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Langston Hughes

When Sue Wears Red

When Susanna Jones wears red
her face is like an ancient cameo
Turned brown by the ages.
Come with a blast of trumphets, Jesus!
 
When Susanna Jones wears red
A queen from some time—dead Egyptian night
Walks once again.
Blow trumphets, Jesus!
 
And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red
Burns in my heart a love—fire sharp like a pain.
Sweet silver trumphets, Jesus!

#AmericanWriters

Altre opere di Langston Hughes...
Acceptance

God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
Fire-Caught

The gold moth did not love him So, gorgeous, she flew away. But the gray moth circled the flam… Until the break of day. And then, with wings like a dead d…
Easy Boogie

Down in the bass That steady beat Walking walking walking Like marching feet. Down in the bass
 2
Minstrel Man

Because my mouth Is wide with laughter And my throat Is deep with song, You do not think
 1
Oppression

Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
 1
Park Bench

I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
 1
 3
Sylvester’s Dying Bed

I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
 1
Jazzonia

Oh, silver tree! Oh, shining rivers of the soul! In a Harlem cabaret Six long—headed jazzers play. A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
 1
Enemy

It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
Theme for English B

Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
 1
 1
Prize Fighter

Only dumb guys fight. If I wasn’t dumb I wouldn’t be fightin’. I could make six dollars a day On the docks
Quiet Girl

I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
Catch

Big Boy came Carrying a mermaid On his shoulders And the mermaid Had her tail
 1
Cultural Exchange

In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
Personal

In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
 1



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