Another day, another poet

Langston Hughes was an African-American poet whose writings were a much treasured part of the Harlem Renaissance.  In his work, he paints a picture of black America with little displacement of his own personal experiences, but rather explored the voice of his people as he heard it from them.  The poem, “I, Too, Sing America“, is simple in its phrasing, but complex in emothion and undertones.  It is a simple song of hope.  It looks past the bigotry all black of the time faced, and looked to a day when the poet could see humanity rising to the challenge of its own ignorance. 

I, Too, Sing America

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.

National Poetry Month

Once again April is here, and with it comes the 12th annual National Poetry Month.  In light of this most important national celebration, I hope to post as many poems on this blog in the coming days.  From the Americas to the Middle East, poetic forms abound the world over.  It is these forms I hope to put here to help paint a picture of our world’s voices.  I begin with an American doctor from the early 20th century who studied with the great American poet Ezra Pound.  William Carlos Williams brought much of his analytical training to his poetry without losing the humanity necessary in relaying truths that appeal to us all.  More than likely this made him an excellent physician.  The poem, “Spring and All” juxtaposes the image of the lifeless leftovers of winter and a hospital with the slowly blooming growth of early spring.  What makes this significant is the subtlety with which it is handled.  I hope you enjoy, and keep checking back for more poems to come.

 Spring and all

William Carlos Williams

By the road to the contagious hospital

under the surge of the blue

mottled clouds driven from the

northeast- a cold wind.  Beyond, the

waste of broad, muddy fields

brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water

the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish

purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy

stuff of bushes and small trees

with dead, brown leaves under them

leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish

dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked,

cold, uncertain of all

save that they enter.  All about them

the cold, familiar wind-

Now the grass, tomorrow

the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf

One by one objects are defined-

It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of

entrance- Still, the profound change

has come upon them: rooted, they

grip down and begin to awaken.