Response to “Weary Blues” by Langston Hughes
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.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
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.
The “Weary Blues” was a significant poem written by Langston Hughes during the Harlem Renaissance. The poem contemplates the way that it channels the suffering and injustice of the black experience in America; Thus transforming that suffering into something beautiful. Personally, I believe that Langston Hughes does a magnificent job outlining the injustices that all people face, especially the African-American community. Facing racism and any kind of hardship for centuries in the American continent. Why? because of their skin color, and how Europeans deem themselves as superior to those of other ethnicities. It was after world war 1 that the African-American community started to stand up for themselves, a time where America was living prosperously. A time where those facing injustices started taking a stand for their fundamental rights, the beginning of the Harlem Renascence.
Response to “Nanima”, by Alysha Mohammed
My inheritance from my grandmother:
broken Gujarati,
saffron flavoured phone calls,
Tonguing foreign words
stuck to the roof of my mouth
instead of gliding off my lips
the way they are
supposed to —
I wish my language wasn’t buried
before I knew how to speak.
Fresh puris in the morning
her leather palms, still soft in mine
kneading yellow flour
Bapa always has seconds, even when he’s not hungry
I don’t think he’ll ever feel full.
She gave me other things too,
veins bursting with deep blue
stories of suffering
Of losing her father at eleven
watching her mother’s
knees buckle, soul split
stripped of her childhood before
she learned to ride a bike
I feel her bones under my fresh skin,
eyes a reflection of hers
before the light began to dim.
We have the same crack at the bottom
of our heels
my skin broken after running away
from every lover who tried to cage me
hers from running into the arms
of a man with a voice like her father’s.
Sometimes she is so full of love
the only thing she can do is sob
and run prayer beads through her fingers,
murmuring to a God that always whispers to her
but never speaks to me
Most often, though, she cries because
there is a part of her so homesick
she will always feel lost;
We have this in common
I can see this poem somewhat relating to myself and my family. I and my siblings were born in Canada, living our entire lives here. We’d rarely go to Turkey, cause of many factors. Without really experiencing the Turkish culture, I can tell that I feel distanced a bit. I know the language, customs, and many other things, however, I have yet to really experience it. When I think about the next generation of Turkish people born in Canada, I feel very sorry for them. They will be put in an even worse situation than myself or my family. With every new generation, the culture, language will start to fade away, and lastly disappear.
