Posts tagged ‘1930’

Wednesday, 28 July 2021

A Negro Mother to Her Child by Victor Jeremy Jerome (Isaac Jerome Romaine)

Quit yo’ wailing’ honey bo’
‘Taint no use to cry
Rubber nipple, mammy’s breast
Both am gone bone dry.

Daddy is a Bolshevik
Locked up in de pen
Didn’ rob nor didn’ steal
Led de workin’ men.

What’s de use mah tellin’ you
Silly li’l lamb
Gon’ter git it straight some day
When you is a man.

Wisht ah had a sea o’ milk
Mek you strong an’ soun’
Daddy’s waitin’ till you come
Brek dat prison down.

From: Nelson, Cary (ed.), Anthology of Modern American Poetry, 2000, Oxford University Press: New York & Oxford, p. 372.

Date: 1930

By: Victor Jeremy Jerome (Isaac Jerome Romaine) (1869-1965)

Wednesday, 5 May 2021

Choice by Charles Henri Ford

I have endured the sword-edge of your glance,
and when the shell around my brain was nicked
no flinching was (but once, and once
again I’ve felt my heart contract).

This is the anguish that can have
but one conclusion (I’ll lie hot, then frozen).
Let others seek an end more bright or brave.
This is the death I have chosen.

From: Ford, Charles Henri, “Two Poems” in Poetry, Volume XXXVII, Number 1, October 1930, p. 25.

Date: 1930

By: Charles Henri Ford (1908-2002)

Sunday, 11 April 2021

Ocean Angel by Sagawa Chika (Kawasaki Ai)

The cradle rings loudly.
A spray shoots up,
As if stripping off feathers.
I wait for the return of those who sleep.
Music marks the bright hour.
I try to protest, raising my voice –
The waves come erase it from behind.

I was abandoned in the ocean.


Date: c1930 (original in Japanese); 2015 (translation in English)

By: Sagawa Chika (Kawasaki Ai) (1911-1936)

Translated by: Sawako Nakayasu (1975- )

Tuesday, 21 April 2020

In the Middle of the Road by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

In the middle of the road there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
there was a stone
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

Never should I forget this event
in the life of my fatigued retinas.
Never should I forget that in the middle of the road
there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

From: Milosz, Czeslaw (ed.), A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, 1998, A Harvest Book (Harcourt, Inc.): Orlando, p. 8.

Date: 1930 (original in Portugese); 1965 (translated in English)

By: Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987)

Translated by: Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)

Sunday, 12 April 2020

Meeting the Easter Bunny by Rowena Bastin Bennett

On Easter morn at early dawn
before the cocks were crowing
I met a bob-tail bunnykin
and asked where he was going.

“Tis in the house and out the house
a-tispy, tipsy-toeing,
Tis round the house and ’bout the house
a-lightly I am going.”

“But what is that of every hue
you carry in your basket?”
“Tis eggs of gold and eggs of blue;
I wonder that you ask it.

“Tis chocolate eggs and bonbon eggs
and eggs of red and gray,
For every child in every house
on bonny Easter day.”

He perked his ears and winked his eye
and twitched his little nose;
He shook his tail—what tail he had—
and stood up on his toes.

“I must be gone before the sun;
the east is growing gray;
Tis almost time for bells to chime.”—
So he hippety-hopped away.


Date: 1930

By: Rowena Bastin Bennett (1896-1981)

Sunday, 1 December 2019

White Advent by Morton Dauwen Zabel

Winter is a vigil all men keep
In long and patient fortitude
Who spurn a cold untroubled sleep,
The host of snow their only food.

The stormy dream, the burning ache
Of lvoe and love’s demanding arms
Can rouse no lust in these who make
Provision for the spring’s alarms.

They know the summer’s threat of pain
And autumn’s surly sickle bent
Above the windrows. Free of stain
Are tongues that taste this sacrament.

The drums will challenge innocence
And strike the shield of pride apart,
But now an armor for the sense
Is forged, and wisdom for the heart.

Until the crystal trees are struck
By swords of sunlight, lips are proud.
The mouth is virgin till the rock
Surrenders freshets to the cloud.

