{"id":74,"date":"2015-08-25T03:50:51","date_gmt":"2015-08-25T03:50:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/teaching.lfhanley.net\/eng528f15\/?page_id=74"},"modified":"2015-08-25T03:50:51","modified_gmt":"2015-08-25T03:50:51","slug":"radical-poetry","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/teaching.lfhanley.net\/eng528fa16\/texts\/radical-poetry\/","title":{"rendered":"Radical Poetry"},"content":{"rendered":"<\/a>
from <\/span>Proletarian Literature in the United States<\/span> (1935), eds. Granville Hicks, Mike Gold, Joseph North, et al.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Edwin Rolfe, \u201cPoem for May First\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

Not Christmas nor the new year white with snow<\/p>\n

and cold with dying names emasculate<\/span><\/p>\n

marks for our lives the <\/span>new<\/span><\/i> year. Only spring<\/span><\/p>\n

arrived at its fulfillment, at the peak<\/span><\/p>\n

or verdurous blossoming<\/span><\/p>\n

connotes the quick<\/span><\/p>\n

deep breath of hope<\/span><\/p>\n

again – – the sharp release<\/span><\/p>\n

of man grown tense with winter, now set free<\/span><\/p>\n

to soar again (this day when our grasp,<\/span><\/p>\n

grown powerful, foretells<\/span><\/p>\n

its final fusion with our scope), to surge<\/span><\/p>\n

in multitude toward greatness.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

On this day<\/span><\/p>\n

the small deeds of the year, infinitesimal,<\/span><\/p>\n

unnoticed in the smoke of skirmish, cleave<\/span><\/p>\n

fiercely together. The edifice grows huge,<\/span><\/p>\n

becomes unvanquishable mass: the voice<\/span><\/p>\n

and eyes and ears of us who have grown strong<\/span><\/p>\n

on bitter bread, dry root.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And now we march!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The brain will not deny<\/span><\/p>\n

the days that come with verdure nor the eye<\/span><\/p>\n

ignore the splendor of the changing year<\/span><\/p>\n

invested with surprise: bells clanging in the ear<\/span><\/p>\n

with sound that drowns the singing of the birds<\/span><\/p>\n

and voices rich with prophecy – – the words<\/span><\/p>\n

fraught with great deeds.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Down countless avenues<\/span><\/p>\n

the senses feel impending change: the clues<\/span><\/p>\n

that guide our burdened hearts, heavy with pain,<\/span><\/p>\n

awakening class-memories – –<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

they burn again!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

O comrades of my dawns and my days and nights<\/span><\/p>\n

O you who live with me<\/span><\/p>\n

you at my side in battle<\/span><\/p>\n

and at midnight talk<\/span><\/p>\n

after the fruitful day<\/span><\/p>\n

learning to meet the challenge of tomorrow\u2019s foe – –<\/span><\/p>\n

welcome this spring!<\/span><\/p>\n

this burning first of May<\/span><\/p>\n

this ever-recurring day pregnant with history<\/span><\/p>\n

born in this land which witnessed our birth – –<\/span><\/p>\n

this land will be our own<\/span><\/i>!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Remember now – –<\/span><\/p>\n

delve backward through the years\u2019 accumulated dust:<\/span><\/p>\n

Haymarket – – Spies, George Engel, Albert Parsons<\/span><\/i> – –<\/span><\/p>\n

the noose drawn tightly – – gasping \u201cI have nothing,<\/span><\/p>\n

nothing, not even now, that I regret. . . \u201c<\/span><\/p>\n

Fisher<\/span><\/i> and <\/span>Lingg<\/span><\/i>, their shadows cast by a setting sun<\/span><\/p>\n

westward to California, east to Hatteras<\/span><\/p>\n

where embattled workers sought an added hour of day.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mark their names well: their death<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and now recall<\/span><\/p>\n

the spring that came the next year and the years that followed<\/span><\/p>\n

and the wars that bled us and the war that bore<\/span><\/p>\n

shining through the mud and mangled limbs the dawn,<\/span><\/p>\n

life<\/span><\/i> for the men of Russia<\/span><\/p>\n

and for us<\/span><\/p>\n

victory in sight, a star grown clear in the skies!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mark their names well: now feel the memory<\/span><\/p>\n

that coursed in action through your father\u2019s veins,<\/span><\/p>\n

given to you at birth, to a million others:<\/span><\/p>\n

the dereliction of our youth, the sordid<\/span><\/p>\n

childhood ripening to bitterness,<\/span><\/p>\n

the aimless wandering from place to place<\/span><\/p>\n

seeking \u2013 what? You did not know, nor I.<\/span><\/p>\n

But scattered images remained, grew sharp<\/span><\/p>\n

and deep, indelible: Wisconsin farmhouse,<\/span><\/p>\n

barn wall sagging inward into emptiness,<\/span><\/p>\n

Chicago midnights on the lakeshore, beauty<\/span><\/p>\n

trampled on by hunger, no rest, no rest – –<\/span><\/p>\n

icy roads across the Alleghenies,<\/span><\/p>\n

the clear bright brittle air of winter<\/span><\/p>\n

and at night we hugged the walls of public buildings<\/span><\/p>\n

but could not sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back to New York again:<\/span><\/p>\n

