Literary Corridors

  WESTERN CIVILIZATION by Augostinho Neto (Angola)   (Translated from Portuguese by Margret Dickinson)   Sheets of tin nailed to posts driven in the ground make up the house   Some rags complete the intimate landscape.   The sun slanting through cracks welcomes the owner   After twelve hours of slave labour. breaking rock shifting rock breaking rock shifting rock fair weather wet weather breaking rock shifting rock   Old age comes early   a mat on dark nights is enough when he dies gratefully of hunger.

  The Brewing Night by Yussuf Kassam   It was that moment night when I heard it, Yes, I heard it all. That night sleep deserted me; So I lay awake, sleep in all my senses.   It was long past midnight. Time dragged on, the clock couldnt chime / tick The dog wouldnt bark, nor the baby cry; It was a moonless and windless night; The whole universe seemed to stagnate In dark, dreary, dead slumber. What was amiss? I knew not.   The dead quietness and solitude Seemed to be eternal - but Waves of babbling and muttering Began to trickle through the street; the air; Humed footsteps echoed through the street What was amiss? I knew not.   I pulled my curtain to see, And then I saw it all Heavy boots, thick uniforms and solid helmets Dimly discernible under the pale street lamp The atmosphere stood stiff and solid with Brawny-faced and clenched - teeth determination Thus the cauldron had boiled that sleepless night ...

  From War is Kind ["Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind"] by STEPHEN CRANE   Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind.         Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,       Little souls who thirst for fight,       These men were born to drill and die.       The unexplained glory flies above them,       Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—       A field where a thousand corpses lie.   Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind.         Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,       Eagle with crest ...

  Africa by David Diop Africa my Africa Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs Africa of whom my grandmother sings On the banks of the distant river I have never known you But your blood flows in my veins Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields The blood of your sweat The sweat of your work The work of your slavery Africa, tell me Africa Is this your back that is unbent This back that never breaks under the weight of humiliation This back trembling with red scars And saying no to the whip under the midday sun But a grave voice answer me Impetuous child that tree, young and strong That tree over there Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers That is your Africa springing up anew springing up patiently, obstinately Whose fruit bit by bit acquires The bitter taste of liberty.      

  Richard Cory by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim.   And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.   And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.   So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.  

  I, Too by Langston Hughes I, too, sing America.   I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.   Tomorrow, I’ll be at the table When company comes. Nobody’ll dare Say to me, “Eat in the kitchen,” Then.   Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed—   I, too, am America.