From childhood's hour I have not been As others were -- I have not seen As other saw -- I could not bring My passions from a common spring --- From the same source I have not taken My sorrow -- I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone -- And all I lov'd -- I lov'd alone -- Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn Of a most stormy life -- was drawn From ev'ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still -- From the torrent, or the fountain -- From the red cliff of the mountain -- From the sun that 'round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold -- From the lightening in the sky As it pass'd me flying by -- From the thunder, and the storm -- And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view --
Have no mother, have no dad, have no country, have no God, no cradle, no winding sheet, no lover, no kisses sweet.
Haven't eaten for three days, my head spins, the body sways... Twenty years! My might, my gale, twenty years are now for sale.
If there is no customer, sell it to Devil in hell. With a clean heart, I will steal, If need be, I'll even kill.
They'll catch me and hang me up, with soft earth cover me up, and death-bringing grass will start from my beautiful, clean heart.
Translation by Frank Veszely in Hungarian Poetry: One Thousand Years (2023) Altona, Manitoba: Friesen Press, pp. 156-157.
NOTE: This poem got Attila expelled from university and preemptively scuttled any possibility of a career in academia. (Hence, my affinity for it. Any poetry that extracts such a cost is probably excellent poetry.)
Available online at Project Gutenberg
As the title suggests, this is all the published poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar. With a career pre-dating the Harlem Renaissance, during which lyric poetry ruled the roost, Dunbar may not be as well-known today as several of the African American poets who came later, but it’s not for being any less masterful.
The collection includes a wide variety of lyric forms from simple quatrains to intermediate length poems of several pages. The content and tones also vary, and there is often a sense of whimsy in the poems that goes beyond just being lyrical in form. Dunbar wrote both in dialect and in standard English. He was a big fan of James Whitcomb Riley’s dialectal work, as a poem in Riley’s honor attests. The dialect poems are easy enough to follow and are a pleasure to read. Dunbar was by no means limited to dialectal writing; he also wrote in Standard English cleverly, and the juxtaposition of his very “proper” poems and the dialectal ones shows a great range.
I’d highly recommend this collection for poetry readers, particularly those who enjoy lyric and dialectal poems.
You better not fool with a Bumblebee!-- Ef you don't think they can sting -- you'll see! They're lazy to look at, an' kind o' go Buzzin' an' bummin' aroun' so slow, An' ac' so slouchy an' all fagged out, Danglin' their legs as they drone about The hollyhawks 'at they can't climb in 'Ithout ist a-tumble-un out ag'in! Wunst I watched one climb clean 'way In a jimson-blossom, I did, one day,-- An' I ist grabbed it -- an' nen let go-- An' "Ooh-ooh! Honey! I told ye so!" Says The Raggedy Man; an' he ist run An' pullt out the stinger, an' don't laugh none, An' says: "They has be'n folks, I guess, 'At thought I wuz prejudust, more or less, -- Yit I still muntain 'at a Bumblebee Wears out his welcome too quick fer me!"
Given that "warts" and "hogs" are both unloved, Why not prybar letters, together shoved? A well-placed dash might do the trick, Would "War-Thog" sound too sci-fi bombastic?
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow -- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand -- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep -- while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
I came once to Tiantai, And back ten-thousand times. Like clouds or water tides: Drift and flow, come and go. I stroll, free of worry, Buddha's Path - in no hurry. While the world's forked roads Lead men to fret and scurry.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 