FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS 1905 1987 LIFE Grew up

FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS 1905 -1987

LIFE • Grew up in Kansas • After graduating from Kansas State’s school of Journalism he worked as a freelance writer in Chicago • He then worked as an editor in Atlanta for what would become the Atlanta Daily World • Davis eventually moved to Hawaii and disappeared from artistic life. • Around this time the HUAC investigated his works and they began to disappear from schools and libraries. • He raised five children in Hawaii and died while working on his third collection, about his life in the island state.

POETRY • Davis published three major collections during his life and one was published posthumously • His first, Black Man’s Verse, was met with great praise • His second, I Am the American Negro, drew favorable reviews but attracted less attention on allegations of redundancy. • The third and final work he published in life was 47 th Street, in which Davis presents Southside Chicago as a racial mix.

LUNATIC ATTENTION • After the election of President Obama, some small faction of the Lunatic Right has seized on a few references to a man simply referred to as ‘Frank’ in the President’s memoir. • They claim that this Frank was the ‘Communist’ Frank Martial Davis. • Some go as far as to allege that Davis is Obama’s real father

GILES JOHNSON, PH. D. Giles Johnson had four college degrees knew the whyfore of this the wherefore of that could orate in Latin or cuss in Greek and, having learned such things he died of starvation Because he wouldn’t teach and he couldn't porter.

FOUR GLIMPSES OF NIGHT I Eagerly Like a woman hurrying to her lover In windows and doors, daubing Until The entire neighborhood His wares are gone With purple paint. Then shuffles homeward Day Jingling the gray coins Night comes to the room of the Is an apologetic mother world Cloth in hand And lies, yielding and content Following after. Of daybreak. IV Against the cool round face Of the moon. II III Peddling From door to door Night is a curious child, wandering Between earth and sky, creeping Night sells Black bags of peppermint stars Heaping cones of vanilla moon Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin Shatters into a billion fragments Of quiet shadows At the blaring jazz Of a morning sun.

SELF PORTRAIT I would be Poor boy to corporation president, umpire— A painter with words Hoover and Browder with one vote each, Wherefore am I different Creating sharp portraits On the wide canvas of your mind From nine other Americans? A free country, Complete equality— But listen, you Yeah— Don’t worry about me And the rich get tax refunds, I rate! The poor get relief checks. I’m Convert 4711 at Beulah Baptist Church, In this democracy As for myself I sometimes sketch a miniature I’m Social Security No. 337 -16 -3458 in Washington, I pay five cents for a daily synopsis of current history, Thank you Mister God and Mister Roosevelt! Two bits and the late lowdown on Hollywood, And another thing: — Images of those things Shaped through my eyes That interest me; But being a Tenth American Though I contract for a mural. Of course You understand this democracy; One man as good as another, From log cabin to White House, Twist a dial for Stardust or Shostakovich, And with each bleacher stub I reserve the right to shout “kill the bum” at the No matter what happens I too can always call in a policeman!