Langston Quotes

Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird, That cannot fly.

Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn't, So I jumped in and sank.

The important people in our lives leave imprints. They may stay or go in the physical realm, but they are always there in your heart, because they helped form your heart. There's no getting over that.

I loved my friend He went away from me There's nothing more to say The poem ends, Soft as it began- I loved my friend.

Humor is laughing at what you haven't got when you ought to have it.

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go.

Looks like what drives me crazy Don't have no effect on you-- But I'm gonna keep on at it Till it drives you crazy, too.

Folks, I'm telling you, birthing is hard and dying is mean- so get yourself a little loving in between.

Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die life is a broken-winged bird that can not fly. Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go life is a barren field frozen with snow.

I stay cool, and dig all jive, That's the way I stay alive. My motto, as I live and learn, is Dig and be dug In return.

Harlem What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

Oh, God of Dust and Rainbows, Help us to see That without the dust the rainbow Would not be.

Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die.

I am so tired of waiting. Aren’t you, for the world to become good and beautiful and kind? Let us take a knife and cut the world in two— and see what worms are eating at the rind.

So since I'm still here livin', I guess I will live on. I could've died for love-- But for livin' I was born.

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, 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.

I swear to the Lord,I still can't see,Why Democracy means,Everybody but me.

Gather out of star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust, Not for sale.

The sea is a desert of waves, A wilderness of water.

To some people Love is given, To others Only Heaven.

...the only way to get a thing done is to start to do it, then keep on doing it, and finally you'll finish it,....

Out of love, No regrets-- Though the goodness Be wasted forever. Out of love, No regrets-- Though the return Be never.

An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose

Yet the ivory gods, And the ebony gods, And the gods of diamond-jade, Are only silly puppet gods That people themselves Have made.-

I asked you, baby, If you understood- You told me that you didn't, But you thought you would.

Good morning, Revolution: You're the very best friend I ever had. We gonna pal around together from now on

Cheap little rhymes A cheap little tune Are sometimes as dangerous As a sliver of the moon.

Suicide Note: The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss. -Langston Hughes

Negroes Sweet and docile, Meek, humble, and kind: Beware the day They change their minds! Wind In the cotton fields, Gentle breeze: Beware the hour It uproots trees!

I tire so of hearing people say, Let things take their course. Tomorrow is another day. I do not need my freedom when I'm dead. I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

The calm, Cool face of the river, Asked me for a kiss

When peoples care for you and cry for you, they can straighten out your soul.

The Dream Keeper Bring me all of your dreams, You dreamer, Bring me all your Heart melodies That I may wrap them In a blue cloud-cloth Away from the too-rough fingers Of the world.

When a man starts out to build a world, He starts first with himself

Believing everything she read In the daily news, (No in-between to choose) She thought that only One side won, Not that BOTH Might lose.

How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water To be so still that way. ~ "Sea Calm

LIBERTY! FREEDOM! DEMOCRACY! True anyhow no matter how many Liars use those words.

Because my mouth Is wide with laughter And my throat Is deep with song, You do not think I suffer after I have held my pain So long? Because my mouth Is wide with laughter You do not hear My inner cry? Because my feet Are gay with dancing You do not know I die?

Sometimes a crumb falls From the tables of joy, Sometimes a bone Is flung. To some people Love is given, To others Only heaven.

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.

Mother to Son 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. - Langston Hughes (112)

The past has been a mint Of blood and sorrow. That must not be True of tomorrow.

Most musicians remain poor. But the music that they make, even if it does not bring them millions, gives millions of people happiness.

Life is a egg you have to be patient and carefull with it or it will brake

I wish the rent Was heaven sent.

Gather up In the arms of your love—Those who expect No love from above.

I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face.

7 x 7 + love = An amount Infinitely above: 7 x 7 - love.

Impasse I could tell you If I wanted to, What makes me What I am. But I don't Really want to – And you don't Give a damn.

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.

What happens to a dream deferred? / Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Rest at pale evening... A tall slim tree... Night coming tenderly Black like me

Justice That Justice is a blind goddess Is a thing to which we black are wise: Her bandage hides two festering sores That once perhaps were eyes.

I've been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done Tried to make me Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'-- But I don't care! I'm still here!

Life dosent frighten me at all.

Pleasured equally In seeking as in finding, Each detail minding, Old Walt went seeking And finding.

Frosting Freedom Is just frosting On somebody else's Cake-- And so must be Till we Learn how to Bake.

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.

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

Peace We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark They could not see Who had gained The victory.

I kept finding the same anguish, the same doubt; a self-contempt that neither irony nor intellect seemed able to deflect. Even DuBois’s learning and Baldwin’s love and Langston’s humor eventually succumbed to its corrosive force, each man finally forced to doubt art’s redemptive power, each man finally forced to withdraw, one to Africa, one to Europe, one deeper into the bowels of Harlem, but all of them in the same weary flight, all of them exhausted, bitter men, the devil at their heels.

