The Weary Blues Read online

  And also herein may be discerned that nostalgia for color and warmth and beauty which explains this boy’s nomadic instincts.

  “We should have a land of sun,

  Of gorgeous sun,

  And a land of fragrant water

  Where the twilight

  Is a soft bandanna handkerchief

  Of rose and gold,

  And not this land where life is cold,”

  he sings. Again, he tells his dream:

  “To fling my arms wide

  In the face of the sun,

  Dance! whirl! whirl!

  Till the quick day is done.

  Rest at pale evening.…

  A tall, slim tree.…

  Night coming tenderly,

  Black like me.”

  More of this wistful longing may be discovered in the poems entitled The South and As I Grew Older. His verses, however, are by no means limited to an exclusive mood; he writes caressingly of little black prostitutes in Harlem; his cabaret songs throb with the true jazz rhythm; his sea-pieces ache with a calm, melancholy lyricism; he cries bitterly from the heart of his race in Cross and The Jester; he sighs, in one of the most successful of his fragile poems, over the loss of a loved friend. Always, however, his stanzas are subjective, personal. They are the (I had almost said informal, for they have a highly deceptive air of spontaneous improvisation) expression of an essentially sensitive and subtly illusive nature, seeking always to break through the veil that obscures for him, at least in some degree, the ultimate needs of that nature.

  To the Negro race in America, since the day when Phillis Wheatley indited lines to General George Washington and other aristocratic figures (for Phillis Wheatley never sang “My way’s cloudy,” or “By an’ by, I’m goin’ to lay down dis heavy load”) there have been born many poets. Paul Laurence Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson, Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, Georgia Douglas Johnson, Countée Cullen, are a few of the more memorable names. Not the least of these names, I think, is that of Langston Hughes, and perhaps his adventures and personality offer the promise of as rich a fulfillment as has been the lot of any of the others.

  —CARL VAN VECHTEN

  New York

  August 3, 1925

  PROEM

  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.

  THE WEARY BLUES

  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.

  JAZZONIA

  Oh, silver tree!

  Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

  In a Harlem cabaret

  Six long-headed jazzers play.

  A dancing girl whose eyes are bold

  Lifts high a dress of silken gold.

  Oh, singing tree!

  Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

  Were Eve’s eyes

  In the first garden

  Just a bit too bold?

  Was Cleopatra gorgeous

  In a gown of gold?

  Oh, shining tree!

  Oh, silver rivers of the soul!

  In a whirling cabaret

  Six long-headed jazzers play.

  NEGRO DANCERS

  “Me an’ ma baby’s

  Got two mo’ ways,

  Two mo’ ways to do de Charleston!

  Da, da,

  Da, da, da!

  Two mo’ ways to do de Charleston!”

  Soft light on the tables,

  Music gay,

  Brown-skin steppers

  In a cabaret.

  White folks, laugh!

  White folks, pray!

  “Me an’ ma baby’s

  Got two mo’ ways,

  Two mo’ ways to do de Charleston!”

  THE CAT AND THE SAXOPHONE (2 A. M.)

  EVERYBODY

  Half-pint,—

  Gin?

  No, make it

  LOVES MY BABY

  corn. You like

  liquor,

  don’t you, honey?

  BUT MY BABY

  Sure. Kiss me,

  DON’T LOVE NOBODY

  daddy.

  BUT ME.

  Say!

  EVERYBODY

  Yes?

  WANTS MY BABY

  I’m your

  BUT MY BABY

  sweetie, ain’t I?

  DON’T WANT NOBODY

  Sure.

  BUT

  Then let’s

  ME,

  do it!

  SWEET ME.

  Charleston,

  mamma!

  !

  YOUNG SINGER

  One who sings “chansons vulgaires”

  In a Harlem cellar

  Where the jazz-band plays

  From dark to dawn

  Would not understand

  Should you tell her

  That she is like a nymph

  For some wild faun.

  CABARET

  Does a jazz-band ever sob?

  They say a jazz-band’s gay.

  Yet as the vulgar dancers whirled

  And the wan night wore away,

  One said she heard the jazz-band sob

  When the little dawn was grey.

  TO MIDNIGHT NAN AT LEROY’S

  Strut and wiggle,

  Shameless gal.

  Wouldn’t no good fellow

  Be your pal.

  Hear dat music.…

  Jungle night.

  Hear dat music.…

  And the moon was white.

  Sing your Blues song,

  Pretty baby.

  You want lovin’

  And you don’t mean maybe.

  Jungle lover.…


  Night black boy.…

  Two against the moon

  And the moon was joy.

  Strut and wiggle,

  Shameless Nan.

  Wouldn’t no good fellow

  Be your man.

  TO A LITTLE LOVER-LASS, DEAD

  She

  Who searched for lovers

  In the night

  Has gone the quiet way

  Into the still,

  Dark land of death

  Beyond the rim of day.

  Now like a little lonely waif

  She walks

  An endless street

  And gives her kiss to nothingness.

  Would God his lips were sweet!

  HARLEM NIGHT CLUB

  Sleek black boys in a cabaret.

  Jazz-band, jazz-band,—

  Play, plAY, PLAY!

  Tomorrow.… who knows?

  Dance today!

  White girls’ eyes

  Call gay black boys.

  Black boys’ lips

  Grin jungle joys.

  Dark brown girls

  In blond men’s arms.

