Selected Poems of Langston Hughes Page 7

      A city building

      To a mother’s song.

      A city dreaming

      To a lullaby.

  Reach up your hand, dark boy, and take a star.

  Out of the little breath of oblivion

      That is night,

      Take just

      One star.

  To Be Somebody

  Little girl

  Dreaming of a baby grand piano

  (Not knowing there’s a Steinway bigger, bigger)

  Dreaming of a baby grand to play

  That stretches paddle-tailed across the floor,

  Not standing upright

  Like a bad boy in the corner,

  But sending music

  Up the stairs and down the stairs

  And out the door

  To confound even Hazel Scott

  Who might be passing!

  Oh!

  Little boy

  Dreaming of the boxing gloves

  Joe Louis wore,

  The gloves that sent

  Two dozen men to the floor.

  Knockout!

  Bam! Bop! Mop!

  There’s always room,

  They say,

  At the top.

  Note on Commercial Theatre

  You’ve taken my blues and gone—

  You sing ’em on Broadway

  And you sing ’em in Hollywood Bowl,

  And you mixed ’em up with symphonies

  And you fixed ’em

  So they don’t sound like me.

  Yep, you done taken my blues and gone.

  You also took my spirituals and gone.

  You put me in Macbeth and Carmen Jones

  And all kinds of Swing Mikados

  And in everything but what’s about me—

  But someday somebody’ll

  Stand up and talk about me,

  And write about me—

  Black and beautiful—

  And sing about me,

  And put on plays about me!

  I reckon it’ll be

  Me myself!

  Yes, it’ll be me.

  Puzzled

  Here on the edge of hell

  Stands Harlem—

  Remembering the old lies,

  The old kicks in the back,

  The old, Be patient,

  They told us before.

  Sure, we remember.

  Now, when the man at the corner store

  Says sugar’s gone up another two cents,

  And bread one,

  And there’s a new tax on cigarettes—

  We remember the job we never had,

  Never could get,

  And can’t have now

  Because we’re colored.

  So we stand here

  On the edge of hell

  In Harlem

  And look out on the world

  And wonder

  What we’re gonna do

  In the face of

  What we remember.

  Seashore through Dark Glasses (Atlantic City)

  Beige sailors with large noses

  Binocular the Atlantic.

  At Club Harlem it’s eleven

  And seven cats go frantic.

  Two parties from Philadelphia

  Dignify the place

  And murmur:

  Such Negroes

  disgrace the race!

  On Artie Avenue

  Sea food joints

  Scent salty-colored

  Compass points.

  Baby

  Albert!

  Hey, Albert!

  Don’t you play in dat road.

      You see dem trucks

      A-goin’ by.

      One run ovah you

      An’ you die.

  Albert, don’t you play in dat road.

  Merry-Go-Round

  Colored child at carnival:

  Where is the Jim Crow section

  On this merry-go-round,

  Mister, cause I want to ride?

  Down South where I come from

  White and colored

  Can’t sit side by side.

  Down South on the train

  There’s a Jim Crow car.

  On the bus we’re put in the back—

  But there ain’t no back

  To a merry-go-round!

  Where’s the horse

  For a kid that’s black?

  Elevator Boy

  I got a job now

  Runnin’ an elevator

  In the Dennison Hotel in Jersey.

  Job ain’t no good though.

  No money around.

      Jobs are just chances

      Like everything else.

      Maybe a little luck now,

      Maybe not.

      Maybe a good job sometimes:

      Step out o’ the barrel, boy.

  Two new suits an’

  A woman to sleep with.

      Maybe no luck for a long time.

      Only the elevators

      Goin’ up an’ down,

      Up an’ down,

      Or somebody else’s shoes

      To shine,

      Or greasy pots in a dirty kitchen.

  I been runnin’ this

  Elevator too long.

  Guess I’ll quit now.

  Who But the Lord?

  I looked and I saw

  That man they call the Law.

  He was coming

  Down the street at me!

  I had visions in my head

  Of being laid out cold and dead,

  Or else murdered

  By the third degree.

  I said, O, Lord, if you can,

  Save me from that man!

  Don’t let him make a pulp out of me!

