A loyal Treegap reader commented on my selection of Langston Hughes for the list post and I want to publish it here. It’s one of the first poems that “had me at hello,” so to speak because of its imagery. I was fortunate to be introduced to the Harlem Renaissance poets especially those credited with its founding, like Countee Cullen, in my high school years from an exceptional English teacher. But living in DC means I have the privilege of seeing some of the artwork that accompanied and sometimes inspired these poets. Pictured above is part of Jacob Lawrence’s “Migration” series one poster of which used to hang on Mrs. Kernutt’s wall. It set the words of those like Hughes to visual image and is a stunning portrait of merging words, feeling and experience to canvas.
Lucky for me, I’ve now seen a majority of the originals in person, either at the Phillips Gallery here in DC or in traveling exhibits. They are each stunning, in their own right, but when you see them together it takes a while to breathe it all in. I know it’s taken a long while and we still have race issues in this country, but I’m so proud of my new America right now with a First Family I respect.
That said, while Langston Hughes wrote about race, I believe from the dream deferred is a human experience, transcending race, and all other demographic; the dream deferred could be anything to anyone. I wrote my own version of the Dream Deferred years ago. Today’s offering is Langston’s followed by mine.
A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
What is a Dream Deferred?
by Nicole Speulda
It is a bitter taste
lingering in the mouth,
spit out with haste
to have it come back again.
It is a poisonous drink
slowly eating away the inside,
feeding upon apathy,
cutting hands already tied.
It is a debilitating disease,
a powerless fight,
like talking under water
and drowning one night.
It is a smile with cracked lips
and tearless crying,
into the face of truth,
there is no point in lying.
It is the blinding of the eyes
from reading in the dark,
no moon in the sky
numbness in the heart.
It is the death of a body
no cure for the soul.
Or do we dare to live a life
where dreams refuse to be deferred,
diffuse the bombs
stick to our words?
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