Claude McKay was born to peasant farmers on the island of Jamaica. His father, the son of slaves, descended from a West African tribe and familiarized him during his childhood with African folk stories. As a young man, McKay used money from the Jamaica Medal of the Institute for the Arts awarded for his two 1912 collections of dialect poetry, Songs of Jamaica and Constab Ballads (the latter about his experiences as a police constable) to immigrate to the United States. After studying at Tuskegee Institute and Kansas State College, he moved to New York City, where he placed poems in magazines such as the avant-garde Seven Arts and the leftist Liberator. In the early 1920s, he left the United States to live in Europe and North Africa for some dozen years, during which he became interested in socialism and communism and visited the Soviet Union.
Although McKay renounced Marxism and communism and converted to Catholicism in the 1940s, in the twenties he was considered radical when it came to taking on racial oppression. His reputation flourished among blacks in 1919 when he published the sonnet “If We Must Die” in the Liberator. Written after the 1919 “Red Summer” in Chicago, during which rioters threatened the livelihoods and lives of blacks, this poem was read as a strident voice of resistance for “fighting on!”
McKay’s first volume of poems published in America, Harlem Shadows, appeared in 1922 and established his reputation as a gifted poet writing in traditional forms, particularly sonnets, that focused on two major themes: his lyric nostalgic memories of rural life in Jamaica and his experience with racism and economic injustice in New York. A curious tension exists between his conservative fixed forms and the politicized racial consciousness that challenged the status quo in his adopted country. Nevertheless, this paradoxical blend of orthodox prosody and radical themes made him a major poet among blacks in the twenties: it satisfied traditional expectations about how poetry should be written for popular audiences while it simultaneously empowered readers who admired its defiant message to refuse racism and to reject oppression. McKay knew that his immediate audience consisted of black readers, and he was not afraid of offending genteel readers, regardless of their race.
McKay’s images of the underside of life in Harlem — the poverty, desperation, prostitution, and bleakness — appeared in his prose as well as in his poetry. His first novel, Home to Harlem, sold extremely well but was famously criticized by the highly respected W. E. B. Du Bois, one of the founders of the NAACP, as well as a historian, sociologist, teacher, writer, and editor. Writing in the Crisis, Du Bois acknowledged some success in the novel’s prose style but strongly objected to the stark depiction of black life: “[F]or the most part [it] nauseates me, and after the dirtier parts of its filth, I feel distinctly like taking a bath.” McKay responded by making a case for his literary art and refused to write “propaganda” or merely uplifting literature. He went on to publish two more novels that aren’t set in Harlem: Banjo (1929) and Banana Bottom (1933); however, in Gingertown, a 1932 collection of short stories, some of the settings are located in Harlem. McKay’s writing dropped off in the last decade of his life after he published his autobiography, A Long Way from Home (1937), and his Complete Poems were not published until 2003.
A 1925 edition of Survey Graphic magazine on the “Renaissance” in Harlem.
Harlem’s famous Cotton Club in 1938, where legendary jazz musicians performed throughout the Harlem Renaissance.
While McKay did not publish any volumes of poetry late in life, his poems remain the bedrock on which subsequent protest poetry depicting Harlem life was built.
Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accurséd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O Kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
His spirit is smoke ascended to high heaven.
His father, by the cruelest way of pain,
Had bidden him to his bosom once again;
The awful sin remained still unforgiven.
All night a bright and solitary star
(Perchance the one that ever guided him,
Yet gave him up at last to Fate’s wild whim)
Hung pitifully o’er the swinging char.
Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view
The ghastly body swaying in the sun.
The women thronged to look, but never a one
Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue.
And little lads, lynchers that were to be,
Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.
I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell,
Did not forever feed me vital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist —
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.
I must not gaze at them although
Your eyes are dawning day;
I must not watch you as you go
Your sun-illumined way;
I hear but I must never heed
The fascinating note,
Which, fluting like a river reed,
Comes from your trembling throat;
I must not see upon your face
Love’s softly glowing spark;
For there’s the barrier of race,
You’re fair and I am dark.