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About this Poem 

“Oriflamme” appeared in the January 1920 issue of the magazine The Crisis

Oriflamme

“I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don’t know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!’” 
—Sojourner Truth.
 
 
I think I see her sitting bowed and black,	
   Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,	
Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet	
   Still looking at the stars.	
 
Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,	       
   Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,	
Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,	
   Still visioning the stars!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 24, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 24, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

Jessie Redmon Fauset

Jessie Redmon Fauset

Jessie Redmon Fauset, born in 1882, played a crucial role in the Harlem Renaissance during her time as literary editor of The Crisis.

by this poet

poem
On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take
poem
When April's here and meadows wide 
Once more with spring's sweet growths are pied 
    I close each book, drop each pursuit, 
    And past the brook, no longer mute, 
I joyous roam the countryside.

Look, here the violets shy abide 
And there the mating robins hide—
    How keen my sense, how acute, 
      When
poem
If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,
     Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.
Better the wound forever seeking balm
     Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,
     The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,
Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath