I Would Like to Introduce You to Langston Hughes


 

 

The section of New York City called Harlem was the home of a very wonderful poet during the 1920s and 1930s. Langston Hughes was one of the most influential black poets of the twentieth century. The blog I wrote and titled “I, too, am America” is a quote from this very talented man.  He was born in 1902 in Missouri, however he lived most of his life in Harlem.

 

Langston was a mentor and inspiration to many other leading black writers and writers. In his poetry, he sought to foster black pride, break stereotypes, and outrage people by telling people about the injustices of racism and inequality. He wrote about lynchings, poverty, and the inner rage of blacks confined and humiliated by segregation. Hughes considered himself the people’s poet. He wanted his writings to be read and not studied. His writing is direct, accessible and often dramatic.

 

For instance, his poem “Ku Klux,” is written in the first person voice of a black kidnapped by the Klan. The title of the poem is truncated, but all of Hughes readers knew what the third word word would be. The poem concludes inconclusively, but readers understood the grim fate awaiting the man accused of “sassin’ ” white folks.

 

Hughes first poem was published in the Crisis, the NAACP magazine founded by W.E.B. DuBois. Hughes graduated from Lincoln University in Pennsylvania.

 

He often wrote dark and pessimistic poetry, but considering his world, I believe it is understandable. Hughes did interweave his poetry with brighter optimism and humor. During his lifetime, the Civil Right’s Movement made progress toward equality, dignity and some of his work reflected this progress.  Recently, Langston Hughes has been honored as a gay black male icon.

 

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Portait of African American poet Langston Hughes with a statue, 1955. (Photo by Afro American Newspapers/Gado/Getty Images)

Portrait of African American poet Langston Hughes 

 

Artists banding together to save Langston Hughes’ historic home in Harlem

Gentrification is a many-headed beast, and now that beast may be coming to devour the former home of Langston Hughes – one of the great pioneers of the Harlem Renaissance.

However, Renée Watson, a local writer who lives near the home, is trying to prevent that from happening. Watson has launched a fundraising campaign in hopes of raising $150,000 to rent the place and turn it into a cultural center.

As of today, the initiative has raised a little over $26,000.

“For the past ten years, I’ve walked past the brownstone where Langston Hughes lived and wondered why it was empty,” said Watson on the campaign’s homepage. “How could it be that his home wasn’t preserved as a space for poets, a space to honor his legacy?”

Photo: fullaccessnyc.com
Photo: fullaccessnyc.com

“I’d pass the brownstone, shake my head, and say, ‘Someone should do something.’ I have stopped saying, ‘Someone should do something’ and decided that someone is me,” she added.

Watson also launched I, Too, Arts Collective (named in honor of Hughes’ poem I, Too, Sing America), a non-profit whose first major goal is to lease the apartment and “provide a space for emerging and established artists in Harlem to create, connect, and showcase work.”

Watson has lived in the city just over ten years, and she reached out to other writers once she learned of the possible fate of Langston Hughes’ home.

Old brownstones in the area are being torn down to make room for more modern buildings at an alarming rate. There is fear that the money won’t be raised in enough time, but “the current owner has agreed to hold off on selling to see how the project unfolds,” CNN Money reports.

Jason Reynolds, a young adult author, answered Watson’s call to action immediately. “I kept thinking, this is just like New York, nothing is sacred,” he told CNN Money.

 

Alice Dunbar-Nelson


Alice Dunbar-Nelson was born in New Orleans to a seamstress and a merchant marine. Though not a famous poetess, she was published and  was an interesting woman. She used her life to help make the world a better place.

 

Alice was raised in creole culture and lived and worked in New York, Washington, DC and Wilmington, Delaware. She first became a teacher, and a journalist. She was also a political activist for African Americans’ and women’s causes. She also kept one of the surviving diaries of a 19th century black women.

 

Sonnet

I had not thought of violets late,

The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet

In wistful April days, when lovers mate

And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.

The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,

And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.

 

So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,

I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;

The perfect loveliness that God has made,—

Wild violets sly and Heaven-mounting dreams.

And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream

Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.

 

—Alice Dunbar-Nelson

 

 

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Alice Dunbar-Nelson

Alice Dunbar-Nelson

I Would Like to Introduce my Friend, Poet and Muscian Joan Papalia Eisert


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Joannie and I met back in the early 80’s and we became close friends. She was always ready for anything from a night performing to volleyball on the beach the next day. We would dance our feet off all night enjoying the music of the musicians who were friends and in some cases boyfriends.  Joannie’s light shone the most when she became ill and spent such a long time in hospital and rehab. She and her husband Paul moved home to be nearer her parents.She was struck down with a virus and paralyzed.  She has fought her way back to health and she is the bravest woman I know. She spends her time now helping people and writing poetry and singing. I asked her if I could introduce her to my readers and she graciously said yes. I hope all of you enjoy her work as much as I do.

