by Langston Hughes
Here I sit
With my shoes mismated.
What I found most interesting, really, about this poem, was how simple it was -- seemingly. If you read any Langston Hughes, you know that his poems are about racial and class divisions, poems designed to read like diatribes that rhyme, and then you come across this poem, and I read it and thought "neat", but then I thought, no, there's go to be more than that and I remembered William Carlos Williams' "Red Wheelbarrow," a poem that is sparse but still paints a picture of a farm and family near the edge of poverty.
So I took another look at this poem, and wondered, could it be about poverty? Could it be a parody of what the upper class (and white) people thought about blacks when Hughes was writing?
Yeah, I think so.
Here's another thing I learned today: before he wrote his first novel, Hughes was supported by a woman for two years who was deemed his "patron," sort of the way rich families would support artists in the Renaissance. It'd be nice if things worked that way, now, wouldn't it? Imagine if Bill Gates would send me a check for $10,000,000 so I could finally finish that short story I'm working on. Instead of having to shill for pennies by posting obvious click-bait like poems by Langston Hughes. NOTHING gets people on the Internet going to your site like posting a Langston Hughes poem.
Oh, yeah, there's also this, which I throw in to get the snobbish literary elite:
|"Name a hot actor," I said to Sweetie.|
"Start pulling your weight on this blog," I told her.
"JT Timberlake," she said,
which is not his name.
(NOTE: THIS WAS NOT A HAIKU)