  But the Lord he was not quick.

  The Law raised up his stick

  And beat the living hell

  Out of me!

  Now, I do not understand

  Why God don’t protect a man

  From police brutality.

  Being poor and black,

  I’ve no weapon to strike back

  So who but the Lord

  Can protect me?

  Third Degree

  Hit me! Jab me!

  Make me say I did it.

  Blood on my sport shirt

  And my tan suede shoes.

  Faces like jack-o’-lanterns

  In gray slouch hats.

  Slug me! Beat me!

  Scream jumps out

  Like blow-torch.

  Three kicks between the legs

  That km the kids

  I’d make tomorrow.

  Bars and floor skyrocket

  And burst like Roman candles.

  When you throw

  Cold water on me,

  I’ll sign the

  Paper.…

  Ballad of the Man Who’s Gone

  No money to bury him.

  The relief gave Forty-Four.

  The undertaker told ’em,

  You’ll need Sixty more

  For a first-class funeral,

  A hearse and two cars—

  And maybe your friends’ll

  Send some flowers.

  His wife took a paper

  And went around.

  Everybody that gave something

  She put ’em down.

  She raked up a Hundred

  For her man that was dead.

  His buddies brought flowers.

  A funeral was had.

  A minister preached—

  And charged Five

  To bless him dead

  And praise him alive.

  Now that he’s buried—

  God rest his soul—

  Reckon there’s no charge

  For graveyard
mold.

  I wonder what makes

  A funeral so high?

  A poor man ain’t got

  No business to die.

  MADAM

  TO

  YOU

  Madam’s Past History

  My name is Johnson—

  Madam Alberta K.

  The Madam stands for business.

  I’m smart that way.

  I had a

  HAIR-DRESSING PARLOR

  Before

  The depression put

  The prices lower.

  Then I had a

  BARBECUE STAND

  Till I got mixed up

  With a no-good man.

  Cause I had a insurance

  The WPA

  Said, We can’t use you

  Wealthy that way.

  I said,

  DON’T WORRY ’BOUT ME!

  Just like the song,

  You WPA folks take care of yourself—

  And I’ll get along.

  I do cooking,

  Day’s work, too!

  Alberta K. Johnson—

  Madam to you.

  Madam and Her Madam

  I worked for a woman,

  She wasn’t mean—

  But she had a twelve-room

  House to clean.

  Had to get breakfast,

  Dinner, and supper, too—

  Then take care of her children

  When I got through.

  Wash, iron, and scrub,

  Walk the dog around—

  It was too much,

  Nearly broke me down.

  I said, Madam,

  Can it be

  You trying to make a

  Pack-horse out of me?

  She opened her mouth.

  She cried, Oh, no!

  You know, Alberta,

  I love you so!

  I said, Madam,

  That may be true—

  But I’ll be dogged

  If I love you!

  Madam’s Calling Cards

  I had some cards printed

  The other day.

  They cost me more

  Than I wanted to pay.

  I told the man

  I wasn’t no mint,

  But I hankered to see

  My name in print

  MADAM JOHNSON,

  ALBERTA K.

  He said, Your name looks good

  Madam’d that way.

  Shall I use Old English

  Or a Roman letter?

  I said, Use American.

  American’s better.

  There’s nothing foreign

  To my pedigree:

  Alberta K. Johnson—

  American that’s me.

  Madam and the Rent Man

  The rent man knocked.

  He said, Howdy-do?

  I said, What

  Can I do for you?

  He said, You know

  Your rent is due.

  I said, Listen,

  Before I’d pay

  I’d go to Hades

  And rot away!

  The sink is broke,

  The water don’t run,

  And you ain’t done a thing

  You promised to’ve done.

  Back window’s cracked,

  Kitchen floor squeaks,

  There’s rats in the cellar,

  And the attic leaks.

  He said, Madam,

  It’s not up to me.

  I’m just the agent,

  Don’t you see?

  I said, Naturally,

  You pass the buck.

  If it’s money you want

  You’re out of luck.

  He said, Madam,

  I ain’t pleased!

  I said, Neither am I.

  So we agrees!

