Frank Marshall Davis

1. Frank Marshall Davis 1905-1987

2. 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.

3. 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 47th Street, in which Davis presents Southside Chicago as a racial mix.

4. 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

5. 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.

6. Four Glimpses of Night 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.

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