Jean Toomer

Jean Toomer

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Jean Toomer (born Nathan Pinchback Toomer, December 26, 1894 – March 30, 1967) was an American poet and novelist commonly associated with the Harlem Renaissance, though he actively resisted the association, and modernism.
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November Cotton Flower

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Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
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People

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To those fixed on white,
White is white,
To those fixed on black,
It is the same,
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Evening Song

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Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Cloine tires,
Holding her lips apart
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A Certain Man

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A certain man wishes to be a
Of this earth; he also wants to beA saint and master of the being-world
Conscience cannot exist in the first:
The second cannot exist without conscience
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Reapers

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Black reapers with the sound of steel on
Are sharpening scythes
I see them place the
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
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For MW

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There is no transcience of twilight in The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face, No flicker of a slender flame in space,
In crucibles, fragility crystalline
There is no fragrance of the jessamine About you, no pathos of some old place A...
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Song of the Son

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Pour O pour that parting soul in songO pour it in the sawdust glow of
Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight,
And let the valley carry it along
And let the valley carry it along
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Tell Me

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Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk,
When purple ribbons bind the hill,
Do dreams your secret wish fulfill,
Do prayers, like kernels from the
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Her Lips Are Copper Wire

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whisper of yellow globesgleaming on lamp-posts that swaylike bootleg licker drinkers in the fogand let your breath be moist against melike bright beads on yellow globestelephone the power-housethat the main wires are insulate(her words play softly...
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Harvest Song

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I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown
All my oats are cradled
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them
And I hunger
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The Lost Dancer

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Spatial depths of being
The birth to death
Of feet dancing on earth of sand;
Vibrations of the dance
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Unsuspecting

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There is a natty kind of
That slicks its thoughts,
Culls its oughts,
Trims its views,
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Georgia Dusk

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The sky, lazily disdaining to
The setting sun, too indolent to holdA lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night's barbeque,
A feast of moon and men and barking hounds
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