I dream a world where man No other man will scorn, Where love will bless the earth And peace its paths adorn I dream a world where all Will know sweet freedom's way, Where greed no longer saps the soul Nor avarice blights our day. A world I dream where black or white, Whatever race you be, Will share the bounties of the earth And every man is free, Where wretchedness will hang its head And joy, like a pearl, Attends the needs of all mankind- Of such I dream, my world!

Go home and write / a page tonight. / And let that page come out of you - / Then, it will be true.

What happens to a dream deferred?

My old man's a white old man And my old mother's black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I'm sorry for that evil wish And now i wish her well My old man died in a fine big house My Ma died in a shack. I wonder were i'm going to die, Being neither white nor black?

Like a welcome summer rain, humor may suddenly cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you.

Words Like Freedom There are words like Freedom Sweet and wonderful to say. On my heartstrings freedom sings All day everyday. There are words like Liberty That almost make me cry. If you had known what I know You would know why.

There is no color line in death.

Island 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.

if you’re going to use the word ‘dream’ in a poem, you had better be langston hughes.

Books -where if people suffered, they suffered in beautiful language, not in monosyllables, as we did in Kansas

You see, books had been happening to me.

American Heartbreak I am the American heartbreak-- The rock on which Freedom Stumped its toe-- The great mistake That Jamestown made Long ago.

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!

Oppression Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers. In some lands Dark night And cold steel Prevail-- But the dream Will come back, And the song Break Its jail.

They rung my bell to ask me. Could I recommend a maid. I said, yes, your momma.

Your explanation depresses me," I said. "Your nonsense depresses me," said Simple.

America is a dream. The poet says it was promises. The people say it is promises—that will come true. The people do not always say things out loud, Nor write them down on paper. The people often hold Great thoughts in their deepest hearts And sometimes only blunderingly express them, Haltingly and stumbling say them, And faultily put them into practice. The people do not always understand each other. But there is, somewhere there, Always the trying to understand, And the trying to say, "You are a man. Together we are building our land.

For poems are like rainbows; they escape you quickly.

Down Where I Am Too many years Beatin' at the door-- I done beat my Both fists sore. Too many years Tryin' to get up there-- Done broke my ankles down, Got nowhere. Too many years Climbin' that hill, 'Bout out of breath. I got my fill. I'm gonna plant my feet On solid ground. If you want to see me, Come down.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Final Curve When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left

Quiet Girl I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs.

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

I will take your heart. I will take your soul out of your body As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the little words you say to me. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand Nor the sweet of your lips alone. I will take your heart for mine. I will take your soul. I will be God when it comes to you.

I will not take ‘but’ for an answer.

As I learn from you, I guess you learn From me --- although You're older --- and white And somewhat more free.

You never know when love will come along and change...everything.

Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Tell all my mourners To mourn in red- Cause there ain't no sense In my bein' dead.

My brother, Langston, said, “Lily, you don’t understand because you’ve never been in love. If you had a boyfriend, you’d understand.” Langston has a new boyfriend and all I understand from that is a sorry state of co-dependence.

I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen when company comes, but I laugh and I eat well, and I grow strong. Tomorrow I'll sit in the table when company comes, nobody will dare say to me "eat in the kitchen" then. Besides they'll see how beautiful I am and be ashamed.

I look at my own body With eyes no longer blind— And I see that my own hands can make The world that’s in my mind. Then let us hurry, comrades, The road to find.

When you read the words of Langston Hughes you are reading the words of a Black Gay man. When you read the words of Alice Dunbar-Nelson and Angelina Weld Grimké, poets of the Harlem Renaissance, you are reading the words of Black Lesbians. When you listen to the life-affirming voices of Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey, you are hearing Black Lesbian women. When you see the plays and read the words of Lorraine Hansberry, you are reading the words of a women who loved women deeply.

Lawrence has a wonderful hill in it, with a university on top and the first time I ran away from home, I ran up the hill and looked across the world: Kansas wheat fields and the Kaw River, and I wanted to go some place, too. I got a whipping for it.

God in his infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise- So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise.

The prerequisite for writing is having something to say.

I want to walk through this life with you by my side. Your hand in mine. Forever.

Poetry is the human soul entire Squeezed like a lemon or a lime, Drop by drop into atomic words".

Langston Hughes said it best: “A dream deferred is a dream denied.

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. —Langston Hughes

I am the American heartbreak— The rock on which Freedom Stumped its toe— The great mistake That Jamestown made Long ago. —Langston Hughes, “American Heartbreak: 1619

It's better to read in the library. Sitting at my favorite table by the window reading and listening to the sound of other folks turning pages makes me feel like I'm in a house full of company I don't have to talk to.

She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She, Within herself, Found loveliness, Through the soul's own mastery. And now the world receives From her dower: The message of the strength Of inner power.

