Chapter 1c: Seasonal and Occasional Poetry and Poems about Poetry, 1890-1899
Seasonal and Occasional Poetry.
Among these narratives of racial identity and history, African American poets in the 1890s explored the seasons and personal reflections, capturing life’s milestones and the rhymes of nature. In moments of celebration, sorrow, and transition, these poets found themselves reflecting on what makes the New Year ‘new’ and spring bloom. They often intertwined these introspections into themes of faith, thinking critically about the role of Christianity in daily life.
One poem we enjoyed comes from the poems collected in Gertrude Mossell’s The Work of the African American Woman. This author, Josephine B.C. Jackson, is not well known, and we have little biographical information about her:
Josephine B.C. Jackson, "April" (1894)
Robes of bright blue around her form are swaying,
And in her bosom dewy violets lie;
While the warm sun rays on her girdle playing,
Give it the rainbow's soft and varied dye.
Over the meadow where the grass is growing,
She sprinkles early flowers of every hue;
Weeping, she strews them, and the bright tears flowing,
Bathe every leaflet with a shining dew.
With stately step, and crowned with crimson roses
She comes; and sighing, April bows her head;
Then May the white lids on the sweet eyes closes,
And lays fair April with her flowers—dead.
Published in The Work of the Afro-American Woman, 1894
Here, Jackson captures the transition from April to May through personification and imagery. April is depicted wearing “robes of bright blue” and holding “dewy violets,” symbolizing early spring and renewal. The imagery of April “sprinkling early flowers” and crying while doing so suggests both the nurturing and melancholic aspects of the season. In contrast, May is introduced with regality, adorned with “crimson roses and bringing a sense of full bloom and vitality. The poem culminates with May figuratively laying April to rest as the natural cycle of seasonal change and renewal.
Lucy Hudges Brown, M.D., Thoughts on Retiring.
Oh Lord, the work thou gavest me
With this day's rising sun,
Through faith and earnest trust in Thee,
My Master, it is done.
And ere I lay me down to rest,
To sleep—perchance for aye—
I'd bring to thee at Thy request
A record of the day.
And while I bring it willingly
And lay it at Thy feet,
I know, oh, Saviour, certainly,
That it is not complete.
Unless Thy power and grace divine,
Upon what I have wrought,
Shall in its glorious fulness shine,
Oh Lord, the work is naught.
Lucy Hudges Brown was the first African American female physician who was licensed to practice in both North and South Carolina. This poem is Brown’s reflection and prayer for completing her daily responsibilities as a medical doctor.
Poems about Poetry.
Ars Poetica, Latin for “The Art of Poetry,” refers to a literary genre where poets reflect on the nature, purpose, and principles of poetry itself. Originating from ancient Greece and Rome, this tradition in the 1890s continued to evolve as poets contemplated poetry’s ability to transcend physical limitations and influence emotions and beliefs. Poets examined how their craft shapes language and culture and captures emotion, illustrating poetry’s power to shape relationships, provoke thought, and endure through generations.
Mary Weston Fordham was an educator, school founder, and poet from Charleston, South Carolina. Fordham was perhaps most known at the time for her teaching; indeed, she operated a school for African American children in Charleston during the Civil War years (something that was very much against the law in South Carolina at the time). Fordham published her only poetry collection Magnolia Leaves in 1897, with an introduction by Booker T. Washington who hoped these poems would “fall among the critical and intelligent.” Well-known figures like Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Du Bois often wrote introductory notes to works of poetry and fiction by aspiring Black authors. For Washington, the goal was partly to gain recognition and respect for Black authors more generally (in this case, we are unaware of whether the author knew Booker T. Washington personally).
Mary Weston Fordham, “The Pen” (from Magnolia Leaves)
Mightier than the sword thou art,
Thou can'st pierce like venomed dart,
Time and space count naught with thee,
Leagues of land or leagues of sea.
Thou can'st waves of passion calm,
Griefs assuage like Gilead's balm,
Bring sweet pleasure to the eye,
Give sweet gladness for the sigh.
When thy little point is prest,
Oft it wounds some gentle breast,
Filling chalice to the brim,
Darkening life with sorrows grim.
Learned sage in days gone by,
Scanned thee with prophetic eye,
Said to myriads then unborn
Thou would 'st rule on many a throne.
Swords may stab with savage ire,
Glistening out like rays of fire,
They can ne'er thy power attain,
O'er the sea or o'er the main.
Mightier than the sword art thou,
Lo! on many a regal brow
Furrows which thy point has wrought,
Troubles which thy work has brought.
Mightier than the sword art thou,
List! a maid records her vow,
That so long as life shall last,
Ne'er a doubt shall love o'ercast
Naught of bliss or naught of woe,
But thou can'st on man bestow,
With thy tiny pointed prow,
Mightier than the sword art thou.
Within “The Pen,” Fordham praises the transformative power of writing over the destructive force of the sword. She contrasts the sword’s ability to inflict physical harm with the pen’s capacity to influence history and affect personal and societal change.
Gertrude Mossell, “Words”
(from The Work of the Afro-American Woman)
“Words fitly spoken are like apples of gold in pictures of silver.”
“A word is a picture of a thought."
Words—idle words—ye may not speak,
Without a care or thought;
For all that pass your lips each day
With good or ill are fraught.
The words of joy, and peace, and love,
You spoke at early morn,
Though time has passed and day is o'er,
Are on their mission borne.
The threat of pain, and fear, and hate,
You shouted in your wrath,
With all its deadly doing, still
Is lying in your path.
Nay, e'en the tiny waves of air
Your secret will not keep,
And all you speak when wide awake
Is whispered, though you sleep.
A word may be a curse, a stab,
And, when the sun is west,
Its onward course it still may run
And rankle in some breast.
But words, small words, and yet how great,
Scarce do we heed their power;
Yet they may fill the heart with joy,
And soften sorrow's hour.
True hearts, by words, are ofttimes knit;
Bound with a mystic tie,
Each golden link a word may loose;
Yea, cause true love itself to die.
Mother, friendship, home and love;
Only words, but Oh, how sweet!
How they cause the pulse to quicken,
Eye or ear, whene'er they greet.
"Peace on earth, good will to men,"
Are the words the angels spake,
And long ages echo them;
Still their tones glad music make.
Each day we live, each day we speak;
And ever an angel's pen
Doth write upon those pages fair
The words of sinful men.
But one small word, but it must be
A power for good or ill,
And when the speaker lieth cold
May work the Master's will.
Then learn their power and use them well,
That memory ne'er may bring
In time of mirth or lonely hour
A sad or bitter sting.
Let only words of truth and love
The golden silence break,
That God may read on record bright,
She spoke for "Jesus' sake."
Mossell captures the profound impact of language on our lives, portraying how words, seeming small and fleeting, carry immense weight in shaping human experiences and relationships.