Mother to Son. Langston Hughes

Transcription

1 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 1926 Mother to Son Well, son, I ll tell you: Life for me ain t been no crystal stair. It s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor Bare. But all the time I se been a-climbin on, And reachin landin s, And turnin corners, And sometimes goin in the dark Where there ain t been no light. So boy, don t you turn back. Don t you set down on the steps Cause you finds it s kinder hard. Don t you fall now For I se still goin, honey, I se still climbin, And life for me ain t been no crystal stair. Langston Hughes

2 The Lynching HIS spirit in 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. If We Must Die 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 accursed lot. If we must die oh, 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! Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! 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!

3 To the White Fiends THINK you I am not fiend and savage too? Think you I could not arm me with a gun And shoot down ten of you for every one Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you? Be not deceived, for every deed you do I could match out-match: am I not Africa s son, Black of that black land where black deeds are done? But the Almighty from the darkness drew My soul and said: Even thou shaft be a light Awhile to burn on the benighted earth, Thy dusky face I set among the white For thee to prove thyself of highest worth; Before the world is swallowed up in night, To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth! The Harlem Dancer 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 Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; But, looking at her falsely-smiling face I knew her self was not in that strange place.

4 Harlem Shadows I HEAR the halting footsteps of a lass In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass Eager to heed desire s insistent call: Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street. Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest, Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earth s white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay. 1 The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street. After the Winter SOME day, when trees have shed their leaves, And against the morning s white The shivering birds beneath the eaves Have sheltered for the night, We ll turn our faces southward, love, Toward the summer isle Where bamboos spire the shafted grove And wide-mouthed orchids smile. And we will seek the quiet hill Where towers the cotton tree, And leaps the laughing crystal rill, And works the droning bee. And we will build a lonely nest Beside an open glade, And there forever will we rest, 1 O love O nut-brown maid!

5 The Tired Worker O WHISPER, O my soul! the afternoon Is waning into evening whisper soft! Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon From out its misty veil will swing aloft! Be patient, weary body, soon the night Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest! Weary my veins, my brain, my life, have pity! No! Once again the hard, the ugly city. The Barrier 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.

6 Mother Night James Weldon Johnson ( ) ETERNITIES before the first-born day, Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, A brooding mother over chaos lay. And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, Shall run their fiery courses and then claim The haven of the darkness whence they came; Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. So when my feeble sun of life burns out, And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, I shall, full weary of the feverish light, Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep Into the quiet bosom of the Night. A Brown Girl Dead With two white roses on her breasts, White candles at head and feet, Dark Madonna of the grave she rests; Lord Death has found her sweet. Her mother pawned her wedding ring To lay her out in white; She'd be so proud she'd dance and sing to see herself tonight. Countee Cullen

7 Lines to my Father The many sow, but only the chosen reap; Happy the wretched host if Day be brief, That with the cool oblivion of sleep A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief. If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout One meagre blossom for our hands to cull, Accustomed indigence provokes a shout Of praise that life becomes so bountiful. Now ushered regally into your own, Look where you will, as far as eye can see, Your little seeds are to a fullness grown, And golden fruit is ripe on every tree. Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage Without travail, to which weak wills aspire; This is a merited and grief-earned wage From One Who holds His servants worth their hire. So has the shyest of your dreams come true, Built not of sand, but of the solid rock, Impregnable to all that may accrue Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock. Countee Cullen

8 As I Grew Older It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun-- My dream. And then the wall rose, Rose slowly, Slowly, Between me and my dream. Rose until it touched the sky-- The wall. Shadow. I am black. I lie down in the shadow. No longer the light of my dream before me, Above me. Only the thick wall. Only the shadow. My hands! My dark hands! Break through the wall! Find my dream! Help me to shatter this darkness, To smash this night, To break this shadow Into a thousand lights of sun, Into a thousand whirling dreams Of sun! Langston Hughes A Certain Man A certain man wishes to be a prince Of this earth; he also wants to be A saint and master of the being-world. Conscience cannot exist in the first: The second cannot exist without conscience. Therefore he, who has enough conscience To be disturbed but not enough to be Compelled, can neither reject the one Nor follow the other... Jean Toomer