Mary Effie Lee Newsome - 5 Short Poems & Illustrations (1921-1926)

Forgotten Poems #101

    
              —: Sunset :—

       Since poets have told of sunset,
       What is left for me to tell?
       I can only say that I saw the day
       Press crimson lips to horizon gray,
       And kiss the earth farewell.
    

    
              —: Painted Poems :—

       Heaven's deepest blue,
       Earth's richest green,
       Minted dust of stars,
       Molten sunset sheen,
       Are blent together
       On this lithe brown feather,
       In a disc of light—
       Lithe, light!
    

     
              —: The Bronze Legacy :—
                      (To A Brown Boy)

       Tis a noble gift to be brown, all brown,
       Like the stongest things that make
            up this earth.
       Like the mountains grave and grand,
            Even like the very land,
            Even like the trunks of trees
            Even oaks, to be like these!
       God builds his strength in bronze.

       To be brown like thrush and lark!
       Like the subtle wren so dark!
       Nay, the king of the beasts wears brown;
            Eagles are of this same hue.
       I thank god, then, I am brown.
            Brown has mighty things to do.
    

    
              —: Exodus :—

       Rank fennel and broom
       Grow wanly besides
       The cottage and room
       We once occupied,
       But sold for the snows!
       The dahoon berry weeps in blood,
       I know,
       Watched by the crow—
       I've seen both grow
       In those weird wastes of Dixie!
    

    
              —: Capricco :—

       When soft suns of autumn just mock with a shadow,
       When thin wind of autumn light blows,
       Aye, Swallow, I'd follow,
       And follow and follow—
       I'd follow the petals of rose!
    

     
              —: From 'The Little Pages' :—

	March 21, 1912.

        You should see the great round red buds on the maple trees!
	The pointed russet buds on our poplar tree are an inch and a half long. Branches on the briar rose bush are moss green.

	March 21. Many years later.

        Cardinal's bold whistle, Bluebird's gentle murmur, Mourning Dove's sad alto, Song Sparrow's sharp piping have been preparing my ears for this—Robin's sturdy song. Business has begun. The Robins have arrived. Now for nest building with true masonry.
	Yet all winter I had believed it was the Bluebirds I was most anxious to see. I have been watching the little bird house on a pole in the side yard and longing for the coming of the Wrens and Bluebirds.
        While scattering crumbs along the walk or placing cracked nuts on the windowsills for the Jays and Titmice and Chickadees I have continued to look longingly toward the empty bird house with snow on its little roof and doorsills and in gazing at the black spots that were all the entrances showed of a barren inside I have thought, “Never mind. Bluebirds are coming.”
	But when they get here they never do anything great like Robin. Fancy their being content to start house-keeping quietly in some old Wood-pecker hollow or a home placed for them on a pole.
        Can you imagine Robin or Oriole starting the season in this fashion? And yet what lovable neighbors are Bluebird and Wren!
	That reminds me. I know a lady who lives on a river bank. There are water willows in her back yard and a few days ago I was looking toward these for a glimpse of the frozen river beyond.
        I cannot tell you of the strange beauty of this water in the winter. I am sure some Japanese painter would love to make a dainty drawing of it, with the somber willows walling its grayish white and frosted green.
	In searching through the willows for the river I discovered two swinging bird houses that were the color of the trees. I forgot all about the river and began to ask questions concerning the little boxes. Wrens often built there, I was told. It must make things lively for the gray old willows to have such cheery creatures summering there. Indeed I know the willow boughs are shaking now with pleasure. For Wren time is nearly here!

Mary Effie Lee Newsome (1885-1979) was “born in Philadelphia January 19, 1885. Daughter of Bishop B.F. and Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Lee. Reared in Ohio, at Wilberforce. Married 1920, Rev. Henry Nesby Newsome. Is a lover of the out-of-doors, and of the beautiful.” (Caroling Dusk, 1927)

Alongside poetry, Newsome also wrote short-stories and prose, and was a talented illustrator, and in 1917 became a staff-writer at the black culture and arts magazine The Crisis, edited by W.E.B. Du Bois. An advocate for children, in 1925 she launched the column ‘The Little Page’ featuring Newsome’s poetry, stories, and illustrations “for the younger folk.” Like other Harlem renaissance poets, her poetry for adults was regularly featured in The Crisis and Opportunity—among other magazines—throughout the 1920s, and in 1940 she published her only standalone volume of poems, Gladiola Garden.

              —: After Effie Lee Newsome :—
                             by Dick Whyte

       a wound
       called attachment,

       even the cicadas
       leave
       the comfort of earth

       unburying
       song
      

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