You and I By Henry Alford My hand is lonely for your clasping, dear; My ear is tired waiting for your call. I want your strength to help, your laugh to cheer; Heart, soul and senses need you, one and all. I droop without your full, frank sympathy; We ought to be together—you and I; We want each other so, to comprehend The dream, the hope, things planned, or seen, or wrought. Companion, comforter and guide and friend, As much as love asks love, does thought ask thought. Life is so short, so fast the lone hours fly, We ought to be together, you and I.

Good morning, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely: You'll hear their feet Beating out and beating out a - You think It's a happy beat? Listen to it closely: Ain't you heard something underneath like a - What did I say? Sure, I'm happy! Take it away! Dream Boogie Hey, pop! Re-bop! Mop! Y-e-a-h!

I’s been livin’ a long time in yesterday, Sandy chile, an’ I knows there ain’t no room in de world fo’ nothin’ mo’n love. I know, chile! Ever’thing there is but lovin’ leaves a rust on yo’ soul. An’ to love sho ‘nough, you got to have a spot in yo’ heart fo’ ever’body – great an’ small, white an’ black, an’ them what’s good an’ them what’s evil – ‘cause love ain’t got no crowded-out places where de good ones stay an’ de bad ones can’t come in. When it gets that way, then it ain’t love.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk. The rain makes running pools in the gutter. The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night– And I love the rain.

Militant Let all who will Eat quietly the bread of shame. I cannot, Without complaining loud and long, Tasting its bitterness in my throat And feeling to my very soul It's wrong. For honest work You proffer me poor pay, For honest dreams Your spit is in my face, And so my fist is clenched Today-- To strike your face.

A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions. ~Oliver Wendall Holmes, Jr.

because shoes got by devilish ways will burn your feet.

When peoples cry for you, they can straighten out your soul.

This, the dream and the dreamer, wandering in the desert from Hopkinsville to Vienna in love with a streetwalker named Music.…

I am so tired of waiting. Aren't you, for the world to become good and beautiful and kind?

Question and Answer Durban, Birmingham, Cape Town, Alabama, Johannesburg, Watts, The earth around Struggling, fighting, Dying--for what? A world to gain. Groping, hoping, Waiting--for what? A world to gain. Dreams kicked asunder, Why not go under? There's a world to gain. But suppose I don't want it, Why take it? To remake it.

Then it was that books began to happen to me, and I began to believe in nothing but books and the wonderful world in books-- where if people suffered, they suffered in beautiful language, not in monosyllables as we did in Kansas.

I was unhappy for a long time, and very lonesome, living with my grandmother. Then it was that books began to happen to me, and I began to believe in nothing but books and the wonderful world in books — where if people suffered, they suffered in beautiful language, not in monosyllables, as we did in Kansas.

The spring is not so beautiful there– But dream ships sail away To where the spring is wondrous rare And life is gay. The spring is not so beautiful there– But lads put out to sea Who carry beauties in their hearts And dreams, like me.

Just because I loves you– That's de reason why Ma soul is full of color Like de wings of a butterfly. Just because I loves you That's de reason why Ma heart's a fluttering aspen leaf When you pass by.

Good people are not that good. To tell the truth, if I were white, no matter how much I loved Negroes, I doubt that I would submit myself to Jim Crow living conditions just to prove my love.” “Neither would I,” said Simple. “Then you would not be very good, either.” “No,” said Simple, “but I would be white.

our tragedy begins humid. in a humid classroom. with a humid text book. breaking into us. stealing us from ourselves. one poem. at a time. it begins with shakespeare. the hot wash. the cool acid. of dead white men and women. people. each one a storm. crashing. into our young houses. making us islands. easy isolations. until we are so beleaguered and swollen with a definition of poetry that is white skin and not us. that we tuck our scalding. our soreness. behind ourselves and learn poetry. as trauma. as violence. as erasure. another place we do not exist. another form of exile where we should praise. honor. our own starvation. the little bits of langston. phyllis wheatley. and angelou during black history month. are the crumbs. are the minor boats. that give us slight rest. to be waterdrugged into rejecting the nuances of my own bursting extraordinary self. and to have this be called education. to take my name out of my name. out of where my native poetry lives. in me. and replace it with keats. browning. dickson. wolf. joyce. wilde. wolfe. plath. bronte. hemingway. hughes. byron. frost. cummings. kipling. poe. austen. whitman. blake. longfellow. wordsworth. duffy. twain. emerson. yeats. tennyson. auden. thoreau. chaucer. thomas. raliegh. marlowe. burns. shelley. carroll. elliot… (what is the necessity of a black child being this high off of whiteness.) and so. we are here. brown babies. worshipping. feeding. the glutton that is white literature. even after it dies. (years later. the conclusion: shakespeare is relative. white literature is relative. that we are force fed the meat of an animal that our bodies will not recognize. as inherent nutrition. is not relative. is inert.)