  Jazz-band, jazz-band,—

  Sing Eve’s charms!

  White ones, brown ones,

  What do you know

  About tomorrow

  Where all paths go?

  Jazz-boys, jazz-boys,—

  Play, plAY, PLAY!

  Tomorrow.… is darkness.

  Joy today!

  NUDE YOUNG DANCER

  What jungle tree have you slept under,

  Midnight dancer of the jazzy hour?

  What great forest has hung its perfume

  Like a sweet veil about your bower?

  What jungle tree have you slept under,

  Night-dark girl of the swaying hips?

  What star-white moon has been your mother?

  To what clean boy have you offered your lips?

  YOUNG PROSTITUTE

  Her dark brown face

  Is like a withered flower

  On a broken stem.

  Those kind come cheap in Harlem

  So they say.

  TO A BLACK DANCER IN “THE LITTLE SAVOY”

  Wine-maiden

  Of the jazz-tuned night,

  Lips

  Sweet as purple dew,

  Breasts

  Like the pillows of all sweet dreams,

  Who crushed

  The grapes of joy

  And dripped their juice

  On you?

  SONG FOR A BANJO DANCE

  Shake your brown feet, honey,

  Shake your brown feet, chile,

  Shake your brown feet, honey,

  Shake ’em swift and wil’—

  Get way back, honey,

  Do that low-down step.

  Walk on over, darling,

  Now! Come out

  With your left.

  Shake your brown feet, honey,

  Shake ’em, honey chile.

  Sun’s going down this evening—

  Might never rise no mo’.

  The sun’s going down this very night—

  Might never rise no mo’—

  So dance with swift feet, honey,

  (The banjo’s sobbing low)

  Dance with swift feet, honey—

  Might never dance no mo’.

  Shake your brown feet, Liza,

  Shake ’em, Liza, chile,

  Shake your brown feet, Liza,

  (The music’s soft and wil’)

  Shake your brown feet, Liza,

  (The banjo’s sobbing low)

  The sun’s going down this very night—

  Might never rise no mo’.

  BLUES FANTASY

  Hey! Hey!

  That’s what the

  Blues singers say.

  Singing minor melodies

  They laugh,

  Hey! Hey!

  My man’s done left me,

  Chile, he’s gone away.

  My good man’s left me,

  Babe, he’s gone away.

  Now the cryin’ blues

  Haunts me night and day.

  Hey!…Hey!

  Weary,

  Weary,

  Trouble, pain.

  Sun’s gonna shine

  Somewhere

  Again.

  I got a railroad ticket,

  Pack my trunk and ride.

  Sing ’em, sister!

  Got a railroad ticket,

  Pack my trunk and ride.

  And when I get on the train

  I’ll cast my blues aside.

  Laughing,

  Hey!…Hey!

  Laugh a loud,

  Hey! Hey!

  LENOX AVENUE: MIDNIGHT

  The rhythm of life

  Is a jazz rhythm,

  Honey.

  The gods are laughing at us.

  The broken heart of love,

  The weary, weary heart of pain,—

  Overtones,

  Undertones,

  To the rumble of street cars,

  To the swish of rain.

  Lenox Avenue,

  Honey.

  Midnight,

  And the gods are laughing at us.

  DREAM VARIATIONS

  DREAM VARIATION

  To fling my arms wide

  In some place of the sun,

  To whirl and to dance

  Till the white day is done.

  Then rest at cool evening

  Beneath a tall tree

  While night comes on gently,

  Dark like me,—

  That is my dream!

  To fling my arms wide

  In the face of the sun,

  Dance! whirl! whirl!

  Till the quick day is done.

  Rest at pale evening.…

  A tall, slim tree.…

  Night coming tenderly

  Black like me.

  WINTER MOON

  How thin and sharp is the moon tonight!

  How thin and sharp and ghostly white

  Is the slim curved crook of the moon tonight!

  POÈME D’AUTOMNE

  The autumn leaves

  Are too heavy with color.

  The slender trees

  On the Vulcan Road

  Are dressed in scarlet and gold

  Like young courtesans

  Waiting for their lovers.

  But soon

  The winter winds

  Will strip their bodies bare

  And then

  The sharp, sleet-stung

  Caresses of the cold

  Will be their only

  Love.

  FANTASY IN PURPLE

  Beat the drums of tragedy for me.

  Beat the drums of tragedy and death.

  And let the choir sing a stormy song

  To drown the rattle of my dying breath.

  Beat the drums of tragedy for me,

  And let the white violins whir thin and slow,

  But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun

  To go with me

  to the darkness

  where I go.

  MARCH MOON

  The moon is naked.

  The wind has undressed the moon.

  The wind has blown all the cloud-garments

  Off the body of the moon

  And now she’s naked,

  Stark naked.

  But why don’t you blush,

  O shameless moon?

  Don’t you know

  It isn’t nice to be naked?

  JOY

  I went to look for Joy,

  Slim, dancing Joy,

  Gay, laughing Joy,

  Bright-eyed Joy,—

  And I found her

  Driving the butcher’s cart

  In the arms of the butcher boy!

  Such company, such company,

  As keeps this young nymph, Joy!

  THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

  THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

  (To W
. E. B. DuBois)

  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.

  CROSS

  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 where I’m gonna die,

  Being neither white nor black?

  THE JESTER

  In one hand

  I hold tragedy

  And in the other

  Comedy,—

  Masks for the soul.