Read all of the Langston Hughes poems assigned in Week 8. Then, following the ten steps listed in the document in this week’s Online Learning Resources titled How to Explicate a Poem,?

“Cross”

By: Langston Hughes

My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I’m sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well.

My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I wonder where I’m gonna die, Being neither white nor black?

Hughes, Langston. “Cross.” American Interest, vol. 9, no. 5, May 2014, p. 128. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true& AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=95612483&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“The Backlash Blues”

By: Langston Hughes

Mister Backlash, Mister Backlash, Just who do you think I am? Tell me, Mister Backlash, Who do you think I am? You raise my taxes, freeze my wages, Send my son to Vietnam.

You give me second-class houses, Give me second-class schools, Second-class houses And second-class schools. You must think us colored folks Are second-class fools.

When I try to find a job To earn a little cash, Try to find myself a job To earn a little cash, All you got to offer Is a white backlash.

But the world is big, The world is big and round, Great big world, Mister Backlash, Big and bright and round— And it's full of folks like me who are Black, Yellow, Beige, and Brown.

Mister Backlash, Mister Backlash, What do you think I got to lose? Tell me, Mister Backlash, What you think I got to lose? I'm gonna leave you, Mister Backlash, Singing your mean old backlash blues.

You're the one, Yes, you're the one Will have the blues. Not me – Wait and see!

Hughes, Langston. “The Backlash Blues.” ETC: A Review of General Semantics, vol. 74, no. 1/2, Jan. 2017, p. 222. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu- gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=1327927 29&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“Dreams”

By: Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

Hughes, Langston. “Dreams.” Scholastic Scope, vol. 65, no. 3, Nov. 2016, p. 13. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true& AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=118711206&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“Go Slow”

By: Langston Hughes

Go slow, they say – While the bite of the dog is fast. Go slow, I hear – While they tell me, You can’t eat here! You can’t live here! You can’t work here! Wait! While they lock the gate.

Am I supposed to be god, Or an angel with wings And a halo on my head While jobless I starve dead? Am I supposed to forgive And meekly live Going slow, slow, slow, Slow, slow, slow, Slow, slow. Slow, Slow, Slow? ???? ??? ?? ?

Hughes, Langston. “Go Slow.” ETC: A Review of General Semantics, vol. 74, no. 1/2, Jan. 2017, p. 214. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu /login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=132792727&site=ehost- live&scope=site.

“Mother to Son”

By: Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Hughes, Langston. “Mother to Son.” Ebony, vol. 51, no. 1, Nov. 1995, p. 99. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true& AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=9510255317&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“The Negro Speaks of Rivers”

By: Langston Hughes

I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve

seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Hughes, Langston. “The Negro Speaks of Rivers.” Poetry Foundation, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44428/the-negro-speaks-of-rivers.