braid, A bedraggled snake, hanging limp as the absurd mouth Hangs in its lugubious pout.
Where are The classic limbs of stubborn Antigone? The red, royal robes of Phedre? The tear-dazzled Sorrows of Malfi's gentle duchess? Gone In the deep convulsion gripping your face, muscles And sinews bunched, victorious, as the cosmic Laugh does away with the unstitching, plaguey wounds Of an eternal sufferer.
To you Perseus, the palm, and may you poise And repoise until time stop, the celestial balance Which weighs our madness with our sanity.

Written by Robert Hayden |

El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X)

 O masks and metamorphoses of Ahab, Native Son


The icy evil that struck his father down
and ravished his mother into madness
trapped him in violence of a punished self
struggling to break free.
As Home Boy, as Dee-troit Red, he fled his name, became the quarry of his own obsessed pursuit.
He conked his hair and Lindy-hopped, zoot-suited jiver, swinging those chicks in the hot rose and reefer glow.
His injured childhood bullied him.
He skirmished in the Upas trees and cannibal flowers of the American Dream-- but could not hurt the enemy powered against him there.

Written by Robert Hayden |

Runagate Runagate

 Runs falls rises stumbles on from darkness into darkness 
and the darkness thicketed with shapes of terror 
and the hunters pursuing and the hounds pursuing 
and the night cold and the night long and the river 
to cross and the jack-muh-lanterns beckoning beckoning 
and blackness ahead and when shall I reach that somewhere
morning and keep on going and never turn back and keep on going


Many thousands rise and go
many thousands crossing over
 0 mythic North
 0 star-shaped yonder Bible city

Some go weeping and some rejoicing 
some in coffins and some in carriages 
some in silks and some in shackles

 Rise and go or fare you well

No more auction block for me
no more driver's lash for me

 If you see my Pompey, 30 yrs of age, 
 new breeches, plain stockings, negro shoes; 
 if you see my Anna, likely young mulatto 
 branded E on the right cheek, R on the left, 
 catch them if you can and notify subscriber.
Catch them if you can, but it won't be easy.
They'll dart underground when you try to catch them, plunge into quicksand, whirlpools, mazes, torn into scorpions when you try to catch them.
And before I'll be a slave I'll be buried in my grave North star and bonanza gold I'm bound for the freedom, freedom-bound and oh Susyanna don't you cry for me Runagate Runagate II.
Rises from their anguish and their power, Harriet Tubman, woman of earth, whipscarred, a summoning, a shining Mean to be free And this was the way of it, brethren brethren, way we journeyed from Can't to Can.
Moon so bright and no place to hide, the cry up and the patterollers riding, hound dogs belling in bladed air.
And fear starts a-murbling, Never make it, we'll never make it.
Hush that now, and she's turned upon us, levelled pistol glinting in the moonlight: Dead folks can't jaybird-talk, she says; you keep on going now or die, she says.
Wanted Harriet Tubman alias The General alias Moses Stealer of Slaves In league with Garrison Alcott Emerson Garrett Douglass Thoreau John Brown Armed and known to be Dangerous Wanted Reward Dead or Alive Tell me, Ezekiel, oh tell me do you see mailed Jehovah coming to deliver me? Hoot-owl calling in the ghosted air, five times calling to the hants in the air.
Shadow of a face in the scary leaves, shadow of a voice in the talking leaves: Come ride-a my train Oh that train, ghost-story train through swamp and savanna movering movering, over trestles of dew, through caves of the wish, Midnight Special on a sabre track movering movering, first stop Mercy and the last Hallelujah.
Come ride-a my train Mean mean mean to be free.

More great poems below...

Written by Robert Hayden |


 (And I, I am no longer of that world)

Naked, he lies in the blinded room
chainsmoking, cradled by drugs, by jazz
as never by any lover's cradling flesh.
Miles Davis coolly blows for him: O pena negra, sensual Flamenco blues; the red clay foxfire voice of Lady Day (lady of the pure black magnolias) sobsings her sorrow and loss and fare you well, dryweeps the pain his treacherous jailers have released him from for a while.
His fears and his unfinished self await him down in the anywhere streets.
He hides on the dark side of the moon, takes refuge in a stained-glass cell, flies to a clockless country of crystal.
Only the ghost of Lady Day knows where he is.
Only the music.
And he swings oh swings: beyond complete immortal now.

Written by Robert Hayden |

Monets Waterlilies

 Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.
Here space and time exist in light the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known dissolve in iridescence, become illusive flesh of light that was not, was, forever is.
O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.

Written by Robert Hayden |

O Daedalus Fly Away Home

 (For Maia and Julie) 

Drifting night in the Georgia pines, 
coonskin drum and jubilee banjo.
Pretty Malinda, dance with me.
Night is juba, night is congo.
Pretty Malinda, dance with me.
Night is an African juju man weaving a wish and a weariness together to make two wings.
O fly away home fly away Do you remember Africa? O cleave the air fly away home My gran, he flew back to Africa, just spread his arms and flew away home.
Drifting night in the windy pines; night is laughing, night is a longing.
Pretty Malinda, come to me.
Night is a mourning juju man weaving a wish and a weariness together to make two wings.
O fly away home fly away

Written by Robert Hayden |

The Whipping

 The old woman across the way
 is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
 her goodness and his wrongs.
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears, pleads in dusty zinnias, while she in spite of crippling fat pursues and corners him.
She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling boy till the stick breaks in her hand.
His tears are rainy weather to woundlike memories: My head gripped in bony vise of knees, the writhing struggle to wrench free, the blows, the fear worse than blows that hateful Words could bring, the face that I no longer knew or loved .
Well, it is over now, it is over, and the boy sobs in his room, And the woman leans muttering against a tree, exhausted, purged-- avenged in part for lifelong hidings she has had to bear.

Written by Robert Hayden |

The Prisoners

 Steel doors – guillotine gates – 
of the doorless house closed massively.
We were locked in with loss.
Guards frisked us, marked our wrists, then let us into the drab Rec Hall – splotched green walls, high windows barred – where the dispossessed awaited us.
Hands intimate with knife and pistol, hands that had cruelly grasped and throttled clasped ours in welcome.
I sensed the plea of men denied: Believe us human like yourselves, who but for Grace .
We shared reprieving Hidden Words revealed by the Godlike imprisoned One, whose crime was truth.
And I read poems I hoped were true.
It's like you been there, brother, been there, the scarred young lifer said.

Written by Robert Hayden |


 Her sleeping head with its great gelid mass
of serpents torpidly astir
burned into the mirroring shield--
a scathing image dire
as hated truth the mind accepts at last
and festers on.
I struck.
The shield flashed bare.
Yet even as I lifted up the head and started from that place of gazing silences and terrored stone, I thirsted to destroy.
None could have passed me then-- no garland-bearing girl, no priest or staring boy--and lived.

Written by Robert Hayden |

Those Winter Sundays

 Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze.
No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?