Langston Hughes-1
Langston Hughes-1
Langston Hughes, a remarkable figure in American literature, was born on February 1, 1901, in Joplin, Missouri.
His life was like an exciting journey filled with words and creativity.
Growing up, Langston faced some challenges. His parents separated, and he lived with his grandmother in
Lawrence, Kansas. Despite the difficulties, he found comfort in books and words. Langston developed a love for
poetry and started writing when he was just a kid.
In 1921, Langston enrolled in college at Columbia University in New York City. However, college life wasn't
exactly what he expected, and he faced financial struggles. Eventually, he left college, deciding to explore the
vibrant world of Harlem, a neighborhood in New York known for its rich African American culture.
Harlem became a central part of Langston's life. He became a part of the Harlem Renaissance, a cultural and
artistic movement celebrating African American identity. Langston's poetry, with its rhythm and blues, captured
the spirit of the time. His famous poem "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" is a powerful reflection on the deep roots
of African American history.
Langston's work didn't stop at poetry; he wrote essays, plays, and even worked as a journalist. His writing spoke
about the struggles of African Americans, the beauty of their culture, and the dreams of a better future.
Throughout his life, Langston traveled extensively, connecting with people from different backgrounds. He
became a bridge between cultures, using his words to build understanding and promote equality.
Langston Hughes passed away on May 22, 1967, leaving behind a legacy of powerful words and a voice that still
resonates today. His contributions to American literature and his commitment to justice make him a beloved and
influential figure in the world of words.
Harlem (1951)
BY LANGSTON HUGHES
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Or does it explode?