fan_elune | Ain't you heard/The boogie-woogie rumble/Of a dream deferred?

Baaaad night, and baaaaad awakening. That would be to a letter telling me that no, they didn't have any job for me. Wankers.

On the other hand, I'm discovering Langston Hughes, and it's good. I thought I'd share a couple. Okay, more than a couple.

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 pallot 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 this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwyne 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.

Moonlight Night: Carmel

Tonight the waves march
In long ranks
Cutting the darkness
With their silver shanks
And kissing the moon
And beating the land's
Edge into a swoon.

A Black Pierrot

I am a black Pierrot:
She did not love me,
So I crept away into the night
And the night was black, too.

I am a black Pierrot:
She did not love me,
So I wept until the dawn
Dripped blood over the eastern hills
And my heart was bleeding, too.

I am a black Pierrot:
She did not love me,
So with my once gay-colored soul
Shrunken like a balloon without air,
I went forth in the morning
To seek a new brown love.

Love

Love is a wild wonder
And stars that sing,
Rocks that burst asunder
And mountains that take wing.

John Henry with his hammer
Makes a little spark.
That little spark is love
Dying in the dark.

Beale Street

The dream is vague
And all confused
With dice and women
And jazz and booze.

The dream is vague,
Without a name,
Yet warm and wavering
And sharp as flame.

The loss
Of the dream
Leaves nothing
The same.

And I'll stop here with the poetry-spam, but... I don't know. There is something beautifully evocative in his poetry. That first poem, I'm actually there, I can hear that blues. And some of those images - dawn bleeding into the sky, love as a brief spark in darkness - they just resonate in me, I suppose.

I'm actually not sure I'd like to study Hughes, though. Deconstructing his poems doesn't sound very appealing, not when I can just lean back, read them, and feel them. ~~Now that would work better if I didn't still automatically notice some stuff.~~