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Best Famous Storytelling Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Storytelling poems, articles about Storytelling poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Storytelling poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by John Lindley | Create an image from this poem

DARKIES

 “I’d rather make $700 a week playing a maid than earn $7 a day being a maid”.
Hattie McDaniel.
I’m the savage in the jungle and the busboy in the town.
I’m the one who jumps the highest when the Boss man comes around.
I’m the maid who wields the wooden broom.
I’m the black boot polish cheeks.
I’m the big fat Lawdy Mama who always laughs before she speaks.
I’m the plaintive sound of spirituals on the mighty Mississip’.
I’m the porter in the club car touching forelock for a tip.
I’m the bent, white-whiskered ol’ Black Joe with the stick and staggered walk.
I’m the barefoot boy in dungarees with a stammer in my talk.
I’m the storytelling Mr.
Bones with a jangling tambourine.
I’m the North’s excuse for novelty and the South’s deleted scene.
I’m the one who takes his lunch break with the extras and the grips.
I’m the funny liquorice coils of hair and the funny looking lips.
I’m the white wide eyes and pearly teeth.
I’m the jet black skin that shines.
I’m the soft-shoe shuffling Uncle Tom for your nickels and your dimes.
I’m the Alabami Mammy for a state I’ve never seen.
I’m the bona fide Minstrel Man whose blackface won’t wash clean.
I’m the banjo playing Sambo with a fixed and manic grin.
I’m the South’s defiant answer that the Yankees didn’t win.
I’m the inconvenient nigrah that no one can let go.
I’m the cutesy picaninny with my hair tied up in bows.
I’m the funny little shoeshine boy.
I’m the convict on the run; the ****** in the woodpile when the cotton pickin’s done.
I’m a blacklist in Kentucky.
I’m the night when hound dogs bay.
I’m the cut-price, easy light relief growing darker by the day.
I’m the “yessir, Massa, right away” that the audience so enjoys.
I’m the full-grown man of twenty-five but still they call me ‘boy’.
For I’m the myth in Griffith’s movie.
I’m the steamboat whistle’s cry.
I’m the dust of dead plantations and the proof of Lincoln’s lie.
I’m the skin upon the leg iron.
I’m the blood upon the club.
I’m the deep black stain you can’t erase no matter how you scrub.
John Lindley


Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

The White Room

 The obvious is difficult
To prove.
Many prefer The hidden.
I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret Which they were about to Make known to me-- And then didn't.
Summer came.
Each tree On my street had its own Scheherazade.
My nights Were a part of their wild Storytelling.
We were Entering dark houses, Always more dark houses, Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder, Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold, Said the woman Who always wore white.
She didn't leave her room.
The sun pointed to one or two Things that had survived The long night intact.
The simplest things, Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day People described as "perfect.
" Gods disguising themselves As black hairpins, a hand-mirror, A comb with a tooth missing? No! That wasn't it.
Just things as they are, Unblinking, lying mute In that bright light-- And the trees waiting for the night.

Book: Shattered Sighs