Joan Papalia Eisert has a B.A. in English from Gannon University. Over the past thirty-six years she has had numerous poems published in small press magazines, newspaper articles, on the Internet, and in Daystar Productions. Two of her poems earned blue ribbons, and one was awarded the Editor’s Choice Award (Sulfur and Sawdust, Scars Publications). Joan’s poetry has also been used in English classes, prison ministry, and various outreach missions. Her first chapbook of poetry, Flat Days was published in 1996. She has read her work at several poetry venues including: Chautauqua Institution (Chautauqua, NY), Erie Book Store, Uncrowned Queens of Western New York’s poetry reading (Buffalo, NY), Mt. St. Benedict (Erie, PA), Maria House Projects’ Diocesan Lodge (West Spring Creek, PA), poetry reading venues in Dallas and Fort Worth, Texas, and Authors Books and Music (Warren, PA). Joan’s poetry will be published in the premier issue of Mending Reality, and she is currently working on her latest poetry collection, Fluency.
Joan taught a Poetry/Creative Writing class at the Maria House Projects’ Diocesan Lodge in West Spring Creek, PA for 10 years. The Maria House Projects provide homes for troubled men who are in need of community for healing. They include alcoholics, drug addicts, men deeply disturbed emotionally, and men suffering from the effects of homelessness and imprisonment. Joan uses creative writing to help the residents heal through artistic expression. She is publisher/editor of ten volumes of For Pete’s Sake, which are the class’ literary collections.
Joan is also an accomplished singer, performing professional since 1971 starting out as a soloist. She was taught voice by Mary Jane Gregan, and extraordinary vocalist herself, from Edinboro, PA. Joan is half of the duo, Fire and Ice (with her husband Paul), now in their 32nd year of performing together, and she sang in the band, Daystar, for seven years.

 
STAR-CROSSED

Poised
like an illegitimate mime
my hands pressing shakily
not quite flat
and frustrated
against the glass
I can see you

Bristled
in orbit
beyond deprivation
motioning to you
in stayed surrender
groping for the illusion
of reconciliation

I can only see You

Oh, my God
in the gasp of a miracle
I am with You

INTENSIVE CARE

Oh God   are You here
You are here?   You are here
This bed is mammoth
I am molding into the noise
vibrations   noise digesting me
noise   surrender   noise
euphoria   noise

You are here   You are here
I am flaccid in Your hands
the bed is You
Mauve billowy heartbreaking love
You love me    You love me
I am suspended   surrounded
permeated with the knowledge of You
the love of You
My pores emanate   Your love   Your mercy

No longer am I paralyzed
as I lay here paralyzed
Machines breathe for me  only my eyes can blink
but my soul is dancing   my spirit is rejoicing
with unimaginable unspeakable clarity
I become Your purpose   I become my life
I become my vision   I become my voice in silence
One nerve at a time   one tear at a time
one battle at a time   one victory at a time

Infinite wounds countless scars
complete prayer gracious mending
until I walk with You again for the first time
I will fall so many times choking on the sludge of despair
over and over again
But You saved me before
when I was maimed   starved in worthless oblivion to You

You gave me my beloveds
You gave me the finest silken thread
from which I clung in absolute atrophy
My thanks to You are beyond my realm incapable of tangibility
so I will spend the rest of my days
walking towards Your Light

WASHDAY

it’s hot
it’s hot
it’s monday on her head
again

her melting
dark chocolate baby
sits in the corner
of the folding table
his eyes
lit
with the shiniest duskiness
i’ve ever seen

his cry is thin
she scolds him
as if the warriors of the world
have come to claim
the territory between
her skin and her bones

a sister mother comes by
with a tiny red ball
“catch the ball
can’t you catch the ball?”

mmhmmm
mmm hmmm

catch the ball
can’t you catch the ball
WHAT WE CAN HAVE

If we go to the desert
in stillness, in emptiness
If we let the wind, the sand
the darkness
permeate our visceral souls
If we collapse in utter exhalation
to the hollowing breath of surrender
If we let ourselves be skinned
from the inside out
If we weep, moan, and wail
until the darkness is repulsed
by our heinous forgiveness
we can have peace