Langston Hughes
My tribute to Langston Hughes
by Deborah White
He always wrote
with the strength & endurance
with the strength & endurance
of noir silk
and sometimes, he'd die
on the same page --
he too, was America;
the darker
brother who scribed of rivers;
he'd known rivers,
he'd known the deep
onward movement
of Congo currents.
If you crack open
a binder you'd find
him sitting
in Harlem's Cotton Club
or Savoy's Ballroom track
at a table under
puffs and swirls
from the continent without cold;
and he'd jot
to the struck wired
strings, of Ellington,
scribble along
with Calloway's
chest rolled
hi-de-hi's,
ho-de-ho's.
Then, you'd notice
his soul
would meander
back to the rivers --
look close,
watch him drink
from Euphrates' mouth
handfuls of Black-men hopes,
listen,
hear him sip
from Nile's lip
cocao and coffee dreams --
it would be then,
that you'd know
he'd known those rivers,
he'd known
the slow,
slow,
trickles
of wearied ink;
Negro rivers.
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