By Frank Marshall Davis

I

Eagerly

Like a woman hurrying to her lover

Night comes to the room of the world

And lies, yielding and content

Against the cool round face

Of the moon.

II

Night is a curious child, wandering

Between earth and sky, creeping

In windows and doors, daubing

The entire neighborhood

With purple paint.

Day

Is an apologetic mother

Cloth in hand

Following after.

III

Peddling

From door to door

Night sells

Black bags of peppermint stars

Heaping cones of vanilla moon

Until

His wares are gone

Then shuffles homeward

Jingling the gray coins

Of daybreak.

IV

Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin

Shatters into a billion fragments

Of quiet shadows

At the blaring jazz

Of a morning sun.



• Living
• Nature

Poet Bio

Poet and journalist Frank Marshall Davis was born in Arkansas City, Kansas, in 1905. He studied journalism at Kansas State Agricultural College and then worked for newspapers in Chicago before moving to Atlanta, Georgia, to edit the Atlanta Daily World. Influenced by jazz, his first book of poetry, Black Man’s Verse (1935), presented realistic portraits of African American figures. In 1948, Davis moved to Hawaii, where he raised a family, wrote, worked as an editor, and owned a newspaper business. His work regained attention during the Black Arts Movement of the 1960s, as an inspiration for younger writers.  See More By This Poet

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