Battling back and forth with the possibility of sharing a piece that is, for all intents and purposes, not only racially biased, but also extremely SHADE-driven, the READING of RECEIPTS, wig and edge SNATCHING, scalp BALDING, or whatever colloquial thingy-ma-jigs geared to re-steer someone into the proper lane who "did NOT check themselves before they WRECKED themselves," has been a two month struggle that has resulted in that long-ago, constructed piece gathering virtual dust in my drafts folder. However, I am sure, at some point, sooner or later — between the end of this year and/or the end of next year — I will publish that piece without any qualms. Until then, I've decided to take a far more charming and peaceful route by sharing, of course, poetry.
That lovely, little yet GRAND form of literature that is EVERYthing and SOMEthing and NOthing all at once.
So, without further ado, here's yet another exquisite piece of word art by yet another individual of COLOR: Langston Hughes's The Weary Blues.
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Coming from a black man’s soul.
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
Quite like before, I will not leave some long drawn out summary of my interpretations of this grand piece of work. Nor will I ask you to share your thoughts or interpretations. Again, if you want to do so, then please feel free to do so as I am more than open to hear them. However, my intentions, as before remain the same: to share. Share this work. Share this beautifully musical piece full of life and COLOR written by a man of COLOR. A BLACK man — a BLACK poet. About BLACK life in a world where BLACK LIVES were weary by the burden of being simply that: BLACK. Naturally, read. Enjoy. Re-read. And share.