Selected Poems of Langston Hughes (7 page)

I must say

Yes, sir,

To you all the time.

Yes, sir!

Yes, sir!

All my days

Climbing up a great big mountain

Of yes, sirs!

Rich old white man

Owns the world.

Gimme yo’ shoes

To shine.

Yes, sir!

I went walkin’

By the blue bayou

And I saw the sun go down.

I thought about old Greeley

And I thought about Lou

And I saw the sun go down.

    White man

    Makes me work all day

    And I work too hard

    For too little pay—

    Then a white man

    Takes my woman away.

I’ll kill old Greeley.

    The blue bayou

    Turns red as fire.

    
Put the black man

    
On a rope

    
And pull him higher!

I saw the sun go down.

    
Put him on a rope

    
And pull him higher!

    The blue bayou’s

    A pool of fire.

And I saw the sun go down,

    Down,

               Down,

Lawd, I saw the sun go down!

Southern gentle lady,

Do not swoon.

They’ve just hung a black man

In the dark of the moon.

They’ve hung a black man

To a roadside tree

In the dark of the moon

For the world to see

How Dixie protects

Its white womanhood.

Southern gentle lady,

    Be good!

    Be good!

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 lazy, laughing South

With blood on its mouth.

The sunny-faced South,

    Beast-strong,

    Idiot-brained.

The child-minded South

Scratching in the dead fire’s ashes

For a Negro’s bones.

    Cotton and the moon,

    Warmth, earth, warmth,

    The sky, the sun, the stars,

    The magnolia-scented South.

Beautiful, like a woman,

Seductive as a dark-eyed whore,

    Passionate, cruel,

    Honey-lipped, syphilitic—

    That is the South.

And I, who am black, would love her

But she spits in my face.

And I, who am black,

Would give her many rare gifts

But she turns her back upon me.

    So now I seek the North—

    The cold-faced North,

    For she, they say,

    Is a kinder mistress,

And in her house my children

May escape the spell of the South.

Goin’ down the road, Lawd,

Goin’ down the road.

Down the road, Lawd,

Way, way down the road.

Got to find somebody

To help me carry this load.

Road’s in front o’ me,

Nothin’ to do but walk.

Road’s in front o’ me,

Walk … an’ walk … an’ walk.

I’d like to meet a good friend

To come along an’ talk.

Hates to be lonely,

Lawd, I hates to be sad.

Says I hates to be lonely,

Hates to be lonely an’ sad,

But ever friend you finds seems

Like they try to do you bad.

Road, road, road, O!

Road, road … road … road, road!

Road, road, road, O!

On the no’thern road.

These Mississippi towns ain’t

Fit fer a hoppin’ toad.

I pick up my life

And take it with me

And I put it down in

Chicago, Detroit,

Buffalo, Scranton,

Any place that is

North and East—

And not Dixie.

I pick up my life

And take it on the train

To Los Angeles, Bakersfield,

Seattle, Oakland, Salt Lake,

Any place that is

North and West—

And not South.

I am fed up

With Jim Crow laws,

People who are cruel

And afraid,

Who lynch and run,

Who are scared of me

And me of them.

I pick up my life

And take it away

On a one-way ticket—

Gone up North,

Gone out West,

Gone!

(Chicago)

Daddy-o

Buddy-o

Works at the foundry.

Daddy-o

Buddy-o

Rides the State Street street car,

Transfers to the West Side,

Polish, Bohunk, Irish,

Grabs a load of sunrise

As he rides out on the prairie,

Never knew DuSable,

Has a lunch to carry.

Iron lifting iron

Makes iron of chocolate muscles.

Iron lifting iron

Makes hammer beat of drum beat

And the heat

Moulds and melts and moulds it

On red heart become an anvil

Until a glow is lighted

In the eyes once soft benighted

And the cotton field is frightened

A thousand miles away.

They draw up restrictive covenants

In Australia, too, they say.

Our President

Takes up important matters

Still left by V-J Day.

Congress cases Russia.

The
Tribune’s
hair

Turns gray.

Daddy-o

Buddy-o

Signs his name

In uphill letters

On the check that is his pay.

But if he wasn’t in a hurry

He wouldn’t write so

Bad that way,

Daddy-o.

Mothers pass,

Sweet watermelon in a baby carriage,

Black seed for eyes

And a rose pink mouth.

Pimps in gray go by,

Boots polished like a Murray head,

Or in reverse

Madam Walker

On their shoe tips.

I. W. Harper

Stops to listen to gospel songs

From a tent at the corner

Where the carnival is Christian.

