Selected Poems of Langston Hughes (11 page)

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.

Golden girl

in a golden gown

in a melody night

in Harlem town

lad tall and brown

tall and wise

college boy smart

eyes in eyes

the music wraps

them both around

in mellow magic

of dancing sound

till they’re the heart

of the whole big town

gold and brown

How can you forget me?

But you do!

You said you was gonna take me

Up with you—

Now you’ve got your Cadillac,

you done forgot that you are black.

How can you forget me

When I’m you?

But you do
.

How can you forget me,

fellow, say?

How can you low-rate me

this way?

You treat me like you damn well please,

Ignore me—though I pay your fees.

How can you forget me?

But you do
.

Good evening, daddy!

I know you’ve heard

The boogie-woogie rumble

Of a dream deferred

Trilling the treble

And twining the bass

Into midnight ruffles

Of cat-gut lace.

God knows

We have our troubles, too—

One trouble is you:

you talk too loud,

cuss too loud,

look too black,

don’t get anywhere,

and sometimes it seems

you don’t even care.

The way you send your kids to school

stockings down,

(not Ethical Culture)

the way you shout out loud in church,

(not St. Phillips)

and the way you lounge on doorsteps

just as if you were down South,

(not at 409)

the way you clown—

the way, in other words,

you let me down—

me, trying to uphold the race

and you—

well, you can see,

we have our problems,

too, with you.

See that lady

Dressed so fine?

She ain’t got boogie-woogie

On her mind—

But if she was to listen

I bet she’d hear,

Way up in the treble

The tingle of a tear.

    
Be-Bach!

So long

is in the song

and it’s in the way you’re gone

but it’s like a foreign language

in my mind

and maybe was I blind

I could not see

and would not know

you’re gone so long

so long.

This year, maybe, do you think I can graduate?

I’m already two years late
.

Dropped out six months when I was seven
,

a year when I was eleven
,

then got put back when we come North
.

To get through high at twenty’s kind of late—

But maybe this year I can graduate
.

Maybe now I can have that white enamel stove

I dreamed about when we first fell in love

eighteen years ago.

But you know,

rooming and everything

then kids,

cold-water flat and all that.

But now my daughter’s married

And my boy’s most grown—

quit school to work—

and where we’re moving

there ain’t no stove—

Maybe I can buy that white enamel stove!

Me, I always did want to study French
.

It don’t make sense—

I’ll never go to France
,

but night schools teach French
.

Now at last I’ve got a job

where I get off at five
,

in time to wash and dress
,

so, si’l-vous plait, I’ll study French!

Someday,

I’m gonna buy two new suits

at once!

All I want is

one more bottle of gin
.

All I want is to see

my furniture paid for.

All I want is a wife who will

work with me and not against me. Say
,

baby, could you see your way clear?

Heaven, heaven, is my home!

This world I’ll leave behind

When I set my feet in glory

I’ll have a throne for mine]

I want to pass the civil service
.

I want a television set.

You know, as old as I am
,

I ain’t never

owned a decent radio yet?

I’d like to take up Bach.

    
Montage

    
of a dream

    
deferred
.

Buddy, have you heard?

Gimme $25.00

and the change.

I’m going

where the morning

and the evening

won’t bother me.

If you’re great enough

and clever enough

the government might honor you.

But the people will forget—

Except on holidays.

A movie house in Harlem named after Lincoln,

Nothing at all named after John Brown.

Black people don’t remember

any better than white.

If you’re not alive and kicking,

shame on you!

What a grand time was the war!

    Oh, my, my!

What a grand time was the war!

    My, my, my!

In wartime we had fun,

Sorry that old war is done!

What a grand time was the war,

    My, my!

Echo:

    
Did

    
Somebody

    
Die?

When a chile gets to be thirteen

and ain’t seen Christ yet,

she needs to set on de moaner’s bench

night and day.

Jesus, lover of my soul!

Hail, Mary, mother of God!

Let me to thy bosom fly!

