Vintage Hughes

The Negro Speaks of Rivers 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. Aunt Sue's Stories Aunt Sue has a head full of stories. Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories. Summer nights on the front porch Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom And tells him stories. Black slaves Working in the hot sun, And black slaves Walking in the dewy night, And black slaves Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river Mingle themselves softly In the flow of old Aunt Sue's voice, Mingle themselves softly In the dark shadows that cross and recross Aunt Sue's stories. And the dark-faced child, listening, Knows that Aunt Sue's stories are real stories. He knows that Aunt Sue never got her stories Out of any book at all, But that they came Right out of her own life. The dark-faced child is quiet Of a summer night Listening to Aunt Sue's stories. Negro I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa. I've been a slave: Caesar told me to keep his door-steps clean. I brushed the boots of Washington. I've been a worker: Under my hands 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 still in Mississippi. I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa. Mexican Market Woman This ancient hag Who sits upon the ground Selling her scanty wares Day in, day round, Has known high wind-swept mountains, And the sun has made Her skin so brown. The South The lazy, laughing South With blood on its mouth. The sunny-faced South, Beast-strong, Idiot-brained. The child-minded South Scratching in the dead fire's ashes For a Negro's bones. Cotton and the moon, Warmth, earth, warmth, The sky, the sun, the stars, The magnolia-scented South. Beautiful, like a woman, Seductive as a dark-eyed whore, Passionate, cruel, Honey-lipped, syphilitic- That is the South. And I, who am black, would love her But she spits in my face. And I, who am black, Would give her many rare gifts But she turns her back upon me. So now I seek the North- The cold-faced North, For she, they say, Is a kinder mistress, And in her house my children May escape the spell of the South. Mother to Son Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor- Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turninHughes, Langston is the author of 'Vintage Hughes', published 2004 under ISBN 9781400034024 and ISBN 1400034027.