Samuel Greenberg: American Poet
the poet seeks an earth in himself

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1. A roomer up Harlem

2. And this great human rebellion

3. Yiddish or impressions in sentiments

4. Between Historical Life (autobiography)

[ Poems ]


A roomer up Harlem

By this effort one can be sure to missjudge the infinitum of penetration from a powerless vitality to ease the cripple of mortal dumbness of pleasure, by momentarily worship of sentiment in stupid reflection, let not this hinder our story which does answer this remarkable medium,
There lived a creature, whether he is effected with the wonders of souls exhibitions of such creations as Philosophy or the great means of an artists curiosities, or any final royalties, that remains a step to be followed as an observation, which we slightly take upon ourselves to solve
- Before we breath a little further we will mention a character of mysterious in contention, all flowers of rare valor will, bend in their heaviness of grace, Can we pick such bloom to liken an ordinary youth of simple recandid beckonless attire? Why not? one little over memory will flash to distinguish, men who fought 'neath this silent space - paris quaters through latin enough?! The narrow streets of London's poor strikes ones manly precaution, and the wandering hero of passed predomination. - while being occupied in some necessary shoppings, I should mention this beastly damp wretched weather, which seems always an unusual case for the nieghbor to drop in, stopping at this building - yes, we can't look at it, but the inevitable eye tension never fails the spirits mood of appreciation. Behold! a three story half gloomy appearance, privately - overlooking structure, by a side glance one can tell that it also boards beneath the respectable and principle entrance, people of middle class and undertakers to live the housekeeping.
Being that I am so very familiar with the vicinity that scarcely could one decieve his conscience from being personally encouraged to meet one you silently bewonder, soon my hands grasped a half repaired brass sommoner, all along the street their can be seen stray sparrows upon the ugly gutter with its hedious raiment of beaten rain, that tells a mirrors pussle of life in between, The sky seems to wonder in its half moaning gleam, Why such dwellings loom their frame beneath this abrupt protection, soon an interuption turned my gaze, The door was half way opened, "whom do you want?" was the response rather hasty and offspoken neglected foriegner, being a female servant, "Mr Veriker" - her voice loudly sounded indirectly again, "come in! come in! I will call him," here I boldly stepted in to think - "no no! don't tell him someone is here to see him," "but you can please show me where he rooms," she never answered and seemed happy to feel unburdened by ones self approval, in a quick retreat she dissappeared into the back stairway which leads to the basement below an apartment, Stopping to stoop for the banister, one never can tell how safe walking strange stair may lead to, gripping a hold the composition began wagging, as I drew near the top, all is quiet, yes voices of children's echo's sounded to my relief feeling my way safe, untill another round of steps half illumined, to guide one hight, seemed a bit indecent, comfortably leaning against the wall finally stood near the door, which was slightly ajar, hesitating to knock, a rap would anoy him, wondering a moment, I tipped the panel within the plank, not a sound from anywhere, reached my heave of gathered sentiment,
now! this helped me inquire again, "Hello - who is there," spoke a half absorbed voice - for a second their came a chill of mingled stuper through me, with the recolection of this soul within, briskly but unfirmly I griped a smooth parclin knob, lightly pushing it upen - "pardon me is this Mr ---" leaving the door partly apace, no second invitation was given, over a shabby quilt and loose underneath blanket in between half covered, Lieing against a high built up pillow a youth with a seanny wool wardrobe of faded vermilion, handsomely ruffled thick head of hair, undisturbed, guiding a large book of records of science and Aesthetics, after a brief pause, a spell shook my curiosity
The careless throw up of manuscripts and maps Beside the roomers bed, large fantastic drawing's of sketchy reflections, endowed the wall, which had an old cheap pink shaded aspect, would even throw the lightest speck into view - some odd frames of antique taste seem to prove his class effort to find faults with the works which was kept for remolding in his consideration, were held by the wall strewn here and there about the room, some were upon the floor, The wasted matting was worn by its familiar rubs from its frequent use of necessary paths in positions of most important, the corners of the room had traveling valises and some dusty canvases placed temporarily up against bowingly, near a window the onely upening there was except the door, - standing a shofenier, with a lyric shaped like glass, that seemed to complain in which her master abandons his spirit of motional attention, opposite the bed was a little parlor made table with books showing the value of them which he had chosen by many an auther, piled in groups sheets of music were also in between, and on top, of the volumes loosely thrown up, all fiegned a curious manner of handling and interfusion, beside this stand was a chair with a brown black tinged coat on its back, and trousers neatly placed on the seat, so that they should not badly lay to crease anoyingly, standing abruptly in its midst, still wondering why my friend pays less attention, who seeks entrance into his occupied corner, here I ventured to speak reproveingly - shall I be misstaken our greeting will not answer sufficiently in this odd manner of courtesy - but these discriptions will enlighten our pussle of his character, -- .
This happened in the regions of the slums of the "East side" -- New York -- deeply downtown, while bussing my way through the streets, closely escapeing my eye, someone hailed me rather weakly and inattionally, stopping to see who it may be why - "Mr. Veriket" - by the grace of Honor! calling me with his usual delicate mysterious sensetive wave by his arm, as if something very important must be availed, grasping me respectively by the hand and directs me towards a sHop, that would make -- Michleangelo whince, the most unusual place for such rarity is seldom met with, we may begin with stuffed birds and end in ancient, very aged moth eaten volumes of Holy scripture from the philogy of this creation, Enough! I just can easily penetrate his wonderful gift by his prophetic brilliancy and lofty love for litterature inexaustable, and never assuming a religious regard, and this worm Like inspiration would at times force me to say to him, "why do you choose to be so paralized in the abstract"? and his winning remark would thrill me when he would answer, what phrase is a hinderance!?" or How would you feel without the apprecian"!? after a short purchase of some wierd looking volumes and ornaments, we passed into the street walking lowly side by side into the nearest public park, where he as I could guess would sit and watch the children at play untill the hour of twilight directed him to return home.