Fear is stupid. So are regrets. -Marilyn Monroe

2 and 2 are 4. 4 and 4 are 8. But what would happen If the last 4 was late? And how would it be If one 2 was me? Or if the first 4 was you Divided by 2?

The better I know you, the more incredible you are.

Have you ever experienced human love?” “Yes. Once.” Regret shadowed his face. “Then why would you be willing to repeat it?” “What we learn is worth more than what we lose.

Freedom Is a strong seed Planted In a great need. I live here, too. I want freedom Just as you.

Bring me all of your dreams, You dreamers. Bring me all of your Heart melodies That I may wrap them In a blue cloud-cloth Away from the too rough fingers Of the world.

Unfortunately, now that Langston has a boyfriend again, he has forgotten all about me.

Langston took the latest red Moleskine notebook that Grandpa bought me and, together with Benny, mapped out a series of clues to find a companion just right for me.

I started to write: Langston deserves to be sick. But I erased that and wrote, Okay. I’ll make him some.

That’s a nice quote,” Langston said. “Underline it and fold down the page for me, will you?” I did as instructed.

But was that why Negroes were poor, because they were dancers, jazzers, clowns? . . . The other way round would be better: dancers because of their poverty; singers because they suffered; laughing all the time because they must forget.... It’s more like that, thought Sandy.

Bow down and pray in fear and trembling, go way back in the dark afraid; or work harder and harder; or stumble and learn; or raise up your fist and strike-but once the idea comes into your head you’ll never be the same again. Oh, test tube of life! Crucible of the South, find the right powder and you’ll never be the same again-the cotton will blaze and the cabins will burn and the chains will be broken and men, all of a sudden, will shakes hands, black men and white men, like steel meeting steel!

Ku Klux" They took me out To some lonesome place. They said, "Do you believe In the great white race?" I said, "Mister, To tell you the truth, I'd believe in anything If you'd just turn me loose." The white man said, "Boy, Can it be You're a-standin' there A-sassin' me?" They hit me in the head And knocked me down. And then they kicked me On the ground. A klansman said, "Nigger, Look me in the face --- And tell me you believe in The great white race.

Life Is Fine" I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn't, So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered! I came up twice and cried! If that water hadn't a-been so cold I might've sunk and died. But it was Cold in that water! It was cold! I took the elevator Sixteen floors above the ground. I thought about my baby And thought I would jump down. I stood there and I hollered! I stood there and I cried! If it hadn't a-been so high I might've jumped and died. But it was High up there! It was high! So since I'm still here livin', I guess I will live on. I could've died for love-- But for livin' I was born Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die. Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

Just what is a liberal?" asked Simple. "Well, as nearly as I can tell, a liberal is a nice man who acts decently toward people, talks democratically, and often is democratic in his personal life, but does not stand up very well in action when some real social issue like Jim Crow comes up.

To those who lived on the other side of the railroad and never realized the utter stupidity of the word “sin,” the Bottoms was vile and wicked. But to the girls who lived there, and the boys who pimped and fought and sold licker there, “sin” was a silly word that did not enter their heads. They had never looked at life through the spectacles of the Sunday-School. The glasses good people wore wouldn’t have fitted their eyes, for they hung no curtain of words between themselves and reality. To them, things were—what they were.

Once your heart has been broken, it’s never really heals. The wounds may heal, but the scars remain there forever. That delicate tissue must be guarded and protected at all cost.

Don't expect a woman to cook and clean for you. The reason you need a woman is so your heart and soul will have a place call home

We must never forget that our small, daily acts can total a great sum of love. They can be the stars by which others find their way through the dark voyage of life.

Quiet Girl" I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs.

Consider me, Descended also From the Mystery.

I'm looking for a house In the world Where white shadows Will not fall. There is no such house, Dark brother, No such house At all.

Color Wear it Like a banner For the proud-- Not like a shroud. Wear it Like a song Soaring high-- Not moan or cry.

Cora was like a tree—once rooted, she stood, in spite of storms and strife, wind, and rocks, in the earth.

...I learnt that the only way to get a thing done is to start to do it, then keep on doing it, and finally you'll finish it, even if in the beginning you think you can't do it at all. 

Around the world-even in places where there is almost nothing, the rich, the beautiful, the talented, or the very clever can always get something; in fact, the best of whatever there is.

Even to an outsider like myself, not only in the theatre was such disunity evident, but in much else in government Spain. Alvarez del Vayo, Socialist Minister of Foreign Affairs, once asked, "Why is it Spain's people are so great, but her leaders so small?

Now, In June, When the night is a vast softness Filled with blue stars, And broken shafts of moon-glimmer Fall upon the earth, Am I too old to see the fairies dance? I cannot find them any more.

Memory loss is strange. It’s like showing up for a movie after it’s started. I’m sure I’ve missed something. I don’t know if it’s important or not. So I do the best I can to lose myself in the story and hope the gaps don’t matter. Later, I can look it up, or someone will remind me, or maybe it’s perfectly fine to not know.

