Selected Poems of Langston Hughes (4 page)

Wave of sorrow,

Do not drown me now:

I see the island

Still ahead somehow.

I see the island

And its sands are fair:

Wave of sorrow,

Take me there.

I used to wonder

About living and dying—

I think the difference lies

Between tears and crying.

I used to wonder

About here and there—

I think the distance

Is nowhere.

Strange

Distorted blades of grass,

Strange

Distorted trees,

Strange

Distorted tulips

On their knees.

This is a song for the genius child.

Sing it softly, for the song is wild.

Sing it softly as ever you can—

Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child
.

Can you love an eagle,

Tame or wild?

Wild or tame,

Can you love a monster

Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child
.

Kill him
—and let his soul run wild!

In times of stormy weather

She felt queer pain

That said,

“You’ll find rain better

Than shelter from the rain.”

Days filled with fiery sunshine

Strange hurt she knew

That made

Her seek the burning sunlight

Rather than the shade.

In months of snowy winter

When cozy houses hold,

She’d break down doors

To wander naked

In the cold.

The calm,

Cool face of the river

Asked me for a kiss.

There are

No clocks on the wall,

And no time,

No shadows that move

From dawn to dusk

Across the floor.

There is neither light

Nor dark

Outside the door.

There is no door!

Bear in mind

That death is a drum

Beating forever

Till the last worms come

To answer its call,

Till the last stars fall,

Until the last atom

Is no atom at all,

Until time is lost

And there is no air

And space itself

Is nothing nowhere,

Death is a drum,

A signal drum,

Calling life

To come!

Come!

Come!

In an envelope marked:

    
Personal

God addressed me a letter.

In an envelope marked:

    
Personal

I have given my answer.

Wonder

And pain

And terror,

And sick silly songs

Of sorrow,

And the marrow

Of the bone

Of life

Are smeared across

Her mouth.

The road

From Verona

To Mantova

Is dusty

With the drought.

Desire to us

Was like a double death,

Swift dying

Of our mingled breath,

Evaporation

Of an unknown strange perfume

Between us quickly

In a naked

Room.

We are the desperate

Who do not care,

The hungry

Who have nowhere

To eat,

No place to sleep,

The tearless

Who cannot

Weep.

Lonely

As the wind

On the Lincoln

Prairies.

Lonely

As a bottle of licker

On a table

All by itself.

Anybody

Better than

Nobody.

In the barren dusk

Even the snake

That spirals

Terror on the sand—

Better than nobody

In this lonely

Land.

Listen!

Dear dream of utter aliveness—

Touching my body of utter death—

Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliveness,

The flaming source of your bright breath.

Tell me, O dream of utter aliveness—

Knowing so well the wind and the sun—

    Where is this light

    Your eyes see forever?

    And what is this wind

    You touch when you run?

Last night I dreamt

This most strange dream,

And everywhere I saw

What did not seem could ever be:

You were not there with me!

Awake,

I turned

And touched you

Asleep,

Face to the wall.

I said,

How dreams

Can lie!

But you were not there at all!

Night of the two moons

And the seventeen stars,

Night of the day before yesterday

And the day after tomorrow,

Night of the four songs unsung:

    Sorrow! Sorrow!

    Sorrow! Sorrow!

Sometimes a crumb falls

From the tables of joy,

Sometimes a bone

Is flung.

To some people

Love is given,

To others

Only heaven.

Old Walt Whitman

Went finding and seeking,

Finding less than sought

Seeking more than found,

Every detail minding

Of the seeking or the finding.

Pleasured equally

In seeking as in finding,

Each detail minding,

Old Walt went seeking

And finding.

Lonely little question mark

on a bench in the park:

See the people passing by?

See the airplanes in the sky?

See the birds

flying home

before

dark?

Home’s just around

the corner

there—

but not really

anywhere
.

What can purge my heart

               Of the song

               And the sadness?

What can purge my heart

               But the song

               Of the sadness?

What can purge my heart

               Of the sadness

               Of the song?

Do not speak of sorrow

With dust in her hair,

Or bits of dust in eyes

A chance wind blows there.

The sorrow that I speak of

Is dusted with despair.

Voice of muted trumpet,

Cold brass in warm air.

Bitter television blurred

By sound that shimmers—

               Where?

Beat the drums of tragedy for me.

Beat the drums of tragedy and death.

And let the choir sing a stormy song

To drown the rattle of my dying breath.

Beat the drums of tragedy for me,

And let the white violins whir thin and slow,

But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun

To go with me

                 to the darkness

                                           where I go.

I put my nickel

In the raffle of the night.

Somehow that raffle

Didn’t turn out right.

I lost my nickel.

I lost my time.

I got back home

Without a dime.

When I dropped that nickel

In the subway slot,

I wouldn’t have dropped it,

Knowing what I got.

I could just as well’ve

Stayed home inside:

My bread wasn’t buttered

On neither side.

Some pimps wear summer hats

Into late fall

Since the money that comes in

Won’t cover it all—

Suit, overcoat, shoes—

And hat, too!

Got to neglect something,

So what would you do?

Playboy of the dawn,

Solid gone!

Out all night

Until 12
—
1—2 a.m.

Next day

When he should be gone

To work—

Dog-gone!

He ain’t gone.

I’m all alone in this world, she said,

Ain’t got nobody to share my bed,

Ain’t got nobody to hold my hand—

The truth of the matter’s

I ain’t got no man.

Big Boy opened his mouth and said,

Trouble with you is

You ain’t got no head!

If you had a head and used your mind

You could have
me
with you

All the time.

She answered, Babe, what must I do?

He said, Share your bed—

And your money, too
.

I asked you, baby,

If you understood—

You told me that you didn’t,

But you thought you would.

My old time daddy

Came back home last night.

His face was pale and

His eyes didn’t look just right.

He says, “Mary, I’m

Comin’ home to you—

So sick and lonesome

I don’t know what to do.”

    
Oh, men treats women

    
Just like a pair o’ shoes—

    
You kicks ’em round and

    
Does ’em like you choose
.

I looked at my daddy—

Lawd! and I wanted to cry.

He looked so thin—

Lawd! that I wanted to cry.

But the devil told me:

    
Damn a lover

    
Come home to die!

If the blues would let me,

Lord knows I would smile.

If the blues would let me,

I would smile, smile, smile.

Instead of that I’m cryin’—

I must be Miss Blues’es child.

You were my moon up in the sky,

At night my wishing star.

I love you, oh, I love you so—

But you have gone so far!

Now my days are lonely,

And night-time drives me wild.

In my heart I’m crying,

I’m just Miss Blues’es child!

The Negro

With the trumpet at his lips

Has dark moons of weariness

Beneath his eyes

Where the smoldering memory

Of slave ships

Blazed to the crack of whips

About his thighs.

The Negro

With the trumpet at his lips

Has a head of vibrant hair

Tamed down,

Patent-leathered now

Until it gleams

Like jet—

Were jet a crown.

The music

From the trumpet at his lips

Is honey

Mixed with liquid fire.

The rhythm

From the trumpet at his lips

Is ecstasy

Distilled from old desire—

Desire

That is longing for the moon

Where the moonlight’s but a spotlight

In his eyes,

Desire

That is longing for the sea

Where the sea’s a bar-glass

Sucker size.

The Negro

With the trumpet at his lips

Whose jacket

Has a
fine
one-button roll,

Does not know

Upon what riff the music slips

Its hypodermic needle

To his soul—