Amen! Hallelujah!

Swing low, sweet chariot
,

Coming for to carry me home
.

Sunday morning where the rhythm flows,

how old nobody knows—

yet old as mystery,

older than creed,

basic and wondering

and lost as my need.

    
Eli, eli!

    
Te deum!

    
Mahomet!

    
Christ!

Father Bishop, Effendi, Mother Home,

Father Divine, a Rabbi black

as black was born,

a jack-leg preacher, a Ph.D.

    
The mystery

    
and the darkness

    
and the song

    
and me
.

When pimps out of loneliness cry:

      
Great God!

Whores in final weariness say:

      
Great God!

      
Oh, God!

      
My God!

      Great

      God!

If I just had a piano,

if I just had a organ,

if I just had a drum,

how I could praise my Lord!

But I don’t need no piano,

      neither organ

      nor drum

for to praise my Lord!

On sunny summer Sunday afternoons in Harlem

when the air is one interminable ball game

and grandma cannot get her gospel hymns

from the Saints of God in Christ

on account of the Dodgers on the radio,

on sunny Sunday afternoons

when the kids look all new

and far too clean to stay that way,

and Harlem has its

washed-and-ironed-and-cleaned-best out,

the ones who’ve crossed the line

to live downtown

miss you,

Harlem of the bitter dream,

since their dream has

come true.

I had a dream

and I could see

a million faces

black as me!

A nightmare dream:

Quicker than light

All them faces

Turned dead white!

Boogie-woogie,

Rolling bass,

Whirling treble

of cat-gut lace.

I feel like dancin’, baby,

till the sun goes down.

But I wonder where

the sunrise

Monday morning’s gonna be?

I feel like dancin’!

Baby, dance with me!

He was a soldier in the army,

But he doesn’t walk like one.

He walks like his soldiering

Days are done.

Son! … Son!

                         Night funeral

                         In Harlem:

                         
Where did they get

                         
Them two fine cars?

Insurance man, he did not pay—

His insurance lapsed the other day—

Yet they got a satin box

For his head to lay.

                         Night funeral

                         In Harlem:

                         
Who was it sent

                         
That wreath of flowers?

Them flowers came

from that poor boy’s friends—

They’ll want flowers, too,

When they meet their ends.

                         Night funeral

                         In Harlem:

                         
Who preached that

                         
Black boy to his grave?

Old preacher-man

Preached that boy away—

Charged Five Dollars

His girl friend had to pay.

                         Night funeral

                         In Harlem:

When it was all over

And the lid shut on his head

and the organ had done played

and the last prayers been said

and six pallbearers

Carried him out for dead

And off down Lenox Avenue

That long black hearse done sped,

                         The street light

                         At his corner

                         Shined just like a tear—

That boy that they was mournin’

Was so dear, so dear

To them folks that brought the flowers,

To that girl who paid the preacher man—

It was all their tears that made

                         That poor boy’s

                         Funeral grand.

                         Night funeral

                         In Harlem.

I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.

I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.

    If I thought thoughts in bed,

    Them thoughts would bust my head—

So I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.

I don’t dare remember in the morning

Don’t dare remember in the morning.

    If I recall the day before,

    I wouldn’t get up no more—

So I don’t dare remember in the morning.

Chile, these steps is hard to climb.

    
Grandma, lend me a dime
.

Montage of a dream deferred:

    
Grandma acts like

    
She ain’t heard
.

Chile, Granny ain’t got no dime.

    
I might’ve knowed

    
It all the time
.

White is right,

Yellow mellow,

Black, get back!

    
Do you believe that, Jack?

Sure do!

    
Then you’re a dope

    
for which there ain’t no hope
.

    
Black is fine!

    
And, God knows
,

    
It’s mine!

Down home

he sets on a stoop

and watches the sun go by.

In Harlem

when his work is done

he sets in a bar with a beer.

He looks taller than he is

and younger than he ain’t.

He looks darker than he is, too.

And he’s smarter than he looks,