there was warmth there was food there was time to think,<\/span><\/p>\n

to merge the broken images, to synthesize<\/span><\/p>\n

Mendota\u2019s midnight beauty and New York by day – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Haymarket and Union Square in 1933 . . .<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nothing has been lost. The photographic plates<\/span><\/p>\n

grow clear in solution – -the worlds at war – –<\/span><\/p>\n

unforgettable – –<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the image looms and casts<\/span><\/p>\n

a huger image on the growing screen,<\/span><\/p>\n

projection of our lives and struggles.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Comrades<\/span><\/p>\n

here is my hand! Here\u2019s all of me, my friends,<\/span><\/p>\n

brothers in arms and fellow builders! We<\/span><\/p>\n

together through the long transition marching<\/span><\/p>\n

will notch the trees along the way.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This May<\/span><\/p>\n

has deeper meaning now than ever.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Close your ranks,<\/span><\/p>\n

touch shoulders – – ready?<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s our signal – –<\/span><\/p>\n

March!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Horace Gregory, \u201cDempsey, Dempsey\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Everybody give the big boy a hand,<\/span><\/p>\n

a big hand for the big boy, Dempsey.<\/span><\/p>\n

failure king of the U.S.A.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Maybe the big boy\u2019s coming back,<\/span><\/p>\n

there\u2019s a million boys that want to come back<\/span><\/p>\n

with hell in their eyes and a terrible sock<\/span><\/p>\n

that almost connects.<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019ve got to come back, out of the street,<\/span><\/p>\n

out of some lowdown, lousy job<\/span><\/p>\n

or take a count with Dempsey.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When he\u2019s on his knees for a count<\/span><\/p>\n

a million dollars cold,<\/span><\/p>\n

a million boys go down with him<\/span><\/p>\n

yelling:<\/span><\/p>\n

Hit him again, Dempsey,<\/span><\/p>\n

kill him for me Dempsey,<\/span><\/p>\n

Christ\u2019 sake Dempsey,<\/span><\/p>\n

my god they\u2019re killing Dempsey,<\/span><\/p>\n

it\u2019s Dempsey down, Dempsey, Dempsey.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The million men and a million boys,<\/span><\/p>\n

come out of hell and crawling back,<\/span><\/p>\n

maybe they don\u2019t know what they\u2019re saying,<\/span><\/p>\n

maybe they don\u2019t dare<\/span><\/p>\n

but they know what they mean:<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Knock down the big boss,<\/span><\/p>\n

o, my little Dempsey,<\/span><\/p>\n

my beautiful Dempsey<\/span><\/p>\n

with that God in heaven smile<\/span><\/p>\n

and quick, god\u2019s body leaping,<\/span><\/p>\n

not afraid, leaping, rising – –<\/span><\/p>\n

hit him again, he cut my pay check Dempsey.<\/span><\/p>\n

My God, Dempsey\u2019s down – –<\/span><\/p>\n

he cut my pay check – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Dempsey\u2019s down, down,<\/span><\/p>\n

the bastards are killing Dempsey.<\/span><\/p>\n

Listen, they made me go to war<\/span><\/p>\n

and somebody did something wrong to my wife<\/span><\/p>\n

while I was gone.<\/span><\/p>\n

hit him again Dempsey, don\u2019t be a quitter<\/span><\/p>\n

like I am Dempsey,<\/span><\/p>\n

o, for Jesus Christ, I\u2019m out.<\/span><\/p>\n

I can\u2019t get up, I\u2019m dead, my legs<\/span><\/p>\n

are dead, see, I\u2019m no good,<\/span><\/p>\n

they got me and I\u2019m out,<\/span><\/p>\n

down for the count.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve quite, quit again,<\/span><\/p>\n

only God save Dempsey, make him get up again,<\/span><\/p>\n

Dempsey, Dempsey.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Langston Hughes, \u201cBallad of Lenin\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

Comrade Lenin of Russia,<\/p>\n

High in a marble tomb,<\/span><\/p>\n

Move over, Comrade Lenin,<\/span><\/p>\n

And give me room.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am Ivan, the peasant<\/span><\/p>\n

Boots all muddy with soil.<\/span><\/p>\n

I fought with you Comrade Lenin.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now I\u2019ve finished my toil.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Comrade Lenin of Russia,<\/span><\/p>\n

