LANGSTON HUGHES

By Carl Van Vechten

Langston Hughes' poem, The Weary Blues. was awarded the first prize in the contest for Negro writers recently instituted by Opportunity. The judges were John Farrar, Witter Bynner, James Weldon Johnson, and Clement Wood. In January 1926, Alfred A. Knopf will publish a book of verse by this young Negro, under the title of the prize-winning poem. The work of this poet is informed with a sensitivity and a nostalgia, racial in origin, for beauty, color, and warmth. His subjects arc extraordinarily diversified. A lyric simplicity marks his sea pieces; his cabaret verses dance to the rhythm of Negro jazz; now he mourns for the hurt of the black man ; again he celebrates the splendor of the women of Mexico or the savage beauty of the natives of the African coast.

Although still a very young man, Langston Hughes has crowded more adventure into his life than most of us will experience. Born February 1, 1902. in Joplin. Mo., he has lived in Mexico, Topeka, Kansas, Colorado Springs, Charlestown, Indiana, Lincoln. Illinois. Cleveland. Ohio, New York City. Staten Island, Pittsburgh, the West Coast of Africa, Holland, Paris, Desenzano, on Lago di Garda. Verona. Venice, and Genoa. His occupations have been as various as his peregrinations. He has acted as paper boy, hotel porter, sodafountain boy, waiter, cook, errand boy at a florist's, sailor, farmhand, advertising solicitor, pantry-man in an oyster house, book agent, and even as a beach-comber!

CABARET*

Does a jazz-band ever sob?

They say a jazz-band's gay;

Yet, as the vulgar dancers whirled,

And the wan night wore awav,

One said she heard the jazz-band sob— When the little dawn was grey.

* From "THE CRISIS"

TO MIDNIGHT NAN AT LEROY'S

Strut and wiggle.

Shameless gal.

Wouldn't no good fellow Be your pal?

Here dat music . . .

Jungle night.

Here dat music . . .

And the moon was white.

Sing your Blues song,

Pretty baby.

You want lovin'

And you don't mean maybe.

Strut and wiggle.

Shameless Nan,

Wouldn't no good fellow Be your Man?

FANTASY IN PURPLE

Beat the drums of tragedy for me.

Beat the drums of tragedy and death,

And let the choir sing a stormy song

To drown the rattle of my dying breath.

Beat the drums of tragedy for me,

And let the white violins whir thin and slow,

But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun

To go with me to the darkness where I go.

SUICIDE'S NOTE

The calm,

Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.