Lifestyle
Happy (Belated) Birthday to Poet, Langston Hughes!
Yesterday was the official kick off to Black History Month, 2015. I suggest celebrating this month by reminding yourself of all the many political, social, and creative accomplishments and contributions African Americans have made that enriched American culture, ultimately carving out America’s national identity, as we currently know it. This is the time to not only acknowledge, but to honor those individuals whose brave activism, whether a conscious effort, or a subconscious survival response as a means to cope with the racial inequalities that once permeated all aspects of American society, continues to inspire resilience and courage in the American people today.
In addition to being the first day of Black History Month, February 1st also happens to be Langston Hughes’ birthday. James Mercer Langston Hughes was born in 1902, in a small town in the Midwest, however his unyielding perseverance and appreciation for education brought young Langston to Harlem, New York, in the 1920s, a unique time in American history. The social and political environment within New York City was ripe for transience, and Hughes seized this moment by utilizing the greatest asset at his disposal, his intelligence. An avid reader who, even as a child, understood the true power of artistry within written word, Langston Hughes knew the one thing societal oppressors could never discount or take away from him was his passion for writing. Hughes’ profound ability to express himself through writing channeled the common sentiments of the entire African American community during this era of racially charged injustice. His ability to eloquently articulate these complex concepts and emotions in a meaningful, insightful, concise manner made him a luminary figure throughout this period, which we currently characterize as the Harlem Renaissance.
*source: http://thehappiestmedium.com/
Though his birthday was technically yesterday, I still felt it necessary to honor Hughes’ legacy today, because Langston Hughes’ lifetime of creative achievements is what paved the way for all black writers (myself included).
*source: http://culvercitycrossroads.com/
So here’s to you, Langston Hughes! Happy 113th Birthday! Though you are no longer physically with us, your words will forever be a source of black pride, resonating in the hearts and minds of all aspiring creative revolutionaries, for generations to come.
*source: http://cp91279.biography.com/
I’ve chosen a small selection of Langston Hughes’ poetry to share with you today. May his words continue to inspire you throughout your day.
*source: youtube.com
I’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.
*source: poetryfoundation.org
*source: youtube.com
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.
*source: poetryfoundation.org
(read by Takeez Meals)
*source: youtube.com
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed– Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek– And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean– Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today–O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home– For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.”
The free?
Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay– Except the dream that’s almost dead today.
O, let America be America again– The land that never has been yet– And yet must be–the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine–the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME– Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose– The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America!
O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath– America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain– All, all the stretch of these great green states– And make America again!
*source: poetryfoundation.org
Song, by Langston Hughes
Lovely, dark, and lonely one,
Bare your bosom to the sun.
Do not be afraid of the light,
You who are a child of the night.
Open wide your arms to life,
Whirl in the wind of pain and strife,
Face the wall with the dark closed gate,
Beat with bare, brown fists–
And wait.
*source: (Hughes, p. 65)
History, by Langston Hughes
The past has been a mint
Of blood and sorrow.
That must not be
True of tomorrow.
*source: historyisaweapon.com
Sources: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
Hughes, Langston, and Dolan Hubbard. The Collected Works Poetry, Fiction and Other Writing. Columbia [u.a.: U of Missouri, 2003. Print.
 Birthday to Poet, Langston Hughes!){kind=link}