Alive in a marble tomb,<\/span><\/p>\n

Move over, Comrade Lenin,<\/span><\/p>\n

And give me room.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am Chico, the Negro<\/span><\/p>\n

Cutting cane in the sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

I lived for you, Comrade Lenin.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now my work is done.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Comrade Lenin of Russia,<\/span><\/p>\n

Honored in a marble tomb,<\/span><\/p>\n

Move over, Comrade Lenin,<\/span><\/p>\n

And give me room.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am Chang from the foundries<\/span><\/p>\n

On strike in the streets of Shanghai.<\/span><\/p>\n

For the sake of the Revolution<\/span><\/p>\n

I fight, I starve, I die.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Comrade Lenin of Russia<\/span><\/p>\n

Rises in the marble tomb:<\/span><\/p>\n

On guard with the fighters forever – –<\/p>\n

The world is our room!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mike Gold, \u201cExamples of Worker Correspondence\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

Indianapolis, Ind.<\/p>\n

We held a red funeral for a child who died of hunger.<\/span><\/p>\n

We marched in thousands to her grave.<\/span><\/p>\n

Red roses came from the Communist Party<\/span><\/p>\n

A wreath of lilies from the Unemployed Councils.<\/span><\/p>\n

Our banners flashed in the sun<\/span><\/p>\n

But our hearts were dark with anger.<\/span><\/p>\n

When at the grave like red soldiers<\/span><\/p>\n

We swore to end the world\u2019s poverty<\/span><\/p>\n

Brave comrades were seen to weep<\/span><\/p>\n

Fathers and mothers of hungry children.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ashtabula, O.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am resigning from the American Legion<\/span><\/p>\n

It reminds me of a dog I used to have<\/span><\/p>\n

That picked up toads in her mouth<\/span><\/p>\n

And was sick of the yellow acid in their glands<\/span><\/p>\n

But did it again and again, the dumb fool<\/span><\/p>\n

And the more misery and famine and bunk<\/span><\/p>\n

The more the Legion seems to like it.<\/span><\/p>\n

But I am not a dog and can understand<\/span><\/p>\n

That now is the time to end capitalism.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Kenneth Fearing, \u201cDirge\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

1-2-3 was the number he played but today the number came 3-2-1;<\/p>\n

bought his Carbide at 30 and it went to 29; had the favorite at<\/span><\/p>\n

Bowie but the track was slow – –<\/span><\/p>\n

O, executive type, would you like to drive a floating-power, knee-<\/span><\/p>\n

action, silkuphostered six? Wed a Hollywood star? Shoot<\/span><\/p>\n

the course in 58? Draw to the ace, king, jack?<\/span><\/p>\n

O, fellow with a will who won\u2019t take no, watch out for three<\/span><\/p>\n

cigarettes on the same, single match; O, democratic voter<\/span><\/p>\n

born in August under Mars, beware liquidated rails – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Denoument to denoument, he took a personal pride in the certain,<\/span><\/p>\n

certain way he lived his own private life,<\/span><\/p>\n

but nevertheless, they shut off his gas; nevertheless, the bank<\/span><\/p>\n

foreclosed; nevertheless, the landlord called; nevertheless,<\/span><\/p>\n

the radio broke;<\/span><\/p>\n

And twelve o\u2019clock arrived just once to often,<\/span><\/p>\n

just the same he wore on grey tweed suit, bought one straw hat,<\/span><\/p>\n

drank one straight Scotch, walked one short step, took one<\/span><\/p>\n

long look, drew one deep breath,<\/span><\/p>\n

just one too many,<\/span><\/p>\n

And wow he died as wow he lived,<\/span><\/p>\n

going whoop to the office, and blooie home to sleep, and biff got<\/span><\/p>\n

married, and bam had children, and oof got fired,<\/span><\/p>\n

zowie did he live and zowie did he die,<\/span><\/p>\n

With who the hell are you at the corner of his casket, and where the<\/span><\/p>\n

hell we going on the right-hand sliver knob, and who the hell<\/span><\/p>\n

cares walking second from the end with an American beauty<\/span><\/p>\n

wreath from why the hell not,<\/span><\/p>\n

very much missed by the circulation staff of the New York Evening<\/span><\/p>\n

Post; deeply mounred by the B.M.T.,<\/span><\/p>\n

Wham, Mr. Roosevelt; pow, Sears Roebuck; awk, big dipper; bop, summer rain;<\/span><\/p>\n

bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Muriel Rukeyser, \u201cCity of Monuments\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

