James Mercer Langston Hughes (February 1, 1902 – May 22, 1967) was an American poet, social activist, novelist, playwright, and columnist.
Hughes was one of the earliest innovators of the then-new literary art form jazz poetry. Hughes is best known for his work during the Harlem Renaissance.
FOR RUSSELL AND ROWENA JELLIFE
Langston Hughes
And so the seed
Becomes a flower
And in its hour
Reproduces dreams
And flowers.
And so the root
Becomes a trunk
And then a tree
And seeds of trees
And springtime sap
And summer shade
And autumn leaves
And shape of poems
And dreams–
More than tree.
And so it is
With those who make
Of life a flower,
A tree, a dream
Reproducing (on into
Its own and mine
And your infinity)
Its beauty and its life
In you and me.
And so it was
And is with you:
The seed, the flower,
The root, the tree,
The dream, the you.
This poem I make
For you.
====
I, TOO
Langston Hughes
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.
====
LUCK
Langston Hughes
Sometimes a crumb falls
From the tables of joy,
Sometimes a bone
Is flung.
To some people
Love is given,
To others
Only heaven.
====
PRESENT
Langston Hughes
De lady I work for
Told her husband
She wanted a
Robe o’ love—
But de damn fool
Give her
A fur coat!
Yes,
He did!
=====
THE SOUTH
Langston Hughes
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.