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Langston Hughes. The Big Sea
The Big Sea
Table of Contents
I. Twenty-One
BEYOND SANDY HOOK
NEGRO
SALVATION
THE MOTHER OF THE GRACCHI
Walk-Chalk! Jay Hawk! K. U.!
CENTRAL HIGH
Just because I loves you— That’s de reason why. My soul is full of color. Like de wings of a butterfly. Just because I loves you. That’s de reason why. My heart’s a fluttering aspen leaf. When you pass by
The mills. That grind and grind, That grind out steel. And grind away the lives. Of men— In the sunset their stacks. Are great black silhouettes. Against the sky. In the dawn. They belch red fire. The mills— Grinding new steel, Old men
Carl Sandburg’s poems. Fall on the white pages of his books. Like blood-clots of song. From the wounds of humanity. I know a lover of life sings. When Carl Sandburg sings. I know a lover of all the living. Sings then
ABRUPT ENCOUNTER
FATHER
BACK HOME
I’VE KNOWN RIVERS
When Susanna Jones wears red. Her face is like an ancient cameo. Turned brown by the ages. Come with a blast of trumpets, Jesus! When Susanna Jones wears red. A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night. Walks once again. Blow trumpets, Jesus! And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red. Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain. Sweet silver trumpets, Jesus!
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
MEXICO AGAIN
PROMENADE
MEANS OF ESCAPE
CARD FROM CUERNAVACA
BULLFIGHTS
TRAGEDY IN TOLUCA
DEPARTURE
MANHATTAN ISLAND
DORMITORY
COLUMBIA
ON MY OWN
HAUNTED SHIP
TIME TO LEAVE
II. Big Sea
AFRICA
SAILOR’S HOLIDAY
Singing black boatmen, An August morning. In the thick white fog at Sekondi; Coming out to take cargo. From anchored alien ships— You do not know the fog. We strange so-civilized ones. Sail in always
S. S. “MALONE”
BURUTU MOON
WRECK OF THE MONKEY CAGE
VOYAGE HOME
STANDEE
JOCKO
BAD LUCK IS GOOD
WINTER SEAS TO ROTTERDAM
MONTMARTRE
WORK
LE GRAND DUC
Lawd, I looked and saw a spider. Goin’ up de wall. I say, I looked and saw a spider. Goin’ up de wall. I said where you goin’, Mister Spider? I’m goin’ to get my ashes hauled!
I did more for my good gal. Than de good Lawd ever done. Did more for my good gal. Than de good Lawd ever done. I bought her some hair— Cause de Lawd ain’t give her none
Is you ever seen a. One-eyed woman cry? I say, is you ever seen a. One-eyed woman cry? Jack, she can cry so good. Just out of that one old eye!
PARIS IN THE SPRING
POEM
Love is like dew. On lilacs at dawn: Comes the swift sun. And the dew is gone. Love is like star-light. In the sky at morn: Star-light that dies. When day is born. Love is like perfume. In the heart of a rose: The flower withers, The perfume goes— Love is no more. Than the breath of a rose, No more. Than the breath of a rose
DON’T HIT A WOMAN
BRICKTOP
LATE PLACE
CHEF ONE-EYE
DISTINGUISHED VISITOR
ITALY
BEACHCOMBER
WORKAWAY
WASHINGTON SOCIETY
Did you ever dream lucky— Wake up cold in hand?
I’m goin’ down to de railroad, baby, Lay ma head on de track. I’m goin’ down to de railroad, babe, Lay ma head on de track— But if I see de train a-comin’, I’m gonna jerk it back
VACHEL LINDSAY
POETRY IS PRACTICAL
I got de weary blues. And I can’t be satisfied. Got de weary blues. And can’t be satisfied. I ain’t happy no mo’ And I wish that I had died
III. Black Renaissance
WHEN THE NEGRO WAS IN VOGUE
HARLEM LITERATI
You don’t know, You don’t know my mind— When you see me laughin’, I’m laughin’ to keep from cryin’
GURDJIEFF IN HARLEM
PARTIES
DOWNTOWN
SHOWS
POETRY
Thunder of the Rain God: And we three. Smitten by beauty. Thunder of the Rain God: And we three. Weary, weary. Thunder of the Rain God: And you, she and I. Waiting for nothingness. Do you understand the stillness. Of this house in Taos. Under the thunder of the Rain God?
That there should be a barren garden. About this house in Taos. Is not so strange, But that there should be three barren hearts. In this one house in Taos— Who carries ugly things to show the sun?
Did you ask for the beaten brass of the moon? We can buy lovely things with money, You, she and I, Yet you seek, As though you could keep, This unbought loveliness of moon
Touch our bodies, wind, Our bodies are separate, individual things. Touch our bodies, wind, But blow quickly. Through the red, white, yellow skins. Of our bodies. To the terrible snarl, Not mine, Not yours, Not hers, But all one snarl of souls. Blow quickly, wind, Before we run back into the windlessness— With our bodies— Into the windlessness. Of our house in Taos
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?
Clean the spittoons, boy! Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach. Clean the spittoons. The steam in hotel kitchens, And the smoke in hotel lobbies, And the slime in hotel spittoons: Part of my life. Hey, boy! A nickel, A dime, A dollar, Two dollars a Day. Hey, boy! A nickel, A dime, A dollar, Two dollars. Buys shoes for the baby. House rent to pay. Gin on Saturday, Church on Sunday. My God! Babies and gin and church. and women and Sunday. all mixed up with dimes and. dollars and clean spittoons. and house rent to pay. Hey, boy! A bright bowl of brass is beautiful to the Lord. Bright polished brass like the cymbals. Of King David’s dancers, Like the wine cups of Solomon. Hey, boy! A clean spittoon on the altar of the Lord, A clean bright spittoon all newly polished— At least I can offer that. Com’mere, boy!
Put on yo’ red silk stockings, Black gal. Go out and let the white boys. Look at yo’ legs. Ain’t nothin’ to do for you, nohow, Round this town— You’s too pretty. Put on yo’ red silk stockings, gal, An’ tomorrow’s chile’ll. Be a high yaller. Go out an’ let de white boys. Look at yo’ legs
NIGGER HEAVEN
Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean. Keep looking straight at me. Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out. His tongue and called me, “Nigger.” I saw the whole of Baltimore. From May until December: Of all the things that happened there. That’s all that I remember
SPECTACLES IN COLOR
LINCOLN UNIVERSITY
FLOOD ON THE MISSISSIPPI
NEW ORLEANS—HAVANA
CREOLES AND CONJUR
OLD HAT
INTERRACIAL CONFERENCE
NOT WITHOUT LAUGHTER
ALMA MATER
EXTRA PAGE
PATRON AND FRIEND
Hallelujah! Undercover driveways! Ma soul’s a witness for de Waldorf-Astoria!
NOT PRIMITIVE
DIAGNOSIS
LITERARY QUARREL
POSTSCRIPT
