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Showing posts with label Poet: Langston Hughes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Langston Hughes. Show all posts

The Weary Blues -- Langston Hughes

Guest poem submitted by Janice:
(Poem #1876) The Weary Blues
 Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
 Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
 I heard a Negro play.
 Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
 By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
 He did a lazy sway . . .
 He did a lazy sway . . .
 To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
 With his ebony hands on each ivory key
 He made that poor piano moan with melody.
 O Blues!
 Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
 He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
 Sweet Blues!
 Coming from a black man's soul.
 O Blues!
 In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
 I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
 "Ain't got nobody in all this world,
 Ain't got nobody but ma self.
 I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
 And put ma troubles on the shelf."

 Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
 He played a few chords then he sang some more--
 "I got the Weary Blues
 And I can't be satisfied.
 Got the Weary Blues
 And can't be satisfied--
 I ain't happy no mo'
 And I wish that I had died."
 And far into the night he crooned that tune.
 The stars went out and so did the moon.
 The singer stopped playing and went to bed
 While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
 He slept like a rock or a man that's dead
-- Langston Hughes
I started out by reading this poem like I read any other poem... and I found
that I fell into a rhythm, swaying, saying the words softly under my
breath... I could feel the smoky, dim atmosphere fill my room... I could
hear the blues player in my head, in front of me, all around me. This is a
poem, like the blues, that is pervasive, and all-encompassing, touched by
melancholy, it stays with you.

I read that Langston Hughes used to write his poetry sitting in little blues
bars... and I think that out of all his poems this one captures the fact
beautifully. Read it over and over again... you still fall into that
rhythm... it's got you by the collar!

janice.

Let America be America Again -- Langston Hughes

Guest poem sent in by Ruthie Coffman
(Poem #1802) Let America be America Again
 Let America be America again.
 Let it be the dream it used to be.
 Let it be the pioneer on the plain
 Seeking a home where he himself is free.

 ( America never was America to me.)

 Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
 Let it be that great strong land of love
 Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
 That any man be crushed by one above.

 (It never was America to me.)

 O, let my land be a land where Liberty
 Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
 But opportunity is real, and life is free,
 Equality is in the air we breathe.

 (There's never been equality for me,
 Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

 Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
 And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

 I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
 I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
 I am the red man driven from the land,
 I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
 And finding only the same old stupid plan
 Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

 I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
 Tangled in that ancient endless chain
 Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
 Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
 Of work the men! Of take the pay!
 Of owning everything for one's own greed!

 I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
 I am the worker sold to the machine.
 I am the Negro, servant to you all.
 I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
 Hungry yet today despite the dream.
 Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
 I am the man who never got ahead,
 The poorest worker bartered through the years.

 Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
 In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
 Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
 That even yet its mighty daring sings
 In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
 That's made America the land it has become.
 O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
 In search of what I meant to be my home--
 For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
 And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
 And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
 To build a "homeland of the free."

 The free?

 Who said the free? Not me?
 Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
 The millions shot down when we strike?
 The millions who have nothing for our pay?
 For all the dreams we've dreamed
 And all the songs we've sung
 And all the hopes we've held
 And all the flags we've hung,
 The millions who have nothing for our pay--
 Except the dream that's almost dead today.

 O, let America be America again--
 The land that never has been yet--
 And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
 The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
 Who made America,
 Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
 Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
 Must bring back our mighty dream again.

 Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
 The steel of freedom does not stain.
 From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
 We must take back our land again,
 America!

 O, yes,
 I say it plain,
 America never was America to me,
 And yet I swear this oath--
 America will be!

 Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
 The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
 We, the people, must redeem
 The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
 The mountains and the endless plain--
 All, all the stretch of these great green states--
 And make America again!
-- Langston Hughes
I thought of this poem almost immediately after reading the submission (and
commentary) of Bob Dylan's "God on Our Side", which made me sad, angry, and
unsure of how to respond. I think this poem by Hughes does it best. Like
Dylan, he is exposing and exploring an American myth - this time, the one
concerning equality of opportunity.

Perhaps with less irony and sophistication (if you read it after Dylan's
song its numerous exclamation points, dashes, and dramatic metaphors seem
slightly overbearing), Hughes allows a conversation to expose the
inequalities and ironies locked into American history. But in some ways his
poem attempts greater coherence than Dylan's, because he uses the myth as a
stepping stone towards new demands.

This is where the poem, for me, becomes a response to the "indoctrination"
of US history. If it is true that US history is cloaked in a mantle of
untruths about "democracy," and "God," - and as a student who grew up here
and learned American history I could say both a yes and no to that - then,
well, why not use those myths to demand a better performance? This is
Hughes' conclusion, and something that is constructive -- more of a call to
action than a lament. In that, perhaps Hughes is hopelessly optimistic and
naïve, or maybe just a bit braver than your average social/political critic.

