MICHAEL O. ALLEN

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Langston Hughes

Musings, strange

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Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes

A Facebook friend, John Burroughs, posted this searing Langston Hughes poem today:

Song for a Dark Girl

Way Down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
They hung my black young lover
To a cross roads tree.

Way Down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer.

Way Down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.

Which brings to mind Billie Holiday’s hearbreaking song:

Billie Holiday, 1949

Billie Holiday, 1949

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

I would put a Youtube video of the song up except those links, over time, are not that reliable.

UPDATE: Alright, here’s the Youtube video. If it doesn’t play, doubleclick on the video to go to Youtube, then refresh until it plays:

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4ZyuULy9zs[/youtube]

True words

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My friend Todd Drew has a writing voice that drives me to envy. Lately, he has been posting his ruminations on the Yankees and life in general at Bronx Banter. His latest post there just blew me away.

This is what Todd did. He took his thoughts and set them to music–the poetry of Langston Hughes, to be exact:

Theme for Bronx B

By Todd Drew

People know my thoughts from a baseball blog without knowing my face. Some have asked if I am Latin because I like Alex Rodriguez. Others have said that I must be black because I like Barry Bonds.

I am.

I am Latin and black. I am from Asia and Africa and Europe and the Middle East. I am Mexican and Dominican and Cuban and Panamanian and Nicaraguan and Venezuelan and Columbian. I am everyone from everywhere. I came here in the hold of a ship. I snuck across a border in the middle of the night. I picked tomatoes in California and loaded bales of cotton in Texas and processed meat in Kansas and laid bricks in Brooklyn.

That makes me an American.

I believe we are all Americans here in America.

I write about America and Americans because that is what I see and where I live and who I know and what I think and believe. It is all I know to be true.

Continue . . .

I’ll die happy if I could write as well.