Vintage Hughes

The Negro Speaks of RiversI'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.Aunt Sue's StoriesAunt Sue has a head full of stories.Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories.Summer nights on the front porchAunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosomAnd tells him stories.Black slavesWorking in the hot sun,And black slavesWalking in the dewy night,And black slavesSinging sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty riverMingle themselves softlyIn the flow of old Aunt Sue's voice,Mingle themselves softlyIn the dark shadows that cross and recrossAunt Sue's stories.And the dark-faced child, listening,Knows that Aunt Sue's stories are real stories.He knows that Aunt Sue never got her storiesOut of any book at all,But that they cameRight out of her own life.The dark-faced child is quietOf a summer nightListening to Aunt Sue's stories.NegroI am a Negro:Black as the night is black,Black like the depths of my Africa.I've been a slave:Caesar told me to keep his door-steps clean.I brushed the boots of Washington.I've been a worker:Under my hands the pyramids arose.I made mortar for the Woolworth Building.I've been a singer:All the way from Africa to GeorgiaI carried my sorrow songs.I made ragtime.I've been a victim:The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.They lynch me still in Mississippi.I am a Negro:Black as the night is black,Black like the depths of my Africa.Mexican Market WomanThis ancient hagWho sits upon the groundSelling her scanty waresDay in, day round,Has known high wind-swept mountains,And the sun has madeHer skin so brown.The SouthThe lazy, laughing SouthWith blood on its mouth.The sunny-faced South,Beast-strong,Idiot-brained.The child-minded SouthScratching in the dead fire's ashesFor 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 herBut she spits in my face.And I, who am black,Would give her many rare giftsBut 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 childrenMay escape the spell of the South.Mother to SonWell, 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 timeI'se been a-climbin' on,And reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere 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.When Sue Wears RedWhen Susanna Jones wears redHer face is like an ancient cameoTurned brown by the ages.Come with a blast of trumpets,Jesus!When Susanna Jones wears redA queen from some time-dead Egyptian nightWalks once again.Blow trumpets,Jesus!And the beauty of Susanna Jones in redBurns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain.Sweet silver trumpets,Jesus!A Black PierrotI am a black Pierrot:She did not love me,So I crept away into the nightAnd the night was black, too.I am a black Pierrot:She did not love me,So I wept until the dawnDripped blood over the eastern hillsAnd my heart was bleeding, too.I am a black Pierrot:She did not love me,So with my once gay-colored soulShrunken like a balloon without air,I went forth in the morningTo seek a new brown love.My PeopleThe night is beautiful,So the faces of my people.The stars are beautiful,So the eyes of my people.Beautiful, also, is the sun.Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.Dream VariationsTo fling my arms wideIn some place of the sun,To whirl and to danceTill the white day is done.Then rest at cool eveningBeneath a tall treeWhile night comes on gently,Dark like me-That is my dream!To fling my arms wideIn the face of the sun,Dance! Whirl! Whirl!Till the quick day is done.Rest at pale evening . . .A tall, slim tree . . .Night coming tenderlyBlack like me.Troubled WomanShe standsIn the quiet darkness,This troubled womanBowed byWeariness and painLike anAutumn flowerIn the frozen rain,Like aWind-blown autumn flowerThat never lifts its headAgain.I, TooI, too, sing America.I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.Tomorrow,I'll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody'll dareSay to me,"Eat in the kitchen,"Then.Besides,They'll see how beautiful I amAnd be ashamed-I, too, am America.The Weary BluesDroning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas lightHe did a lazy sway. . . .He did a lazy sway. . . .To the tune o' those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody.O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe 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 toneI 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 BluesAnd I can't be satisfied.Got the Weary BluesAnd 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 bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.AmericaLittle dark baby,Little Jew baby,Little outcast,America is seeking the stars,America is seeking tomorrow.You are America.I am AmericaAmerica-the dream,America-the vision.America-the star-seeking I.Out of yesterdayThe chains of slavery;Out of yesterday,The ghettos of Europe;Out of yesterday,The poverty and pain of the old, old world,The building and struggle of this new one,We comeYou and I,Seeking the stars.You and I,You of the blue eyesAnd the blond hair,I of the dark eyesAnd the crinkly hair.You and IOffering handsBeing brothers,Being one,Being America.You and I.And I?Who am I?You know me:I am Crispus Attucks at the Boston Tea Party;Jimmy Jones in the ranks of the last black troopsmarching for democracy.I am Sojourner Truth preaching and prayingfor the goodness of this wide, wide land;Today's black mother bearing tomorrow's America.Who am I?You know me,Dream of my