  Madam and the Number Writer

  Number runner

  Come to my door.

  I had swore

  I wouldn’t play no more.

  He said, Madam,

  6–0–2

  Looks like a likely

  Hit for you.

  I said, Last night,

  I dreamed 7–0–3.

  He said, That might

  Be a hit for me.

  He played a dime,

  I played, too,

  Then we boxed ’em.

  Wouldn’t you?

  But the number that day

  Was 3–2–6—

  And we both was in

  The same old fix.

  I said, I swear I

  Ain’t gonna play no more

  Till I get over

  To the other shore—

  Then I can play

  On them golden streets

  Where the number not only

  Comes out—but repeats!

  The runner said, Madam,

  That’s all very well—

  But suppose

  You goes to hell?

  Madam and the Phone Bill

  You say I O.K.ed

  LONG DISTANCE?

  O.K.ed it when?

  My goodness, Central,

  That was then!

  I’m mad and disgusted

  With that Negro now.

  I don’t pay no REVERSED

  CHARGES nohow.

  You say, I will pay it—

  Else you’ll take out my phone?

  You better let

  My phone alone.

  I didn’t ask him

  To telephone me.

  Roscoe knows darn well

  LONG DISTANCE

  Ain’t free.

  If I ever catch him,

  Lawd, have pity!

  Calling me up

  From Kansas City

  Just to say he loves me!

  I knowed that was so.

  Why didn’t he tell me some’n

  I don’t know?

  For instance, what can

  Them other girls do

  That Alberta K. Johnson

  Can’t do—and more, too?

  What’s that, Central?

  You say you don’t care

  Nothing about my

  Private affair?

  Well, even less about your

  PHONE BILL does I care!

  Un-humm-m! … Yes!

  You say I gave my O.K.?

  Well, that O.K. you may keep—

  But I sure ain’t gonna pay!

  Madam and the Charity Child

  Once I adopted

  A little girl child.

  She grew up and got ruint,

  Nearly drove me wild.

  Then I adopted

  A little boy.

  He used a switch-blade

  For a toy.

  What makes these charity

  Children so bad?

  Ain’t had no luck

  With none I had.

  Poor little things,

  Born behind the 8-rock,

  With parents that don’t even

  Stop to take stock.

  The county won’t pay me

  But a few bucks a week.

  Can’t raise no child on that,

  So to speak.

  And the lady from the

  Juvenile Court

  Always coming around

  Wanting a report.

  Last time I told her,

  Report, my eye!

  Things is bad—

  You figure out why!

  Madam and the Fortune Teller

  Fortune teller looked in my hand.

  Fortune teller said,

  Madam, It’s just good luck

  You ain’t dead.

  Fortune teller squeeze my hand.

  She squinted up her eyes.

  Fortune teller said,

  Madam, you ain’t wise.

  I said, Please explain to me

  What you mean by that?

  She said, You must recognize

  Where your fortune’s at.

  I said, Madam, tell me—

  For
she was Madam, too—

  Where is my fortune at?

  I’ll pay some mind to you.

  She said, Your fortune, honey,

  Lies right in yourself.

  You ain’t gonna find it

  On nobody else’s shelf.

  I said, What man you’re talking ’bout?

  She said, Madam! Be calm—

  For one more dollar and a half,

  I’ll read your other palm.

  Madam and the Wrong Visitor

  A man knocked three times.

  I never seen him before.

  He said, Are you Madam?

  I said, What’s the score?

  He said, I reckon

  You don’t know my name,

  But I’ve come to call

  On you just the same.

  I stepped back

  Like he had a charm.

  He said, I really

  Don’t mean no harm.

  I’m just Old Death

  And I thought I might

  Pay you a visit

  Before night.

  He said, You’re Johnson—

  Madam Alberta K.?

  I said, Yes—but Alberta

  Ain’t goin’ with you today!

  No sooner had I told him

  Than I awoke.

  The doctor said, Madam,

  Your fever’s broke—

  Nurse, put her on a diet,

  And buy her some chicken.

  I said, Better buy two—

  Cause I’m still here kickin’!

  Madam and the Minister

  Reverend Butler came by