"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly."
--Langston Hughes
This week's poet is Langston Hughes.
I, Too
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.
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12 comments:
MAC-D
This has always been one of my favorite poems but more than that I love the pic. You do come up with some fine artwork!
As an African American aware of my history, I find this poem too patriotic.
I agree...they haven't reached the "feeling ashamed" part
Hey there MacDaddy!!
Thank you for sharing this classic!!
Peace, blessings and DUNAMIS!
Lisa
Hi MacDaddy, These latest pieces about Jesse Jackson and the poem by Langston Hughes are why I like visiting your blog--its educational and I like reading your views on current issues. The poem by Langston is very timely given the latest issues related to the Presidential elections. Thanks to both you and Tami (whattamisaid).
That was great. You mind if I put this on my blog?
anon1: It took me a while to find this photo-- which is really a photo of a painting-- by Hughes. Thanks for recognizing it.
anon2: I don't see patriotism in this poem. I hear Hughes saying black people are also a part of this grand experiment called America too; and this America will one day see.
Evenotes: Well said.
Newblackwoman: Please do.
yea drop some countee cullen and sterling brown folk
I can never get enough Langston.
The New Yorker is sick and has no taste. This is just another sad case of some to portray our next president as something he isn't.
A present for you all: my first favorite poem at 8 years old.
THEME FOR ENGLISH B
By Langston Hughes
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
1951
I love that your readers are sharing their own poetry.
cool blog man!
verna
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