Be proud you people of these graves<\/p>\n

these chiseled words this precedent<\/span><\/p>\n

From these blind ruins shines our monument.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dead navies of the brain will sail<\/span><\/p>\n

stone celebrate its final choice<\/span><\/p>\n

when the air shakes a single voice<\/span><\/p>\n

a strong voice able to prevail:<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Entrust no hope to stone although the stone<\/span><\/p>\n

shelter the root – – see too-great burdens placed<\/span><\/p>\n

with nothing certain but the risk<\/span><\/p>\n

set on the infirm column of<\/span><\/p>\n

the high memorial obelisk<\/span><\/p>\n

erect in accusation sprung against<\/span><\/p>\n

a barren sky taut over Anacostia:<\/span><\/p>\n

Give over Gettysburg! a word will shake your glory- –<\/span><\/p>\n

blood of the starved fell thin upon this plain,<\/span><\/p>\n

this battle is not buried with its slain.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Gravestone and battlefield retire,<\/span><\/p>\n

the whole green South is shadowed dark,<\/span><\/p>\n

the slick white domes are cast in night.<\/span><\/p>\n

But uneclipsed above this park<\/span><\/p>\n

the veteran of the Civil War<\/span><\/p>\n

sees havoc in the tended graves<\/span><\/p>\n

the midnight bugles blow to free<\/span><\/p>\n

still unemancipated slaves.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Blinded by chromium or transfiguration<\/span><\/p>\n

we watch, as through a microscope, decay:<\/span><\/p>\n

down the broad streets the limousines<\/span><\/p>\n

advance in passions of display.<\/span><\/p>\n

Air glints with diamonds, and these clavicles<\/span><\/p>\n

emerge through orchids by whose trailing spoor<\/span><\/p>\n

the sensitive cannot mistake<\/span><\/p>\n

the implicit anguish of the poor.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The throats incline, the marble men rejoice<\/span><\/p>\n

careless of torrents of despair.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Split by a tendril of revolt<\/span><\/p>\n

stone cedes to blossom everywhere.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Don West, \u201cSouthern Lullaby\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n

(For Lillian)<\/b><\/p>\n

Suck, little baby, suck long,<\/p>\n

Body mustn\u2019t be frail.<\/span><\/p>\n

Muscles growing firm and strong – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Daddy\u2019s in Fulton Jail.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Laugh, little baby, laugh light,<\/span><\/p>\n

Two little eyes of blue<\/span><\/p>\n

Kindle a blaze to fight – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Daddy is waiting for you.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sleep, little baby, sleep sound,<\/span><\/p>\n

Under the southern stars.<\/span><\/p>\n

Body growing hard and round<\/span><\/p>\n

To break the prison bars.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Eat, little baby, eat well,<\/span><\/p>\n

A Bolshevik you\u2019ll be,<\/span><\/p>\n

And hate this bosses\u2019 hell – –<\/span><\/p>\n

Sucking it in from me . . .<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hate, little baby, hate deep,<\/span><\/p>\n

You mustn\u2019t know my fears.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mother is watching your sleep,<\/span><\/p>\n

But you don\u2019t see her tears.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Death House Blues<\/b><\/p>\n

(from L. Gellert\u2019s collection of <\/span>Negro Songs of Protest<\/span><\/i>)<\/span><\/p>\n

Paper come out<\/p>\n

Strewed de news<\/span><\/p>\n

(repeat)<\/span><\/p>\n

Seben po\u2019 niggers<\/span><\/p>\n

Moanin\u2019 death house blues<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Seben nappy heads<\/span><\/p>\n

Wit\u2019 big shiny eye<\/span><\/p>\n

All boun\u2019 in jail<\/span><\/p>\n

An\u2019 framed to die<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Messin\u2019 white woman<\/span><\/p>\n

Snake lyin\u2019 tale<\/span><\/p>\n

Dat hang an\u2019 burn<\/span><\/p>\n

An\u2019 jail wit\u2019 no bail<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Worse ol\u2019 crime<\/span><\/p>\n

In dis damn lan\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Black skin\u2019 acoverin\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Po\u2019 working\u2019 man<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jerge an\u2019 Jury<\/span><\/p>\n

All in de stan\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Lawd biggity name<\/span><\/p>\n

Fo\u2019 same lynchin\u2019 han\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

White folks asettin\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

In great Court House<\/span><\/p>\n

Lak cat down cellar<\/span><\/p>\n

Wit\u2019 no-hole mouse<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Seben nappy heads<\/span><\/p>\n

Wit\u2019 big shiny eye<\/span><\/p>\n

All boun\u2019 in jail<\/span><\/p>\n

An\u2019 framed to die.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

from Proletarian Literature in the United States (1935), eds. Granville Hicks, Mike Gold, Joseph North, et al.   Edwin Rolfe, \u201cPoem for May First\u201d Not Christmas nor the new year white with snow and cold with dying names emasculate marks for our lives the new year. Only spring arrived at its fulfillment, at the peak<\/p>\n