The living Langston: poet laureate of Black America honored at 89th anniversary celebration - includes five of Langston Hughes' poems

Ebony, May, 1991

He was the poet of people, of Black people. He had the colors, curses, dreams and tribulations of Black people in his blood, and the talked our talk, rhymed our rhymes and sang our blues in a language that spoke to all people and all ages.

His name was Langston Hughes, and he was, as the NAACP noted, in awarding him the Spingarn Medal, "the poet laureate of Negro people." He had known rivers, ditches, dives; had known hustlers, winos, dreamers, and old Black mothers of enormous dignity and strength. He spoke of these things, and others, in 62 major works, and when he died on May 22, 1967, he had become a part of the Harlems he loved. The poet was cremated and his ashes wandered, in a manner of speaking, for 24 years before they were returned to Harlem for celebration and entombment at the Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture. At the celebration on the 89th anniversary of his birth, celebrants recalled the living Langston and danced on his tomb, fulfilling the requirements of "the ancient rite of ancestral return" and the wishes of the poet, who said in a poem that he wanted his mourners to rejoice and to wear red.

Here, in honor of his birthday, are five of his poems:

When Sue Wears Red

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!(1)

The Backlash Blues

Mister Backlash, Mister Backlash, Just who do you think I am? Tell me, Mister Backlash, Who do you think I am? You raise my taxes, freeze my wages, Send my son to Vietnam. You give me second-class houses, Give me second-class schools, Second-class houses And second-class schools. You must think us colored folks Are second-class fools.(2)

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.(1)

Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun

Or fester like a sore - And

then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?(2)

Wake

Tell all my mourners To mourn in red - Cause there ain't no sense In my bein' dead.(1)