I decided to give myself a Christmas present this year. I decided to spend the day only speaking to animals (real and stuffed), select humans as necessary so long as they weren’t my parents or Langston, and a Snarl in a red Moleskine notebook—if he returned it to me.

The silence inside the library, the big chairs, and long tables, and the fact that the library was always there and didn’t seem to have a mortgage on it, or any sort of insecurity about it—all of that made me love it.

Then it was that books began to happen to me, and I began to believe in nothing but books and the wonderful world in books where if people suffered, they suffered in beautiful language, not in monosyllables, as we did in Kansas.

O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, & 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.”)

Oh, there was no doubt about it, I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her so bad I couldn't sit properly. I wanted to fuck her, make sweet love to her, do very bad things to her. It was crazy fucking beautiful - the need I had for this woman.

THEY WERE PEOPLE who went in for Negroes—Michael and Anne—the Carraways. But not in the social-service, philanthropic sort of way, no. They saw no use in helping a race that was already too charming and naive and lovely for words. Leave them unspoiled and just enjoy them, Michael and Anne felt. So they went in for the Art of Negroes—the dancing that had such jungle life about it, the songs that were so simple and fervent, the poetry that was so direct, so real. They never tried to influence that art, they only bought it and raved over it, and copied it. For they were artists, too.

hope I never love someone so much that they could hurt me the way Langston was hurt, so wounded all he could do was cry and mope around the house and ask me to make him peanut butter and banana sandwiches with the crusts cut off, then play Boggle with him, which of course I always did, because I usually do whatever Langston wants me to do.

As I Grew Older" It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun— My dream. And then the wall rose, Rose slowly, Slowly, Between me and my dream. Rose until it touched the sky— The wall. Shadow. I am black. I lie down in the shadow. No longer the light of my dream before me, Above me. Only the thick wall. Only the shadow. My hands! My dark hands! Break through the wall! Find my dream! Help me to shatter this darkness, To smash this night, To break this shadow Into a thousand lights of sun, Into a thousand whirling dreams Of sun!

Love is a lot of things. It’s a hard place to fall and a soft place to land. It’s give and take, push and pull. Love can bring out the absolute best or worst in us. But, when you find a love worth fightin’ for, that’s true love. And no matter the struggle or compromise, you can’t walk away from that. Now ask yourself, is he worth fightin’ for?

Although I enjoyed and respected Kipling, Poe, Butler, Thackeray and Henley, I saved my young and loyal passion for Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Langston Hughes, James Weldon Johnson and W.E.B. Du Bois' “Litany at Atlanta.” But it was Shakespeare who said, “When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes.” It was a state with which I felt myself most familiar.

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life. ~Muhammad Ali

Because I wanna make sure you don’t belong to anyone else before we move forward.

Say it. Say your mine, Maddie. You own my heart now, baby. I gotta have yours too.

There stands the white man, Boss of the fields-- Lord of the land And all that it yields. Here bend the black folks, Hands to the soil-- Bosses of nothing. Not even their toil.

Sadly, it is within the religious domain that the phenomenon of rhetorical hysteria takes its most devastating form. I am aware that, in some minds, this tends to be regarded as a delicate subject. Let me declare very simply that I do not share such a sentiment. There is nothing in the least delicate about the slaughter of innocents. We all subscribe to the lofty notions contained in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights but, for some reason, become suddenly coy and selective when it comes to defending what is obviously the most elementary of these rights, which is the right to life. One of my all-time favourite lines comes from the black American poet Langston Hughes. It reads, simply, 'There is no lavender word for lynch'.

No," said Oceola simply. "This is mine. . . . Listen! . . . How sad and gay it is. Blue and happy -- laughing and crying. . . . How white like you and black like me. . . . How much like a man. . . . And how much like a woman. . . . Warm as Pete's mouth. . . . These are the blues. . . . I'm playing.

To sit and dream, to sit and read, To sit and learn about the world Outside our world of here and now-- Our problem world-- To dream of vast horizons of the soul Through dreams made whole, Unfettered, free--help me! All you who are dreamers, too, Help me to make Our world anew. I reach out my dreams to you.

We were singing for Dr. Du Bois' spirit, for the invaluable contributions he made, for his shining intellect and his courage. To many of us he was the first American Negro intellectual. We knew about Jack Johnson and Jesse Owens and Joe Louis. We were proud of Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson and Roland Hayes. We memorized the verses of James Weldon Johnson, Langston Hughes, Paul Laurence Dunbar and Countee Cullen, but they were athletes, musicians and poets, and White folks thought all those talents came naturally to Negroes. So, while we survived because of those contributors and their contributions, the powerful White world didn't stand in awe of them. Sadly, we also tended to take those brilliances for granted. But W.E.B. Du Bois and of course Paul Robeson were different, held on a higher or at least on a different plateau than the others.

