A city building
To a mother’s song.
A city dreaming
To a lullaby.
Reach up your hand, dark boy, and take a star.
Out of the little breath of oblivion
That is night,
Take just
One star.
To Be Somebody
Little girl
Dreaming of a baby grand piano
(Not knowing there’s a Steinway bigger, bigger)
Dreaming of a baby grand to play
That stretches paddle-tailed across the floor,
Not standing upright
Like a bad boy in the corner,
But sending music
Up the stairs and down the stairs
And out the door
To confound even Hazel Scott
Who might be passing!
Oh!
Little boy
Dreaming of the boxing gloves
Joe Louis wore,
The gloves that sent
Two dozen men to the floor.
Knockout!
Bam! Bop! Mop!
There’s always room,
They say,
At the top.
Note on Commercial Theatre
You’ve taken my blues and gone—
You sing ’em on Broadway
And you sing ’em in Hollywood Bowl,
And you mixed ’em up with symphonies
And you fixed ’em
So they don’t sound like me.
Yep, you done taken my blues and gone.
You also took my spirituals and gone.
You put me in Macbeth and Carmen Jones
And all kinds of Swing Mikados
And in everything but what’s about me—
But someday somebody’ll
Stand up and talk about me,
And write about me—
Black and beautiful—
And sing about me,
And put on plays about me!
I reckon it’ll be
Me myself!
Yes, it’ll be me.
Puzzled
Here on the edge of hell
Stands Harlem—
Remembering the old lies,
The old kicks in the back,
The old, Be patient,
They told us before.
Sure, we remember.
Now, when the man at the corner store
Says sugar’s gone up another two cents,
And bread one,
And there’s a new tax on cigarettes—
We remember the job we never had,
Never could get,
And can’t have now
Because we’re colored.
So we stand here
On the edge of hell
In Harlem
And look out on the world
And wonder
What we’re gonna do
In the face of
What we remember.
Seashore through Dark Glasses (Atlantic City)
Beige sailors with large noses
Binocular the Atlantic.
At Club Harlem it’s eleven
And seven cats go frantic.
Two parties from Philadelphia
Dignify the place
And murmur:
Such Negroes
disgrace the race!
On Artie Avenue
Sea food joints
Scent salty-colored
Compass points.
Baby
Albert!
Hey, Albert!
Don’t you play in dat road.
You see dem trucks
A-goin’ by.
One run ovah you
An’ you die.
Albert, don’t you play in dat road.
Merry-Go-Round
Colored child at carnival:
Where is the Jim Crow section
On this merry-go-round,
Mister, cause I want to ride?
Down South where I come from
White and colored
Can’t sit side by side.
Down South on the train
There’s a Jim Crow car.
On the bus we’re put in the back—
But there ain’t no back
To a merry-go-round!
Where’s the horse
For a kid that’s black?
Elevator Boy
I got a job now
Runnin’ an elevator
In the Dennison Hotel in Jersey.
Job ain’t no good though.
No money around.
Jobs are just chances
Like everything else.
Maybe a little luck now,
Maybe not.
Maybe a good job sometimes:
Step out o’ the barrel, boy.
Two new suits an’
A woman to sleep with.
Maybe no luck for a long time.
Only the elevators
Goin’ up an’ down,
Up an’ down,
Or somebody else’s shoes
To shine,
Or greasy pots in a dirty kitchen.
I been runnin’ this
Elevator too long.
Guess I’ll quit now.
Who But the Lord?
I looked and I saw
That man they call the Law.
He was coming
Down the street at me!
I had visions in my head
Of being laid out cold and dead,
Or else murdered
By the third degree.
I said, O, Lord, if you can,
Save me from that man!
Don’t let him make a pulp out of me!
But the Lord he was not quick.
The Law raised up his stick
And beat the living hell
Out of me!
Now, I do not understand
Why God don’t protect a man
From police brutality.
Being poor and black,
I’ve no weapon to strike back
So who but the Lord
Can protect me?
Third Degree
Hit me! Jab me!
Make me say I did it.
Blood on my sport shirt
And my tan suede shoes.
Faces like jack-o’-lanterns
In gray slouch hats.
Slug me! Beat me!
Scream jumps out
Like blow-torch.
Three kicks between the legs
That km the kids
I’d make tomorrow.
Bars and floor skyrocket
And burst like Roman candles.
When you throw
Cold water on me,
I’ll sign the
Paper.…
Ballad of the Man Who’s Gone
No money to bury him.
The relief gave Forty-Four.
The undertaker told ’em,
You’ll need Sixty more
For a first-class funeral,
A hearse and two cars—
And maybe your friends’ll
Send some flowers.
His wife took a paper
And went around.
Everybody that gave something
She put ’em down.
She raked up a Hundred
For her man that was dead.
His buddies brought flowers.
A funeral was had.
A minister preached—
And charged Five
To bless him dead
And praise him alive.
Now that he’s buried—
God rest his soul—
Reckon there’s no charge
For graveyard
mold.
I wonder what makes
A funeral so high?
A poor man ain’t got
No business to die.
MADAM
TO
YOU
Madam’s Past History
My name is Johnson—
Madam Alberta K.
The Madam stands for business.
I’m smart that way.
I had a
HAIR-DRESSING PARLOR
Before
The depression put
The prices lower.
Then I had a
BARBECUE STAND
Till I got mixed up
With a no-good man.
Cause I had a insurance
The WPA
Said, We can’t use you
Wealthy that way.
I said,
DON’T WORRY ’BOUT ME!
