Black History Month

It's the end of Black History Month here in the U.S. and here are a few items of interest. Did you know that: the idea of Black History Month started with
CARTER G. WOODSON (1875-1950) who was born to parents who had been slaves. Neither his Mother nor Father could read or write. Mr. Woodson had to work to earn money for the family and did not start school until later than most children. But, his motto was it is "never to late to learn." He became a high school teacher; and was sad to discover that none of the schools taught the history of Black Americans. He started the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History to study the important things Black people had accomplished and on February 19, 1926 Woodson established "Negro History Week".

Here are two poems that I really like, (in commemoration) and which I tried to write poetry about, almost a mimicry of them, but they never turned into anything good. I like anything that makes me want to respond, want to write something good. The first one is by Gwendolyn Brooks, one that I posted a long time ago, but one that stays with me:

"The Bean Eaters"
Gwendolyn Brooks

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.

And remembering . . .
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that
is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,
tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.


And the next one is by Langstong Hughes that I really really like. It's so evocative, and full.

"The Weary Blues"
Langston Hughes


Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
"Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more--
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.


Have a good day all!

Me