A Gallery of Harlem Portraits

Melvin B. Tolson, Robert M. Farnsworth

• Publisher: University of Missouri
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9780826202802, 9780826202765
• eBook ISBN: 9780826273130
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

A Gallery of Harlem Portraits is Melvin B. Tolson's first book-length collection of poems. It was written in the 1930s when Tolson was immersed in the writings of the Harlem Renaissance, the subject of his master's thesis at Columbia University, and will provide scholars and critics a rich insight into how Tolson's literary picture of Harlem evolved. Modeled on Edgar Lee Master's Spoon River Anthology and showing the influence of Browning and Whitman, it is rooted in the Harlem Renaissance in its fascination with Harlem's cultural and ethnic diversity and its use of musical forms. Robert M. Farnsworth's afterword elucidates these and other literary influences.

Tolson eventually attempted to incorporate the technical achievements of T.S. Eliot and the New Criticism into a complex modern poetry which would accurately represent the extraordinary tensions, paradoxes, and sophistication, both highbrow and lowbrow, of modern Harlem. As a consequence his position in literary history is problematical. The publication of this earliest of his manuscripts will help clarify Tolson's achievement and surprise many of his readers with its readily accessible, warmly human poetic portraiture.

Pastels

Jesse Seegar

The New Year comes, the Old Year goes.

What's down the road nobody knows.

I play my suit with a poker face,

But Father Time he holds the ace.

Harlem was ushering in the New Year.

Merrymaking crowds zigzagged through the streets.

Wild-eyed boys banged out crazy rhythms

On boxes and buckets and cans.

Taxicabs sent breakers of honking frenzy

Crashing against scabrous walls.

Now and then whistles jackknifed

Through the delirium of sound.

Met a Creole woman

Down in New Orleans.

Sweet, sweet Creole mama

Down in New Orleans.

Creole woman stole my heart

With her conjure beans.

Jesse Seegar elbowed his way along Seventh Avenue.

“I'm turning over a new leaf,” he reassured himself.

“I'm leaving Lovie Lovelace alone for good.”

Old Samson he was big an' strong,

But let a woman git ’im wrong.

Just keep a level head, you fool;

Then you won't be no woman's tool.

The sidewalk in front of the Lafayette Theatre was jammed.

Seegar stepped on the corns of a big-bellied yellow man.

Seegar apologized effusively

As the stranger groaned:

“You blind bastard!”

Then tinkled the silver dinner bell

Of a woman's clear, fragile laughter.

A familiar hand clasped his arm.

Seegar's heart fluttered like a frightened hen.

“Sweetheart,” dimpled the woman,

And the large black eyes vivified

The russet-tinted face.

Jesse Seegar said breathlessly:

“Lovie Lovelace…I…

I didn't expect to see you here.”

They disappeared in the dusky tide

That swirled along Seventh Avenue.

What does it matter? You an' I

Are like the dead leaves driftin' by.

I play my suit with a poker face,

But Father Time he holds the ace.

Dave Zachary

Why will a dawg leave one good bone

To git another bone?

Why don't a woman wid one good man

Leave other men alone?

The big-bellied yellow man limped

Toward the door of The Zachary Eat Shop.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he entered his domain.

“Hello, Zachary,” came a din of voices.

Flashing a gold-toothed grin,

He gave a half-military salute

And rocked toward the table where his wife sat,

Her chin resting on her cupped palm.

“Hello, Honey,” He patted the velvety brown hand

Bediamonded with miniature constellations.

She drawled: “You got here at last.”

He slumped into a seat and grimaced:

“After a damn nigger almost ruined my feet.”

She frowned: “I'm tired as hell, Dave.”

After a pause, he suggested:

“You better turn in early, Honey. You've had a hard day.”

He escorted her to the door. “Good night,” he said.

She pecked him on the cheek and joined the upgoing crowd.

In front of the Lafayette Theatre

A dusky Beau Brummel laughed:

“I thought you'd never come, Precious.”

Her hazel eyes answered him

With a passionate gleam.

If a woman wants another man,

There's nothing you kin do,

But look around to find someone

Who wants a man like you.

Hailing a taxicab,

He guided her to the curb.

To the driver he said:

“Jazz Boker's Place on Strivers' Row.”

Tubby Laughton

Mind yo' business, Black Boy,

An' we will git on fine.

I may not want you, Black Boy,

To help me handle mine.

Harlem was ushering in the New Year.

A taxicab stopped in front of The Zachary Eat Shop.

Tubby entered the café with a purposeful stride.

A white-jacketed West Indian stood near the door.

Tubby hesitated. “Where's Zachary?” he queried.

The West Indian barked: “At the last table on the right.”

The top of the table was hidden

By dishes swollen with food.

Dave Zachary's beefy head hung low over an enormous platter

Glutted with porterhouse steak.

Tubby's little eyes gleamed with greed.

The big-bellied yellow man looked up…

Very much like a hog disturbed at its trough.

Zachary back-wiped his mouth. “Well?” he snorted.

“One good turn deserves another,” Tubby said.

“Mr. Zachary, I just drove Mrs. Zachary an' a strange man

To Jazz Boker's Place on Strivers' Row.”

Dave Zachary's huge fist struck like a ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Chiaroscuro
• Silhouettes
• Etchings
• Pastels
• Appendix
• Illustrations
• Afterword
• About the Author