Just like the song,
You WPA folks take care of yourself—
And I’ll get along.
I do cooking,
Day’s work, too!
Alberta K. Johnson—
Madam to you.
Madam and Her Madam
I worked for a woman,
She wasn’t mean—
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper, too—
Then take care of her children
When I got through.
Wash, iron, and scrub,
Walk the dog around—
It was too much,
Nearly broke me down.
I said, Madam,
Can it be
You trying to make a
Pack-horse out of me?
She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no!
You know, Alberta,
I love you so!
I said, Madam,
That may be true—
But I’ll be dogged
If I love you!
Madam’s Calling Cards
I had some cards printed
The other day.
They cost me more
Than I wanted to pay.
I told the man
I wasn’t no mint,
But I hankered to see
My name in print
MADAM JOHNSON,
ALBERTA K.
He said, Your name looks good
Madam’d that way.
Shall I use Old English
Or a Roman letter?
I said, Use American.
American’s better.
There’s nothing foreign
To my pedigree:
Alberta K. Johnson—
American that’s me.
Madam and the Rent Man
The rent man knocked.
He said, Howdy-do?
I said, What
Can I do for you?
He said, You know
Your rent is due.
I said, Listen,
Before I’d pay
I’d go to Hades
And rot away!
The sink is broke,
The water don’t run,
And you ain’t done a thing
You promised to’ve done.
Back window’s cracked,
Kitchen floor squeaks,
There’s rats in the cellar,
And the attic leaks.
He said, Madam,
It’s not up to me.
I’m just the agent,
Don’t you see?
I said, Naturally,
You pass the buck.
If it’s money you want
You’re out of luck.
He said, Madam,
I ain’t pleased!
I said, Neither am I.
So we agrees!
Madam and the Number Writer
Number runner
Come to my door.
I had swore
I wouldn’t play no more.
He said, Madam,
6–0–2
Looks like a likely
Hit for you.
I said, Last night,
I dreamed 7–0–3.
He said, That might
Be a hit for me.
He played a dime,
I played, too,
Then we boxed ’em.
Wouldn’t you?
But the number that day
Was 3–2–6—
And we both was in
The same old fix.
I said, I swear I
Ain’t gonna play no more
Till I get over
To the other shore—
Then I can play
On them golden streets
Where the number not only
Comes out—but repeats!
The runner said, Madam,
That’s all very well—
But suppose
You goes to hell?
Madam and the Phone Bill
You say I O.K.ed
LONG DISTANCE?
O.K.ed it when?
My goodness, Central,
That was then!
I’m mad and disgusted
With that Negro now.
I don’t pay no REVERSED
CHARGES nohow.
You say, I will pay it—
Else you’ll take out my phone?
You better let
My phone alone.
I didn’t ask him
To telephone me.
Roscoe knows darn well
LONG DISTANCE
Ain’t free.
If I ever catch him,
Lawd, have pity!
Calling me up
From Kansas City
Just to say he loves me!
I knowed that was so.
Why didn’t he tell me some’n
I don’t know?
For instance, what can
Them other girls do
That Alberta K. Johnson
Can’t do—and more, too?
What’s that, Central?
You say you don’t care
Nothing about my
Private affair?
Well, even less about your
PHONE BILL does I care!
Un-humm-m! … Yes!
You say I gave my O.K.?
Well, that O.K. you may keep—
But I sure ain’t gonna pay!
Madam and the Charity Child
Once I adopted
A little girl child.
She grew up and got ruint,
Nearly drove me wild.
Then I adopted
A little boy.
He used a switch-blade
For a toy.
What makes these charity
Children so bad?
Ain’t had no luck
With none I had.
Poor little things,
Born behind the 8-rock,
With parents that don’t even
Stop to take stock.
The county won’t pay me
But a few bucks a week.
Can’t raise no child on that,
So to speak.
And the lady from the
Juvenile Court
Always coming around
Wanting a report.
Last time I told her,
Report, my eye!
Things is bad—
You figure out why!
Madam and the Fortune Teller
Fortune teller looked in my hand.
Fortune teller said,
Madam, It’s just good luck
You ain’t dead.
Fortune teller squeeze my hand.
She squinted up her eyes.
Fortune teller said,
Madam, you ain’t wise.
I said, Please explain to me
What you mean by that?
She said, You must recognize
Where your fortune’s at.
I said, Madam, tell me—
For
she was Madam, too—
Where is my fortune at?
I’ll pay some mind to you.
She said, Your fortune, honey,
Lies right in yourself.
You ain’t gonna find it
On nobody else’s shelf.
I said, What man you’re talking ’bout?
She said, Madam! Be calm—
For one more dollar and a half,
I’ll read your other palm.
Madam and the Wrong Visitor
A man knocked three times.
I never seen him before.
He said, Are you Madam?
I said, What’s the score?
He said, I reckon
You don’t know my name,
But I’ve come to call
On you just the same.
I stepped back
Like he had a charm.
He said, I really
Don’t mean no harm.
I’m just Old Death
And I thought I might
Pay you a visit
Before night.
He said, You’re Johnson—
Madam Alberta K.?
I said, Yes—but Alberta
Ain’t goin’ with you today!
No sooner had I told him
Than I awoke.
The doctor said, Madam,
Your fever’s broke—
Nurse, put her on a diet,
And buy her some chicken.
I said, Better buy two—
Cause I’m still here kickin’!
Madam and the Minister
Reverend Butler came by
Selected Poems of Langston Hughes Page 7