Samuel B Greenbreg
Dec 1915

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And this great human rebellion

And this great human rebellion, has it's scattered laureates - sparks,
That kindle the flame to repeat my brother will cause the perfumed love more clear
And seek heavenly envy. In spite the selfish heart limits perhaps weave the better birth
We then easily blend a lodge, which can pray upon the universe of charm
And share the impulse of progress, this vital grain must plead thousand-fold
Live in us, as the blowing sea breeze! Through an angel gate,
The ecliptic change found me under a leafless Oak.
The cast shadowings of branches like madusa's skull
There in on looking leveled my talent to flood the mind in abstract ecstasy,
The gallant spurtive land and heaven with the numberless diamond circle, gives joy hither,
Whether the banner contains power to plenty the soul,
This humble chip in our reverence doth limit it's whole.


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Yiddish or impressions in sentiments

The man with a dust pan and stick, Before he had opened the door, the same conclusion confronts you, he naturally is a Hind man, or a nuisance, I'll not call the east my phamplet, for theres yet actual blood with me , and bold life in a puddle, ah can't say the theres much to learn, we wander as the makers of Litterature have, from Rome to Home, and the Leave a nice gentle jawing Booklet for me and for you, a little is there to a certain for this reading had not what Sir Walter, merely played with in the time of his life, ah here my practice is a sure recovery of expression, good god a Sir Walter scott, a poe - and Europe, a tail for Rudyard Kipling - a mist of love, where has science relieved itself call whom you like my head is good stuff.
must return to my self I like this and that you know, the pillows near my bed are very gauzy now, the wine light is in Heavens canon exuse me, I meant to write that the pillows were on the bed, and myself is a bit hasty and wiches to be lost very often, well, generally The yiddish remark is, also, even now theres much to Know in an interval, this good Happy state is truth with care, can you mend the least of creations disposition? truth with no care, is an artists fate. My own likes less than it can take, the brief jotting of this sketch, is Irving's Loss of abbreviation, someone just passed me and shouted curiously, "more poetry?" well he managed to know from me that ability is stupidity, theres is much trouble in pure secret forgiveness
Turning over a new life, a new leaf, the supper is soon upon us and we expect warm coffee! my most beloved siever age, the windows are being shut, think, to write in public where everybody and nobody trots his privalige The poem is grey is not strong enough, the sky Silk of fantasy is not broad enough, The world and its body - its body is not sure enough, yet, the singer buildings as is termed, can repeat with drawing ease and yet! mind we still have schools my god, Back to the flowers O pardoning reader, my joy was a bit spat at nature Kindly drop your potatoes we have enough of emigrants, we wait for the prophetic monkishines, monkishines well theres little to my prophenity, can you help yourself, the lone self - the self we'll have much to disever the spirit between sensational jaws, heres a draft, lets close the door, - "nobody home" is a clever remark preHaps we can ring an african polishing beauty with lumber tast of Leather panther orientalism, is it right to be a nice sane lad or man to be the lover of Human continutity
Blue, tell the scenes in the bedroom I must soon light the lamp, o the map fee! really, you'll someone tell the facts of master death in sheering assumpsit. - S.B.GreenBerg 1916

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