Jitneys go by

Full of chine bones in dark glasses,

And a blind man plays an accordion

Gurgling
Jericho
.

Theresa Belle Aletha

Throws a toothpick from her window,

And the four bells she’s awaiting

Do not ring, not even murmur.

But maybe before midnight

The tamale man will come by,

And if Uncle Mac brings beer

Night will pull its slack taut

And wrap a string around its finger

So as not to forget

That tomorrow is Monday.

A dime on those two bottles
.

Yes, they are yours
,

Too!

And in another week

It will again

Be Sunday.

Cinnamon and rayon,

Jet and coconut eyes,

Mary Lulu Jackson

Smooths the skirt

At her thighs.

Mama, portly oven,

Brings remainders from the kitchen

Where the people all are icebergs

Wrapped in checks and wealthy.

DIPLOMA in its new frame:

Mary Lulu Jackson,

Eating chicken,

Tells her mama she’s a typist

And the clicking of the keys

Will spell the name

Of a job in a fine office

Far removed from basic oven,

Cookstoves,

And iceberg’s kitchen.

Mama says,
Praise Jesus!

Until then

I’ll bring home chicken!

The DIPLOMA bursts its frame

To scatter star-dust in their eyes.

Mama says,
Praise Jesus!

The colored race will rise!

Mama says,

Praise Jesus!

Then,

Because she’s tired,

She sighs.

White coats

White aprons

White dresses

White shoes

Pain and a learning

To take away to Alabama.

Practice on a State Street cancer,

Practice on a stockyards rupture,

Practice on the small appendix

Of 26-girl at the corner,

Learning skills of surgeons

Brown and wonderful with longing

To cure ills of Africa,

Democracy,

And mankind,

Also ills quite common

Among all who stand on two feet.

Brown hands

Black hands

Golden hands in white coat,

Nurses’ hands on suture.

Miracle maternity:

Pain on hind legs rising,

Pain tamed and subsiding

Like a mule broke to the halter.

Charity’s checked money

Aids triumphant entry squalling

After bitter thrust of bearing

Chocolate and blood:

Projection of a day!

Tears of joy

And Coca-Cola

Twinkle on the rubber gloves

He’s wearing.

A crown of sweat

Gleams on his forehead.

In the white moon

Of the amphitheatre

Magi are staring.

The light on the Palmolive Building

Shines like a star in the East.

Nurses turn glass doorknobs

Opening into corridors.

A mist of iodine and ether

Follows the young doctor,

Cellophanes his long stride,

Cellophanes his future.

Dusk dark

On Railroad Avenue.

Lights in the fish joints,

Lights in the pool rooms.

A box-car some train

Has forgotten

In the middle of the

Block.

A player piano,

A victrola.

    942

    Was the number.

A boy

Lounging on a corner.

A passing girl

With purple powdered skin.

    Laughter

    Suddenly

    Like a taut drum.

    Laughter

    Suddenly

    Neither truth nor lie.

    Laughter

Hardening the dusk dark evening.

    Laughter

Shaking the lights in the fish joints,

Rolling white balls in the pool rooms,

And leaving untouched the box-car

Some train has forgotten.

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.

O, sweep of stars over Harlem streets,

O, little breath of oblivion that is night.

    A city building

    To a mother’s song.

    A city dreaming

    To a lullaby.

Reach up your hand, dark boy, and take a star.

Out of the little breath of oblivion

    That is night,

    Take just

    One star.

Little girl

Dreaming of a baby grand piano

(Not knowing there’s a Steinway bigger, bigger)

Dreaming of a baby grand to play

That stretches paddle-tailed across the floor,

Not standing upright

Like a bad boy in the corner,

But sending music

Up the stairs and down the stairs

And out the door

To confound even Hazel Scott

Who might be passing!

Oh!

Little boy

Dreaming of the boxing gloves

Joe Louis wore,

The gloves that sent

Two dozen men to the floor.

Knockout!

Bam! Bop! Mop!

There’s always room,

They say
,

At the top.

You’ve taken my blues and gone—

You sing ’em on Broadway

And you sing ’em in Hollywood Bowl,

And you mixed ’em up with symphonies

And you fixed ’em

So they don’t sound like me.

Yep, you done taken my blues and gone.

You also took my spirituals and gone.

You put me in Macbeth and Carmen Jones

And all kinds of
Swing Mikados

And in everything but what’s about me—

But someday somebody’ll

Stand up and talk about me,

And write about me—

Black and beautiful—

And sing about me,

And put on plays about me!

I reckon it’ll be

Me myself!

Yes, it’ll be me.