Langston Hughes
1902–1967
James Mercer Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902, in
Joplin, Missouri. His parents divorced when he was a young
child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his
grandmother until he was thirteen, when he moved to Lincoln,
Illinois, to live with his mother and her husband, before the
family eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. It was in Lincoln
that Hughes began writing poetry. After graduating from high
school, he spent a year in Mexico followed by a year at
Columbia University in New York City. During this time, he
worked as an assistant cook, launderer, and busboy. He also
travelled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In
November 1924, he moved to Washington, D. C. Hughes's first
book of poetry, The Weary Blues, (Knopf, 1926) was published
by Alfred A. Knopf in 1926. He finished his college education at
Lincoln University in Pennsylvania three years later. In 1930 his
first novel, Not Without Laughter (Knopf, 1930), won the
Harmon gold medal for literature.
Hughes, who claimed Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Carl Sandburg,
and Walt Whitman as his primary influences, is particularly
known for his insightful portrayals of black life in America from
the twenties through the sixties. He wrote novels, short stories,
plays, and poetry, and is also known for his engagement with
the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing, as in
his book-length poem Montage of a Dream Deferred (Holt,
1951). His life and work were enormously important in shaping
the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance of the
1920s. Unlike other notable black poets of the period such
as Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, and Countee Cullen, Hughes
refused to differentiate between his personal experience and
the common experience of black America. He wanted to tell the
stories of his people in ways that reflected their actual culture,
including their love of music, laughter, and language itself
alongside their suffering.
The critic Donald B. Gibson noted in the introduction to Modern
Black Poets: A Collection of Critical Essays (Prentice Hall, 1973)
that Hughes “differed from most of his predecessors among
black poets… in that he addressed his poetry to the people,
specifically to black people. During the twenties when most
American poets were turning inward, writing obscure and
esoteric poetry to an ever decreasing audience of readers,
Hughes was turning outward, using language and themes,
attitudes and ideas familiar to anyone who had the ability
simply to read... Until the time of his death, he spread his
message humorously—though always seriously—to audiences
throughout the country, having read his poetry to more people
(possibly) than any other American poet.”
In addition to leaving us a large body of poetic work, Hughes
wrote eleven plays and countless works of prose, including the
well-known “Simple” books: Simple Speaks His Mind (Simon &
Schuster, 1950); Simple Stakes a Claim (Rinehart,
1957); Simple Takes a Wife (Simon & Schuster, 1953);
and Simple's Uncle Sam (Hill and Wang, 1965). He edited the
anthologies The Poetry of the Negro and The Book of Negro
Folklore, wrote an acclaimed autobiography, The Big
Sea (Knopf, 1940), and co-wrote the play Mule
Bone (HarperCollins, 1991) with Zora Neale Hurston.
Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer on
May 22, 1967, in New York City. In his memory, his residence at
20 East 127th Street in Harlem has been given landmark status
by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th
Street has been renamed “Langston Hughes Place.”
The Weary Blues
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He 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 tone
I 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 Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And 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 bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
BY LANG S T ON H U G H E S
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.
Harlem
BY LANG S T ON H U G H E S
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?
I, Too
BY LANG S T ON H U G H E S
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.
