

And now a beautiful poem on caged bird (like Munias I mentioned in my last blog) by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) titled Sympathy
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opens,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats its wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
Dunbar was one of the earliest Afro-American writers, although he died quite young his contribution has been significant. I was reading some of his short stories at Gutenberg.org (it is a great site…I have included it as link in my main blog) titled “The heart of happy hollow”. The author had these interesting lines to say as forward to the collectio
n “Wherever laughter and tears rub elbows day by day, and the spirit of labor and laziness shake hands, there—there—is Happy Hollow, and of some of it may the following pages show the heart”. I found this collection very interesting it gave insight into Afro-American community at the turn of the 20th century. The dialect used by black Americans that I have seen in some English movies also helped to understand the stories better. There is an amazingly funny story written in afro-American dialect titled “The race question”. It’s about an old punter (who also was a jockey once, as I gathered from the story…frankly with the dialect you have to read it loudly to get it right). This story is a monologue of an old man at the race… not very uncommon if you sit next to a seasoned fellow at the turf club, they are quite liberal with opinion and judgment!!. And yes our man is quite defensive about gambling and comes out with incredible “honest gamblah was ez good ez a hones' preachah...” and yes he wants to “money ernuff to mek a donation on de pa'sonage”. I loved the story!!. It starts like this
Scene—Race track. Enter old coloured man, seating himself.
"Oomph, oomph. De work of de devil sho' do p'ospah. How 'do, suh? Des tol'able, thankee, suh. How you come on? Oh, I was des a-sayin' how de wo'k of de ol' boy do p'ospah. Doesn't I frequent the racetrack? No, suh; no, suh. I's Baptis' myse'f, an' I 'low hit's all devil's doin's. Wouldn't 'a' be'n hyeah to-day, but I got a boy named Jim dat's long gone in sin an' he gwine ride one dem hosses. Oomph, dat boy! I sut'ny has talked to him and labohed wid him night an' day, but it was allers in vain, an' I's feahed dat de day of his reckonin' is at han'.
And his commentary later was amusing
“De bay maih's done huh bes', she's done huh bes'! Dey's turned into the stretch an' still see-sawin'. Let him out, Jimmy, let him out! Dat boy done th'owed de reins away. Come on, Jimmy, come on! He's leadin' by a nose. Come on, I tell you, you black rapscallion, come on! Give 'em hell, Jimmy! give 'em hell! Under de wire an' a len'th ahead. Doggone my cats! wake me up w'en dat othah hoss comes in”.
And it ends like this…
"No, suh, I ain't gwine stay no longah, I don't app'ove o' racin', I's gwine 'roun' an' see dis hyeah bookmakah an' den I's gwine dreckly home, suh, dreckly home. I's Baptis' myse'f, an' I don't app'ove o' no sich doin's!"
Charming indeed!!
