Claude McKay’s “Tormented” reads like a strained conversation between a speaker and something that hounds him — desire, temptation, or even an oppressive pursuer. The “you” is never named, which makes the pressure feel intimate and relentless. He refuses to wrestle with it, not out of pride but because he knows he is weaker while it grows bolder, “tigerish,” and more demanding. The early mood is exhausting and suffocating; he asks only to be left alone while the force takes what it wants. The poem then turns quieter. After the torment is sated, he imagines going to a silver stream to cleanse his body, sun his limbs, and dream. That final image feels like a small release — not an escape or a victory, but a private hope for recovery and peace.
Tormented — Summary
I will not reason, wrestle here with you, Though you pursue and worry me about; As well put forth my swarthy arm to stop The wild wind howling, darkly mad without. The night is yours for revels; day will light. I will not fight you, bold and tigerish, For I am weak, while you are gaining strength; Peace! cease tormenting me to have your wish. But when you’re filled and sated with the flesh, I shall go swiftly to the silver stream, To cleanse my body for the spirit’s sake, And sun my limbs, and close my eyes to dream.