Since the day I met you, I’ve felt like I could fly. My heart is lighter and when I’m with you, there’s no place else I’d rather be. Your beautiful smile and that feisty mouth have brought my dull world back to life.

Don't you believe in nonviolence?' I asked. "'Yes,' said Miss Minnie, 'when the other parties are nonviolent, too. But when I have just come out of a funeral parlor from looking at a little small black boy shot three times by a full-grown cop, I think it is about time I raised my pocketbook and strike at least one blow for freedom.

The black women of America have as much right to all rights as white women have, without putting on any foreign robes to get them. I love Africa, but I was born in Florida, U.S.A., America. Of my African blood I am proud, but I want American rights. Of my black face I have no shame, therefore I have the right to want the right to show my face anyplace in America any other folks show their face.

However, I believe everything happens for a reason. There’s a reason we met, there’s a reason you’re here tonight, and there’s a reason why I feel the way I do about you. I can’t ignore any of that. I won’t. I don’t fuck around with fate, Maddie. You shouldn’t either.

Union : Not me alone-- I know now-- But all the whole oppressed Poor world, White and black, Must put their hands with mine To shake the pillars of those temples Wherein the false gods dwell And worn-out altars stand Too well defended, And the rule of greed's upheld- That must be ended.

Aubade to Langston" When the light wakes & finds again the music of brooms in Mexico, when daylight pulls our hands from grief, & hearts cleaned raw with sawdust & saltwater flood their dazzling vessels, when the catfish in the river raise their eyelids towards your face, when sweetgrass bends in waves across battlefields where sweat & sugar marry, when we hear our people wearing tongues fine with plain greeting: How You Doing, Good Morning when I pour coffee & remember my mother’s love of buttered grits, when the trains far away in memory begin to turn their engines toward a deep past of knowing, when all I want to do is burn my masks, when I see a woman walking down the street holding her mind like a leather belt, when I pluck a blues note for my lazy shadow & cast its soul from my page, when I see God’s eyes looking up at black folks flying between moonlight & museum, when I see a good-looking people who are my truest poetry, when I pick up this pencil like a flute & blow myself away from my death, I listen to you again beneath the mercy of a blue morning’s grammar. Originally published in the Southern Humanities Review, Vol. 49.3

Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless. Why not? Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed garments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends and live easy.

In the mid-thirties, a young black poet named Langston Hughes wrote a poem, "Let America Be America Again": . . . 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. . . . 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! . . .

Love is a lot of things. It's a hard place to fall and a soft place to land. It's give and take, push and pull. Love can bring out the absolute best or worst in us. But, when you find a love worth fightin' for, that's true love. And no matter the struggle or compromise, you can't walk away from that.

In some ways, I think I'll never be over him', Langston said. 'That is such an unsatisfied answer' 'That's because you're interpreting it the wrong way. I don't mean it as a wistful, overdramatic declaration. I meant that the love I felt for him was huge and real, and, while painful, it forever changed me as a person, in the same way that being your brother reflects and changes how I evolve, and vice versa. The important people in our lives leave imprints. They may stay or go in the physical realm, but they are always there in your heart, because they helped form your heart. There's no getting over that

People up today and down tomorrow, working this week and fired the next, beaten and baffled, but determined not to be wholly beaten, buying furniture on the installment plan, filling the house with roomers to help pay the rent, hoping to get a new suit for Easter—and pawning that suit before the Fourth of July.

Poets who write mostly about love, roses and moonlight, sunsets and snow, must lead a very quiet life. Seldom, I imagine, does their poetry get them into difficulties. Beauty and lyricism are really related to another world, to ivory towers, to your head in the clouds, feet floating off the earth. Unfortunately, having been born poor--and also colored--in Missouri, I was stuck in the mud from the beginning. Try as I might to float off into the clouds, poverty and Jim Crow would grab me by the heels, and right back on earth I would land.

Nine Negro boys in Alabama were on trial for their lives when I got back from Cuba and Haiti. The famous Scottsboro "rape" case was in full session. I visited those boys in the death house at Kilby Prison, and I wrote many poems about them. One of those poems was: CHRIST IN ALABAMA Christ is a Nigger, Beaten and black-- O, bare your back. Mary is His Mother-- Mammy of the South, Silence your mouth. God's His Father-- White Master above, Grant us your love. Most holy bastard Of the bleeding mouth: Nigger Christ On the cross of the South.

When Hughes writes, in the first two lines of his poem, “Let America be America again/ Let it be the dream it used to be,” he acknowledges that America is primarily a dream, a hope, an aspiration, that may never be fully attainable, but that spurs us to be better, to be larger. He follows this with the repeated counterpoint, “America never was America to me,” and through the rest of this remarkable poem he alternates between the oppressed and the wronged of America, and the great dreams that they have for their country, that can never be extinguished.

