#AmericanWriters
I take my dreams and make of them… and a round fountain with a beauti… And a song with a broken heart and… Do you understand my dreams? Sometimes you say you do,
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
I’m all alone in this world, she s… Ain’t got nobody to share my bed, Ain’t got nobody to hold my hand— The truth of the matter’s I ain’t got no man.
The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun.
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
And that is what poetry may do, wrap up your dreams, protect and preserve and hold them until maybe they come true. Columbus dreamed of finding a new world, he found it. Edison dreamed ...
Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear. I have as much right
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL