**Poets' Corner- Langston Hughes-The Negro Speaks Of Rivers
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
February is Black History Month
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
… she, sable in a stable born or some such as Mister would provide for a fecund mother and maybe his “wife” she, daughter of the Nubian civilized night in times when old Pharaoh and his ilk (and his damn slaves too) up jn Egypt land were still trying to figure out how to turn that straw in bricks and that weed in paper, daughter of the long flow Nile mother of waters in ancient times she, daughter of ancient Mother Africa, Africa before the international slavers came to breakup tribal bonds, break up families and cast seed to the winds, she, Hattie, Aunt Betty, Sarah, Lettie, she, no proud names now but some sour Missy given, she/they now of the Yazoo in the dark Mississippi night (dark for her not giving a damn about Mister’s best 28,000 acres of the best bottomland in the state and his night time crawls), sat washing sheets (and other dirtied wear too but sweated, unfurled sheets first made of fine cool linen as she could feel as she braced the two gentle stones between the folds), riverbank washing sheets (washing sheets for Mister, Missy, Mister Luke, Miss Sarah and old rowdy Mister’s high yella in Jackson, Mona, damn she was the worse by far wanting two sets of sheets to bounce Mister’s lusts) like one thousand generation washing womenfolk forbear crashing ancient stones to bleed the dirt from some exertions she, and wistfully dreaming freedom dreams, small town freedom dreams like Cousin Eddy escaped and followed the Northern star, followed his dreams away from tortured rivers, and away from white sheet sprawls. Dreaming, back to Africa dreaming heard around sullen camp fires with too little wood to keep the devil away and a body dry and warm and in broken down cabins not fit for Mister’s horses (little knowing that some Mister up North and his brethren were chain slaving thoughts of shipping her brethren, Cousin Eddy in that small town for one, back to that strange land that disturbed her sleep, dreaming fourth, or was it fifth generation dreaming of breaking out of Yazoo mucks, of endless dawn to dusk toils, and of unspoken, unspeakable Mister riverbank wants.
But mostly she dreamed of Toby, of freedom river Toby, her oldest, now this night six months fled, now river fled north, north by the guiding light, north from what the tom toms called, what that other Mister, the train conductor Mister called, the underground river, the river up from Yazoo mucks, up from Mississippi Delta stilts, up to Cairo town waters, yah, up that freedom river like some ancient Nile freedom from pharaoh lashes, from hot suns, from dusty, white, white until you hated the sight of white, bottom land cotton and then move.
And now, just now while daydream wondering where in this wicked old Mister world her beloved Toby was, her thoughts turned to Bob, her thirteen year old come summer Bob standing not a hundred yards from her putting those damn sheets to dry, singing softy about old pharaoh times, about Red Sea parting times, about, and this caused her panic, following the drinking gourd, following she knew the guiding light north, away from Yazoo mucks, and Mississippi silts. She knew, knew deep in her bones that some night, and it would not be long, her Bob too would be other Mister- headed Cairo town bound and that she would have two wonders, two wonders to think of every time she came, one thousand womenfolk generation washing, washing Mister’s sheets in Yazoo mucks.
Little did she know, Miss Hattie , Aunt Betty, Miss Sarah, Miss Lettie know, that not far from Yazoo rivers, one Toby X (let’s not call him some Mister name, some misname, but know he was the son of those sweet Yazoo River washings, and so know a man had been born, was part of the crew on a pilot boat attached to old Mister Sherman’s bummers and was raising hell with Mister’s kindred and that before long, all blue-capped and yellow-striped, he would be heading toward Yazoo rivers too.
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
February is Black History Month
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
… she, sable in a stable born or some such as Mister would provide for a fecund mother and maybe his “wife” she, daughter of the Nubian civilized night in times when old Pharaoh and his ilk (and his damn slaves too) up jn Egypt land were still trying to figure out how to turn that straw in bricks and that weed in paper, daughter of the long flow Nile mother of waters in ancient times she, daughter of ancient Mother Africa, Africa before the international slavers came to breakup tribal bonds, break up families and cast seed to the winds, she, Hattie, Aunt Betty, Sarah, Lettie, she, no proud names now but some sour Missy given, she/they now of the Yazoo in the dark Mississippi night (dark for her not giving a damn about Mister’s best 28,000 acres of the best bottomland in the state and his night time crawls), sat washing sheets (and other dirtied wear too but sweated, unfurled sheets first made of fine cool linen as she could feel as she braced the two gentle stones between the folds), riverbank washing sheets (washing sheets for Mister, Missy, Mister Luke, Miss Sarah and old rowdy Mister’s high yella in Jackson, Mona, damn she was the worse by far wanting two sets of sheets to bounce Mister’s lusts) like one thousand generation washing womenfolk forbear crashing ancient stones to bleed the dirt from some exertions she, and wistfully dreaming freedom dreams, small town freedom dreams like Cousin Eddy escaped and followed the Northern star, followed his dreams away from tortured rivers, and away from white sheet sprawls. Dreaming, back to Africa dreaming heard around sullen camp fires with too little wood to keep the devil away and a body dry and warm and in broken down cabins not fit for Mister’s horses (little knowing that some Mister up North and his brethren were chain slaving thoughts of shipping her brethren, Cousin Eddy in that small town for one, back to that strange land that disturbed her sleep, dreaming fourth, or was it fifth generation dreaming of breaking out of Yazoo mucks, of endless dawn to dusk toils, and of unspoken, unspeakable Mister riverbank wants.
But mostly she dreamed of Toby, of freedom river Toby, her oldest, now this night six months fled, now river fled north, north by the guiding light, north from what the tom toms called, what that other Mister, the train conductor Mister called, the underground river, the river up from Yazoo mucks, up from Mississippi Delta stilts, up to Cairo town waters, yah, up that freedom river like some ancient Nile freedom from pharaoh lashes, from hot suns, from dusty, white, white until you hated the sight of white, bottom land cotton and then move.
And now, just now while daydream wondering where in this wicked old Mister world her beloved Toby was, her thoughts turned to Bob, her thirteen year old come summer Bob standing not a hundred yards from her putting those damn sheets to dry, singing softy about old pharaoh times, about Red Sea parting times, about, and this caused her panic, following the drinking gourd, following she knew the guiding light north, away from Yazoo mucks, and Mississippi silts. She knew, knew deep in her bones that some night, and it would not be long, her Bob too would be other Mister- headed Cairo town bound and that she would have two wonders, two wonders to think of every time she came, one thousand womenfolk generation washing, washing Mister’s sheets in Yazoo mucks.
Little did she know, Miss Hattie , Aunt Betty, Miss Sarah, Miss Lettie know, that not far from Yazoo rivers, one Toby X (let’s not call him some Mister name, some misname, but know he was the son of those sweet Yazoo River washings, and so know a man had been born, was part of the crew on a pilot boat attached to old Mister Sherman’s bummers and was raising hell with Mister’s kindred and that before long, all blue-capped and yellow-striped, he would be heading toward Yazoo rivers too.
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