All the problems known to the Jews today in Hitler's Germany, we who are Negroes know here in America--with one difference. Here we may speak openly about our problems, write about them, protest, and seek to better our conditions. In Germany the Jews may do none of these things. Democracy permits us the freedom of a hope, and some action towards the realization of that hope.

The boss's got all he needs, certainly, Eats swell, Owns a lotta houses, Goes vacationin', Breaks strikes, Runs politics, bribes police, Pays off congress, And struts all over the earth-- But me, I ain't never had enough to eat. Me, I ain't never been warm in winter. Me, I ain't never known security-- All my life, been livin' hand to mouth, Hand to mouth.

I am a Negro:     Black as the night is black,     Black like the depths of my Africa. I’ve been a slave:     Cæsar told me to keep his door-steps clean.     I brushed the boots of Washington. I’ve been a worker:     Under my hand the pyramids arose.     I made mortar for the Woolworth Building. I’ve been a singer:     All the way from Africa to Georgia     I carried my sorrow songs.     I made ragtime. I’ve been a victim:     The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.     They lynch me now in Texas. I am a Negro:     Black as the night is black,     Black like the depths of my Africa.

Jerome,” Raymer said, not really caring if his own exasperation showed through. “I’m white, okay? I’m sorry, but that’s what I am. How am I supposed to know who all these people are?” Jerome massaged his temples. “The same way I know who Charles Dickens was.” This, Raymer gathered, was in reference to the copy of Great Expectations he’d purchased back at the bookstore. He’d started to put it back on the shelf but then thought again and brought it up to the register. “The same way I know who James Bond is,” Jerome continued. “What do you want from me?” Raymer said. “I’m sorry I don’t know the same things you know.” “That’s not the point, Dawg. The point is that it’s part of your privilege to not know who these Black folks are. I, on the other hand, am supposed to know who Dickens is. You get to skate on Langston Hughes and nobody busts your balls.

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.

In the chemistry lab at school, did you ever hold a test tube, pouring in liquids and powders and seeing nothing happen until a certain powder is poured in and then everything begins to smoke and fume, bubble and boil, hiss to foam, and sometimes even explode? The tube is suddenly full of action and movement and life. Well there are people like those certain liquids or powders; at a given moment they come into a room, or into a town, even into a country-and the place is never the same again. Things bubble, boil, change. Sometimes the whole world is changed.

So goes the life of social poet. I am sure none of these things would ever have happened to me had I limited the subject matter of my poems to roses and moonlight. But, unfortunately, I was born poor--and colored--and almost all the prettiest roses I have seen have been in rich white people's yards--not in mine. That is why I cannot write exclusively about roses and moonlight--for sometimes in the moonlight my brothers see a fiery cross and a circle of Klansmen's hoods. Sometimes in the moonlight a dark body sways from a lynching tree--but for his funeral there are no roses.

She did not like bigots or brilliant bores or academicians who wore their honors, or scholars who wore their doctorates, like dogtags. But she had an infinite capacity to love peasants and children and great but simple causes across the board and a grace in giving that was itself gratitude and she had a body like sculpture in the thinnest of wire and a face made of a million mosaics in a gauze-web of cubes lighter than air and a piñata of a heart in the center of a mobile at fiesta time with bits of her soul swirling in the breeze in honor of life and love and Good Morning to you, Bon Jour, Muy Buenos, Muy Buenos! Muy Buenos! On Nancy Cunard

That evening there were police outside the building in which I spoke, and in the air the rising tension of race that is peculiar to the South. It had been rumored that some of the local citizenry were saying that I should be run out of town, and that one of the sheriffs agreed, saying, "Sure, he ought to be run out! It's bad enough to call Christ a bastard. But when he calls him a nigger, he's gone too far!"... ...Nevertheless, I remember with pleasure the courtesy and kindness of many of the students and faculty at Chapel Hill and their lack of agreement with the anti-Negro elements of the town. There I began to learn at the University of North Carolina how hard it is to be a white liberal in the South.

Next week is Negro History Week," said Simple. "And how much Negro history do you know?" "Why should I know Negro history?" I replied. "I am an American." "But you are also a black man," said Simple, "and you did not come over on the Mayflower—at least, not the same Mayflower as the rest." "What rest?" I asked. "The rest who make up the most," said Simple, "then write the history books and leave us out, or else put in the books nothing but prize fighters and ballplayers. Some folks think Negro history begins and ends with Jackie Robinson." "Not quite," I said. "Not quite is right," said Simple. "Before Jackie there was Du Bois and before him there was Booker T. Washington, and before him was Frederick Douglass and before Douglass the original Freedom Walker, Harriet Tubman, who were a lady. Before her was them great Freedom Fighters who started rebellions in the South long before the Civil War. By name they was Gabriel and Nat Turner and Denmark Vesey." "When, how, and where did you get all that information at once?" I asked. "From my wife, Joyce," said Simple. "Joyce is a fiend for history. She belongs to the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History. Also Joyce went to school down South. There colored teachers teach children about our history. It is not like up North where almost no teachers teach children anything about themselves and who they is and where they come from out of our great black past which were Africa in the old days.

