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Quote by Langston Hughes

“Now I do not understand Why God don't protect a man From police brutality. Being poor and black, I've no weapon to strike back-- So who but the Lord Can protect me?”

Quote by Langston Hughes

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Langston Hughes
Langston Hughes

American poet, writer, playwright, editor, and actor. Langston Hughes is one of the most prominent figures of the Harlem Renaissance, known for his poetry and prose. His works often explore themes of race, class, and identity, and have been beloved by readers. more

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“The Fairy Bride The fairy bride picked the lock And tiptoed through the summer wood She gave no mind to life behind Or shadows thrown by bad or good She gave no mind to wrong or right Or screeching call of owls at night She listened for the haunting cries That called her from her blushing bud Ferns unfurl a tickled fronds Laughing at her slightest brush Dewdrops glisten with green eyes Meadows sway with lightest hush A captive note arrests her breath Dreamers weave intricate maze Lithe and quick she shines the light Illuminating shadow glades She gives no mind to life and limb Or captor’s hiss from deep within Her purity will seize the thread Dangling loose from dreamer’s web She spins a silver spool of light To catch the rays of stars at night Now innocence can spread its wings Making haste for freedom flight She gives no mind to where they fly Or how tall grasses lift her high She clicks the lock and in she glides All nature hails the fairy bride”

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“Via Negativa Sometimes it's too hard with words or dark or silence. Tonight I want a prayer of high-rouged cheekbones and light: a litany of back-lit figures, lithe and slim, draped in fabrics soft and wrinkleless and pale as onion slivers. Figures that won't stumble or cough: sleek kid-gloved Astaires who'll lift ladies with glamorous sweeps in their hair— They'll bubble and glitter like champagne. They'll whisper and lean and waltz and wink effortlessly as figurines twirling in music boxes, as skaters in their dreams. And the prayer will not be crowded. You'll hear each click of staccato heel echo through the glassy ballrooms—too few shimmering skirts; the prayer will seem to ache for more. But the prayer will not ache. When we enter, its chandeliers and skies will blush with pleasure. Inside we will be weightless, and our goodness will not matter in a prayer so light, so empty it will float.”

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“Ligeia, Annabel Lee, and Berenice, Supernal beauties, pleasing to the eye, Were temporary mates and marble-cheeked Like timeless funerary monuments. Tremaine’s Rowena, Lady Madeline, Insidiously felled and pushed offstage, Had met goth’s Mister Goodbar on the page. First, females got top billed — — then burying. What makes an author kill his heroines? [Source: "Poe and His Women" a poem by LindaAnn LoSchiavo; first published by Bewildering Stories Magazine, 2019]”

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“Beloved' His eyes contain the history of the world Of all its inhabitants who come and go He yields his wisdom freely for all So human hearts may follow his well-worn tracks Peace and grace surround him As Nature shields him in her protective embrace She moves through him speaking softly Enchanting tales of her wilderness Quietly as a leaf finds the forest floor She brushes his cheek with faintest touch Reminding him she is his true home Guarding his footsteps over all terrain She brings him comfort when darkness falls Through flickering flames and dancing moonlight And when he closes his eyes to sleep She guides his dreams to his soul’s remembrance Of life as one with the Nature he loves”

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“A Poet wrote this poem for me in 2017. Whenever I read this, I feel happy that I could touch someone deeply! "It has not been long since he came to my life He came like a soft wind He made me feel like a king He showed me who i am He made me believe i can No not just a simple man A man who is so deep Emotions feelings are in a heap His mighty head high to keep Though strong and hard His heart is made of gold Love kindness are decorated in folds He holds the capacity of changing others Making all the sisters and brothers Feel that they are worthy His words are so simple yet strong Commanding yet soft High pitched yet so serene He smiles and makes the world smile He feels the unfelt He touches the untouched He sees the unseen He takes care of all without showing He shows without pretending His eyes sparkel with light He is fearless no fright He lightens up the room when he enters And when he speaks is like a melodious symphony That touch you deep down He will inspire you He will teach you He will lend u a hand And make u stand He will be the eye for you to see Thorough ur own heart He never hopes bad for others Neither does he bothers About the negetivies He is the positive man The mighty happy soul And if i talk about his soul It the most beautiful soul How can anyone feel so much? And he has the capability of being himself No matter what He takes good care of others And makes sure he is fit too He wants smile in evryones faces And he will make you smile You meet him once And here you go! You have a changed life Do you kno who the magic man is ? He is the passionate writer”

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Author:Poem 9670 for Avijeet Das
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“Approaching Elegy It's hard to believe you are dying: like looking at a Jamesian scene, skipping past happiness to a garden bench beyond the trees. You fill the form of heroine: you sit in your black dress, too tired to imagine the rest of yourself. An old suitor appears, grabs you possibly too forcefully by the wrists (he is still impossibly in love—). You disengage your wrists. He leans forward, looks into your eyes, which you close—as if you were all by yourself. He moves closer, talking very fast about happiness. He places his cloak on your shoulders, imagines he'll rescue you. Around you, forms grow darker: house, branch, hydrangea. Above you, freckled expanses of leaves form the beginnings of barbed, lopsided shrouds—a possible solace. If only his kiss could please you, I wouldn't need to imagine past the clean architecture of the story. And perhaps it is wrong to look past that. Wrong to ask about happiness. Past midnight, he continues to offer himself. Before, he had offered aimless passion, but now (you see it for yourself) he has an idea: he points into the darkness. He is grave, formal. The dark has swallowed the long shadows of the oaks (though not your unhappiness) —and it is about to swallow you. Soon, it will no longer be possible (there is just one more page to turn) for me to look through your eyes, so I would like to imagine for you: something past tragedy. Just as I would like to imagine that we are not in danger, that we have selves more solid than stars, that we are safe in the pages of books we can reopen to look at each other. Except that we are not women formed of words, but of impossible longings. What was it that you wanted besides happiness? You are dying. I have no ideas about happiness and no patience to imagine it possible. Soon you will not be the heroine; you will not be yourself. And it's not that you've lost the formula; your form is losing you. Look at how brave you are: I imagined the great point was to be happy, as happy as possible with the quick forms that imagine us—but the last time I looked there you were—distant and bright in the not so blue darkness, imagining yourself.”

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“The Technique of the Lifelike I had imagined death thrillingly: my arms held behind to restrain their frivolous occasions, the whole of me bending like a tall yellow lily before you. Yet set see how my hands go on with their thoughts. See how I fold and fold my handkerchief. I am not a great lady. I don't swoon with love. My stricken, I cannot render you as you move quickly toward your skillful execution, your shoulders tossing their indifference to the dark, your face overlaid with stage effects. You grow irresistibly small. Your hands and feet expire. This is where sculpture also fails, this is where I turn wholly unattached and without debt. What is the use of crowning you in glory? Now my fingers make bowls for rain: in your honor: hope for nothing. We knew our disposition long ago.”

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