From: Zabel, Morton Dauwen, “White Advent” in Poetry, Volume XXXV, Number IV, January 1930, pp. 184-185.

Date: 1930

Morton Dauwen Zabel (1901-1964)

Monday, 12 November 2018

The Silence by Arthur St John Adcock

In the bleak twilight, when the roads are hoar
And mists of early morning haunt the down,
His Mother shuts her empty cottage door
Behind her, in the lane beyond the town:
Her slow steps on the highway frosty white
Ring clear across the moor, and echo through
The drowsy town, to where the station’s light
Signals the 7.10 to Waterloo.

Some wintry flowers in her garden grown,
And some frail dreams, she bears with her to-day –
Dreams of the lad who once had been her own,
For whose dear sake she goes a weary way
To find in London, after journeying long,
The Altar of Remembrance, set apart
For such as she, and join the pilgrim throng
There, at that Mecca of the Broken Heart.

Princes and Lords in grave procession come
With wondrous wreaths of glory for the dead;
Then the two minutes smite the City dumb,
And memory dims her eyes with tears unshed;
The silence breaks, and music strange and sad
Wails, while the Great Ones bow in homage low;
And still she knows her little homely lad
Troubles no heart but hers in all the Show.

And when beside the blind stone’s crowded base,
’Mid the rich wreaths, she lays her wintry flowers,
She feels that, sleeping in some far-off place
Indifferent to these interludes of ours,
No solace from this marshalled woe he drains,
And that the stark Shrine stands more empty here
Than her own cottage, where the silence reigns,
Not for brief minutes, but through all the year.


Date: 1930

By: Arthur St John Adcock (1864-1930)

Saturday, 2 December 2017

Pagan Year by Aldous Leonard Huxley

December’s eyes are shut, but cannot kill
The colors out of the world. They live, suppressed
Yet strong, shining in secret, live and still
With brooding sables, with cinder and plum attest
The absent light, who with his longed re-birth
Unclots the world to an airy dream of leaves,
That June once more must curdle into earth,
Till the huge elms hang dark above the sheaves.

Magical autumn! all the woods are foxes,
Dozing outstretched in the almost silvery sun.
Oh, bright sad woods and melancholy sky,
Is there no cure for Beauty but to run
Yet faster as faster flee hours, flowers and doxies
And dying music, till we also die?


Date: 1930

By: Aldous Leonard Huxley (1894-1963)

Friday, 29 June 2012

Coverings by Stella Gibbons

The snake had shed his brindled skin
To meet the marching feet of spring;
With bar, curve, loop and whirling ring
The patterned swathes, papyrus-thin,
Lay on the cage’s sanded floor
Marked with dragging python-spoor.

Flick-flack! Like ash on vulcanite
His eyes and lids in the spatulate
Head were alive with watchful hate,
Daring the sounds and the raw spring light.
He shone like watered silk from his tongue
To his tapering tail where the skin-shreds hung.

The cloudy yellow of mustard flowers
Was barred on his skin with jetty flares
And the five-patched circle the leopard wears:
The sea-shell’s convolute green towers
Were called to mind by his belly’s hue
That faded to pallid egg-shell blue.

He was covered so to face the sun;
That shadows of leaves might match his skin;
That, where the lily roots begin,
You might not see where the snake begun;
That Man might see, when Snake was dressed,
God in snake made manifest.

Mrs Fand wore a fox round her wrinkled throat;
He was killed at dawn as he snarled his threat
In a bracken-brake where the mist lay wet.
Two men were drowned in a shattered boat
Hunting the whale for the silk-bound shred
That balanced her bust with her henna’d head.

An osprey’s plume brushed her fallen chin,
And a lorgnette swung on a platinum chain
To deputise for her sightless brain.
Her high-heeled shoes were of python skin,
Her gloves of the gentle reindeer’s hide,
And to make her card-case a lizard died.

She watched the flickering counter-play
As the snake reared up with tongue and eye
Licking the air for newt and fly;
And shook herself as she turned away
With a tolerant movement of her head:
“The nasty, horrid thing!” she said.


Date: 1930

By: Stella Gibbons (1902-1989)