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About this poet

Alexander Posey, born August 3, 1873, was a Muskogee Creek poet, journalist, and humorist known for his poems and Fus Fixico letters, a series of satirical letters written from his fictional persona, Fus Fixico, that commented on local and national politics of the time. He served as the editor for the Eufaula Indian Journal before passing away on May 27, 1908. The posthumous The Poems of Alexander Lawrence Posey (Crane Printers), which was collected and arranged by Posey's wife, was published in 1910.

To Yahola, On His First Birthday

The sky has put her bluest garment on,
    And gently brushed the snowy clouds away;
The robin trills a sweeter melody,
    Because you are just one year old today.

The wind remembers, in his sweet refrains,
    Away, away up in the tossing trees,
That you came in the world a year ago,
    And earth is filled with pleasant harmonies,

            And all things seem to say,
            “Just one year old today.”

From The Poems of Alexander Lawrence Posey (Crane & Co., 1910). This poem is in the public domain.

From The Poems of Alexander Lawrence Posey (Crane & Co., 1910). This poem is in the public domain.

Alexander Posey

Alexander Posey

Alexander Posey, born August 3, 1873, was a Muskogee Creek poet, journalist, and humorist known for his poems and Fus Fixico letters.

by this poet

poem
There is more glory in a drop of dew,
    That shineth only for an hour,
Than there is in the pomp of earth’s great Kings
    Within the noonday of their power.

There is more sweetness in a single strain
    That falleth from a wild bird’s throat,
At random in the lonely forest’s depths,
    Than there’s in all
poem

Down with him! chain him! bind him fast!
    Slam to the iron door and turn the key!
The one true Creek, perhaps the last
    To dare declare, “You have wronged me!”
Defiant, stoical, silent,
    Suffers imprisonment!

Such coarse black hair! such eagle eye!
    Such stately mien

poem

Why do trees along the river
     Lean so far out o’er the tide?
Very wise men tell me why, but
    I am never satisfied;
And so I keep my fancy still,
    That trees lean out to save
The drowning from the clutches of
    The cold, remorseless wave.