Ruthie

[Martin adds]

Ruthie's comments on sophistication and the lack thereof reminded me of the
observation that a 'sophisticated' poem can be, at best, good - to be
*great* a poem has to overreach itself, to abandon the safety of restraint
and sophistication and take the risk of falling on its face. Hughes's poem
is undeniably dramatic, but not overly or dissonantly so - the overcharged
emotion definitely lends it wings rather than tripping it up. And I
definitely agree with Ruthie about the bravery necessary to risk looking
foolishly optimistic - I'll take that over sophisticated cynicism any day.

Theme for English B -- Langston Hughes

       
(Poem #1637) Theme for English B
 The instructor said,

     Go home and write
     a page tonight.
     And let that page come out of you --
     Then, it will be true.

 I wonder if it's that simple?
 I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
 I went to school there, then Durham, then here
 to this college on the hill above Harlem.
 I am the only colored student in my class.
 The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
 through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
 Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
 the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
 up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

 It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
 at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
 I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
 hear you, hear me -- we two -- you, me, talk on this page.
 (I hear New York too.) Me -- who?
 Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
 I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
 I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
 or records -- Bessie, bop, or Bach.
 I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
 the same things other folks like who are other races.
 So will my page be colored that I write?
 Being me, it will not be white.
 But it will be
 a part of you, instructor.
 You are white --
 yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
 That's American.
 Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
 Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
 But we are, that's true!
 As I learn from you,
 I guess you learn from me --
 although you're older -- and white --
 and somewhat more free.

 This is my page for English B.
-- Langston Hughes
       1951

Writing about writing is overdone to the point where it has almost become a
cliche - but that is not to say that the genre has not produced some
excellent poems. Indeed, if the old aphorism to "write what you know" is
true, poetry is surely one subject that poets are uniquely qualified to
write about. ("There's nothing to writing", as Walter Smith famously
remarked, "All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open up a vein.")

In today's poem, Hughes reexamines the age old topic of whether a poem
is actually two different poems when viewed in the context the writer's
experiences and that of the reader's, and the inevitable follow up about
what that says about the "validity" of the poem. This is a poem on two
levels, though - not a clever but sterile Metaphysical conceit on the
Nature of Truth, or a Romantic intertwining of Truth and Beauty, but a
deeply personal narrative that speaks truth even while questioning it, that
communicates with the reader in the very act of wondering whether such
communication is possible.

And above all, the poem's genius lies in the way its "voice" retains a
certain "English B" naivete, a diffidence that draws the reader in right
from the beginning, and prevents the poem from becoming sententious or
preachy when it draws into its conclusion and moves from questions to
statements. In the hands of a lesser poet, this poem could well have fallen
flat - indeed, the lack of a metrical structure and the banality of the
subject might well have led me to wonder just why this was even considered
poetry. Instead, I am left marvelling - as I often have occasion to do - at
the way in which a good poet can touch even the most timeworn of themes with
an indefinable, magical *something*, and leave it glowing with life.

martin

[Links]

There's a biography after Poem #410

Dream Deferred -- Langston Hughes

Guest poem submitted by Garret M. Lee:
(Poem #1006) Dream Deferred
 What happens to a dream deferred?

 Does it dry up
 like a raisin in the sun?
 Or fester like a sore--
 And then run?
 Does it stink like rotten meat?
 Or crust and sugar over--
 like a syrupy sweet?

 Maybe it just sags
 like a heavy load.

 Or does it explode?
-- Langston Hughes
Not sure what exactly to say about this poem. It's great, sad, and it seems
to give me goose bumps every time I read it. It makes me ask "What is the
American Dream, exactly?" and has it changed since the 1950's when this poem
was written?

Some of you may notice that the play "Raisin in the Sun" got its title from
this poem and the two themes go hand in hand as well. I would suggest that
anyone who hasn't read or seen the play do so, it really is great.

Garret.

[Minstrels Links]

Langston Hughes:
Poem #410, The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Poem #990, Sea Calm
Poem #1006, Dream Deferred

Sea Calm -- Langston Hughes

Guest poem sent in by David Wright

I am so enjoying this time at the sea shore.  The Lotos-Eaters was
wonderful.  Here's a little palate-cleanser:
(Poem #990) Sea Calm
 How still,
 How strangely still
 The water is today,
 It is not good
 For water
 To be so still that way.
-- Langston Hughes
Terse in the extreme, yet resonant, these short poems of Hughes intrigue me.
Neither Haiku or Imagist, nor Epigrammatic like Pope or Porchia.  But
sharing in both the unspoken quality of the Imagism - the implicit mood, the
feeling of watching, brooding; words that just hint at the scene they
describe - and the effective, almost talismanic brevity and symbolic
implications of Epigram - a poem like a small stone to be carried in the
pocket.  And finally, a poem that might have been penned by a child, and
been no less striking for that.

     Here are a couple more, one many of us know from school, and another
we may not have encountered due to its subject:

    I loved my friend.
    He went away from me.
    There's nothing more to say.
    The poem ends,
    Soft as it began,--
    I loved my friend.

    'Suicide's Note'

    The calm
    Cool face of the river
    Asked me for a kiss.