I come from a land whose democracy from the very beginning has been tainted with race prejudice born of slavery, and whose richness has been poured through the narrow channels of greed into the hands of the few. I come to the Second International Writers Congress representing my country, America, but most especially the Negro peoples of America, and the poor peoples of America—because I am both a Negro and poor. And that combination of color and of poverty gives me the right then to speak for the most oppressed group in America, that group that has known so little of American democracy, the fifteen million Negroes who dwell within our borders. We are the people who have long known in actual practice the meaning of the word Fascism—for the American attitude towards us has always been one of economic and social discrimination: in many states of our country Negroes are not permitted to vote or to hold political office. In some sections freedom of movement is greatly hindered, especially if we happen to be sharecroppers on the cotton farms of the South. All over America we know what it is to be refused admittance to schools and colleges, to theatres and concert halls, to hotels and restaurants. We know Jim Crow cars, race riots, lynchings, we know the sorrows of the nine Scottsboro boys, innocent young Negroes imprisoned some six years now for a crime that even the trial judge declared them not guilty of having committed, and for which some of them have not yet come to trial. Yes, we Negroes in America do not have to be told what Fascism is in action. We know. Its theories of Nordic supremacy and economic suppression have long been realities to us.

To an American Negro living in the northern part of the United States the word South has an unpleasant sound, an overtone of horror and of fear. For it is in the South that our ancestors were slaves for three hundred years, bought and sold like cattle. It is in the South today that we suffer the worst forms of racial persecution and economic exploitation--segregation, peonage, and lynching. It is in the Southern states that the color line is hard and fast, Jim Crow rules, and I am treated like a dog. Yet it is in the South that two-thirds of my people live: A great Black Belt stretching from Virginia to Texas, across the cotton plantations of Georgia and Alabama and Mississippi, down into the orange groves of Florida and the sugar cane lands of Louisiana. It is in the South that black hands create the wealth that supports the great cities--Atlanta, Memphis, New Orleans, where the rich whites live in fine houses on magnolia-shaded streets and the Negroes live in slums restricted by law. It is in the South that what the Americans call the "race problem" rears its ugly head the highest and, like a snake with its eyes on a bird, holds the whole land in its power. It is in the South that hate and terror walk the streets and roads by day, sometimes quiet, sometimes violent, and sleep n the beds with the citizens at night.

On the train I had a lot of time to think. I thought how in the thirty years of my life I had seldom gotten on a train in America without being conscious of my color. In the South, there are Jim Crow cars and Negroes must ride separate from the whites, usually in a filthy antiquated coach next to the engine, getting all the smoke and bumps and dirt. In the South, we cannot buy sleeping car tickets. Such comforts are only for white folks. And in the North where segregated travel is not the law, colored people have, nevertheless, many difficulties. In auto buses they must take the seats in the rear, over the wheels. On the boats they must occupy the worst cabins. The ticket agents always say that all other accommodations are sold. On trains, if one sits down by a white person, the white person will sometimes get up, flinging back an insult at the Negro who has dared to take a seat beside him. Thus it is that in America, if you are yellow, brown, or black, you can never travel anywhere without being reminded of your color, and oft-times suffering great inconveniences. I sat in the comfortable sleeping car on my first day out of Moscow and remembered many things about trips I had taken in America. I remembered how, once as a youngster going alone to see my father who was working in Mexico, I went into the dining car of the train to eat. I sat down at a table with a white man. The man looked at me and said, "You're a nigger, ain't you?" and left the table. It was beneath his dignity to eat with a Negro child. At St. Louis I went onto the station platform to buy a glass of milk. The clerk behind the counter said, “We don't serve niggers," and refused to sell me anything. As I grew older I learned to expect this often when traveling. So when I went South to lecture on my poetry at Negro universities, I carried my own food because I knew I could not go into the dining cars. Once from Washington to New Orleans, I lived all the way on the train on cold food. I remembered this miserable trip as I sat eating a hot dinner on the diner of the Moscow-Tashkent express. Traveling South from New York, at Washington, the capital of our country, the official Jim Crow begins. There the conductor comes through the train and, if you are a Negro, touches you on the shoulder and says, "The last coach forward is the car for colored people." Then you must move your baggage and yourself up near the engine, because when the train crosses the Potomac River into Virginia, and the dome of the Capitol disappears, it is illegal any longer for white people and colored people to ride together. (Or to eat together, or sleep together, or in some places even to work together.) Now I am riding South from Moscow and am not Jim-Crowed, and none of the darker people on the train with me are Jim-Crowed, so I make a happy mental note in the back of my mind to write home to the Negro papers: "There is no Jim Crow on the trains of the Soviet Union.