dreams,I am America.I am America seeking the stars.America-Hoping, prayingFighting, dreaming.KnowingThere are stainsOn the beauty of my democracy,I want to be clean.I want to grovelNo longer in the mire.I want to reach alwaysAfter stars.Who am I?I am the ghetto child,I am the dark baby,I am youAnd the blond tomorrowAnd yetI am my one sole self,America seeking the stars.CrossMy old man's a white old manAnd my old mother's black.If ever I cursed my white old manI take my curses back.If ever I cursed my black old motherAnd wished she were in hell,I'm sorry for that evil wishAnd now I wish her well.My old man died in a fine big house.My ma died in a shack.I wonder where I'm gonna die,Being neither white nor black?Young SailorHe carriesHis own strengthAnd his own laughter,His own todayAnd his own hereafter-This strong young sailorOf the wide seas.What is money for?To spend, he says.And wine?To drink.And women?To love.And today?For joy.And the green seaFor strength,And the brown landFor laughter.And nothing hereafter.JoyI went to look for Joy,Slim, dancing Joy,Gay, laughing Joy,Bright-eyed Joy-And I found herDriving the butcher's cartIn the arms of the butcher boy!Such company, such company,As keeps this young nymph, Joy!Ruby BrownShe was young and beautifulAnd golden like the sunshineThat warmed her body.And because she was coloredMayville had no place to offer her,Nor fuel for the clean flame of joyThat tried to burn within her soul.One day,Sitting on old Mrs. Latham's back porchPolishing the silver,She asked herself two questionsAnd they ran something like this:What can a colored girl doOn the money from a white woman's kitchen?And ain't there any joy in this town?Now the streets down by the riverKnow more about this pretty Ruby Brown,And the sinister shuttered houses of the bottomsHold a yellow girlSeeking an answer to her questions.The good church folk do not mentionHer name any more.But the white men,Habitués of the high shuttered houses,Pay more money to her nowThan they ever did before,When she worked in their kitchens.Back Luck CardCause you don't love meIs awful, awful hard.Gypsy done showed meMy bad luck card.There ain't no good leftIn this world for me.Gypsy done tole me-Unlucky as can be.I don't know whatPo' weary me can do.Gypsy says I'd kill my selfIf I was you.Feet o' JesusAt the feet o' Jesus,Sorrow like a sea.Lordy, let yo' mercyCome driftin' down on me.At the feet o' JesusAt yo' feet I stand.O, ma little Jesus,Please reach out yo' hand.A House in TaosRainThunder of the Rain God:And we threeSmitten by beauty.Thunder of the Rain God:And we threeWeary, weary.Thunder of the Rain God:And you, she, and IWaiting for nothingness.Do you understand the stillnessOf this houseIn TaosUnder the thunder of the Rain God?SunThat there should be a barren gardenAbout this house in TaosIs not so strange,But that there should be three barren heartsIn this one house in Taos-Who carries ugly things to show the sun?MoonDid you ask for the beaten brass of the moon?We can buy lovely things with money,You, she, and I,Yet you seek,As though you could keep,This unbought loveliness of moon.WindTouch our bodies, wind.Our bodies are separate, individual things.Touch our bodies, wind,But blow quicklyThrough the red, white, yellow skinsOf our bodiesTo the terrible snarl,Not mine,Not yours,Not hers,But all one snarl of souls.Blow quickly, wind,Before we run backInto the windlessness-With our bodies-Into the windlessnessOf our house in Taos.Brass SpittoonsClean the spittoons, boy.Detroit,Chicago,Atlantic City,Palm Beach.Clean the spittoons.The steam in hotel kitchens,And the smoke in hotel lobbies,And the slime in hotel spittoons:Part of my life.Hey, boy!A nickel,A dime,A dollar,Two dollars a day.Hey, boy!A nickel,A dime,A dollar,Two dollarsBuys shoes for the baby.House rent to pay.Gin on Saturday,Church on Sunday.My God!Babies and gin and churchand women and Sundayall mixed up with dimes anddollars and clean spittoonsand house rent to pay.Hey, boy!A bright bowl of brass is beautiful to the Lord.Bright polished brass like the cymbalsOf King David's dancers,Like the wine cups of Solomon.Hey, boy!A clean spittoon on the altar of the Lord.A clean bright spittoon all newly polished,-At least I can offer that.Come 'ere, boy!Midnight Dancer(To a Black Dancer in "The Little Savoy")Wine-maidenOf the jazz-tuned night,LipsSweet as purple dew,BreastsLike the pillows of all sweet dreams,Who crushedThe grapes of joyAnd dripped their juiceOn you?Harlem Night SongCome,Let us roam the night togetherSinging.I love you.AcrossThe Harlem roof-topsMoon is shining.Night sky is blue.Stars are great dropsOf golden dew.Down the streetA band is playing.I love you.Come,Let us roam the night togetherSinging.ArdellaI would liken youTo a night without starsWere it not for your eyes.I would liken youTo a sleep without dreamsWere it not for your songs.Port TownHello, sailor boy,In from the sea!Hello, sailor,Come with me!Come on drink cognac.Rather have wine?Come here, I love you.Come and be mine.Lights, sailor boy,Warm, white lights.Solid land, kid.Wild, white nights.Come on, sailor,Out o' the sea.Let's go, sweetie!Come with me.Death of an Old SeamanWe buried him high on a windy hill,But his soul went out to sea.I know, for I heard, when all was still,His sea-soul say to me:Put no tombstone at my head,For here I do not make my bed.Strew no flowers on my grave,I've gone back to the wind and wave.Do not, do not weep for me,For I am happy with my sea.