Langston Hughes: Poems

Langston Hughes (1902-1967) was the most famous and popular of the Harlem Renaissance poets. He was born in Missouri, moved to New York to attend Columbia, and dropped out after a year. Like McKay, he was a leftist who drew his ideas from the tradition of DuBois, rather than Booker T. Washington. He traveled to the Soviet Union and believed in what we saw there for many years, though he eventually became more disillusioned by it.

“THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS,” 1921

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.

Hughes applies the voice of primitivism to himself here – whether it is ironic or not is unclear.

“I, TOO,” 1925

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed–

I, too, am America.

Following in the Whitmanian tradition of “I Hear America Singing,” the speaker here actively sings, rather than just listening – he is of the body of America, rather than one who listens to its many voices.

“THE WEARY BLUES,” 1925

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.
This is one of the first examples of poetry to fully embrace the black vernacular and to translate the blues into poetic form.

“SONG FOR A DARK GIRL,” 1927

Way Down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
They hung my black young lover
To a cross roads tree.

Way Down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer.

Way Down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.

The form of the poem as song draws ironic attention (like McKay’s sonnet “Lynching”) to the horror of the content.

“HARLEM,” 1927

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?
This poem, often read as a lament, can also be read as a threat – the mixed images of consumption and injury end with an inevitable bang as the wound explodes.

“CUBES,” 1934

In the days of the broken cubes of Picasso
And in the days of the broken songs of the young men
A little too drunk to sing
And the young women
A little too unsure of love to love——
I met on the boulevards of Paris
An African from Senegal

God
Knows why the French
Amuse themselves bringing to Paris
Negroes from Senegal.

It's the old game of the boss and the bossed,
       boss and the bossed,
            amused
              and
            amusing,
       worked and working,
Behind the cubes of black and white,
           black and white,
    black and white

But since it is the old game,
For fun
They give him the three old prostitutes of
	France——
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity——
And all three of 'em sick
In spite of the tax to the government
And the legal houses
And the doctors
And the Marseillaise.

Of course, the young African from Senegal
Carries back from Paris
A little more disease
To spread among the black girls in the palm huts.
He brings them as a gift
    disease——
From light to darkness
        disease——
From the boss to the bossed
	     disease——
From the game of black and white
    disease
From the city of the broken cubes of Picaso
   d
     i
   s
 e
   a 
     s
   e

This later poem takes stock of Hughes’ realization that imperialism is the parent of Cubism. The poem ends with the curving “S” of disease – syphilis – spreading in the colonies thanks to European infection.

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