By way of contrast, here is haiku poet Issa looking at the sea:

    looking at the mountain
    looking at the sea...
    autumn evening

    oh purple clouds
    when will I mount you?
    western sea

(a very Western haiku, if you ask me)

    watching the sea
    sitting on the lawn...
    roasted mushrooms

    my dead mother--
    every time I see the ocean
    every time...

    Hamamatsu beach--
    helping out the cicadas
    singing waves

and then, I can't resist, thanks, Issa, for these, apropos of nothing...

    ain't a devil
    ain't a saint...
    just a sea slug

    hey boatman
    no pissing on the moon
    in the waves!

David

Links:

  We've run one of Hughes' poems before, the famous "The Negro Speaks of
  Rivers", Poem #410 (Biography attached)

  Issa has, surprisingly, not featured on Minstrels, though Basho and Buson
  both have. Here's a page with some resources on the poet and his works:
    [broken link] http://www.threeweb.ad.jp/logos/ainet/issa.html

The Negro Speaks of Rivers -- Langston Hughes

       
(Poem #410) The Negro Speaks of Rivers
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow
        of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went
        down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn
        all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
-- Langston Hughes
A theme which anywhere else would have sounded pretentious (even a touch racist,
in the title) is here imbued with a quiet dignity... I especially like the
wonderful 'richness' of its tone.

thomas.

[Biography]

 Hughes, (James Mercer) Langston

        b. Feb. 1, 1902, Joplin, Mo., U.S.
        d. May 22, 1967, New York City

Black poet and writer who became, through numerous translations, one of the
foremost interpreters to the world of the black experience in the United States.
Hughes's parents separated soon after his birth, and young Hughes was raised by
his mother and grandmother. After his grandmother's death, he and his mother
moved to half a dozen cities before reaching Cleveland, where they settled. His
poem "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," written the summer after his graduation from
high school in Cleveland, was published in  Crisis (1921) and brought him
considerable attention.

After attending Columbia University (1921-22), he explored Harlem, forming a
permanent attachment to what he called the "great dark city." He worked as a
steward on a freighter bound for Africa. Back from seafaring and sojourning in
Europe, he won an Opportunity magazine poetry prize in 1925. He received the
Witter Bynner Undergraduate Poetry Award in 1926.

While working as a busboy in a hotel in Washington, D.C., Hughes put three of
his own poems beside the plate of Vachel Lindsay in the dining room. The next
day, newspapers around the country reported that  Lindsay had discovered a Negro
busboy poet. A scholarship to Lincoln University in Pennsylvania followed, and
before Hughes received his degree in 1929, his first two books had been
published.

The Weary Blues (1926) was warmly received. Fine Clothes to the Jew (1927) was
criticized harshly for its title and for its frankness, but Hughes himself felt
it represented a step forward. A few months after graduation Not Without
Laughter (1930), his first prose work, had a cordial reception. In the '30s his
poetry became preoccupied with political militancy; he travelled widely in the
Soviet Union, Haiti, and Japan and served as a newspaper correspondent (1937) in
the Spanish Civil War. He published a collection of short stories, The Ways of
White Folks (1934), and The Big Sea (1940), his autobiography up to the age of
28.

Hughes wrote A Pictorial History of the Negro in America (1956), and the
anthologies The Poetry of the Negro (1949) and The Book of Negro Folklore (1958;
with Arna Bontemps). He also wrote numerous works for the stage, including the
lyrics for Street Scene, an opera with music by Kurt Weill. A posthumous book of
poems, The Panther and the Lash (1967), reflected the black anger and militancy
of the 1960s. Hughes translated the poetry of Federico García Lorca and Gabriela
Mistral. He was also widely known for his comic character Jesse B. Semple,
familiarly called Simple, who appeared in Hughes's columns in the Chicago
Defender and the New York Post and later in book form and on the stage. The
Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, ed. by Arnold Rampersad and David Roessel,
appeared in 1994.

        -- EB

[Links]

There's an essay on Langston Hughes and the 'Harlem Renaissance' at the
Smithsonian, [broken link] http://www.tsa.si.edu/disctheater/sweet/tss03.htm

[On Rivers]

The Nile, the Amazon, the Ganges, the Mississippi, the Congo, the Yangtze, the
Amur, the Don, the Volga, the Tiber, the Tigris and the Euphrates... rivers have
long been the source from which our civilization springs. And they're celebrated
in our culture as well, from Horatius at the Bridge to Steamboat Willie. I leave
you with this quick quiz - identify the poems from which these river quotes are
taken:

1. 'At sixteen you departed,
    You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
    And you have been gone five months.'
2. 'Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song!' (two possible answers!)
3. 'Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber!
        To whom the Romans pray,
    A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
        Take thou in charge this day!'
4. 'From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
    And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.'
5. 'I chatter, chatter, as I flow
        To join the brimming river,
    For men may come and men may go,
        But I go on for ever.. '

Answers the next time I run a river poem (i.e, tomorrow, if I can find one).