***Poets' Corner- Langston Hughes-Dream Boogie
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
February is Black History Month
Dream Boogie
Good morning, daddy!
Ain't you heard
The boogie-woogie rumble
Of a dream deferred?
Listen closely:
You'll hear their feet
Beating out and beating out a -
You think
It's a happy beat?
Listen to it closely:
Ain't you heard
something underneath
like a -
What did I say?
Sure,
I'm happy!
Take it away!
Hey, pop!
Re-bop!
Mop!
Y-e-a-h!
Langston Hughes
[“Did you clean that women’s toilet on the fifth floor?,” yelled Harry, Harry Simons his goddam building cleaning supervisor, from across the foyer near the elevators on the ground floor who knew damn well that he had done that job, had finished all his jobs in the Acme Trust Building and then some so that he could get off before noon on this Saturday, and every Saturday when he needed his rest before he stepped out for his big Saturday night. It was during those times, those damn Saturday morning work times as if five days were not enough, Sam wished he had stayed in school like his Mama, bless her name, told him to do and get an education so he could apply for a civil service job and take life easier than she had had it as a scrubwoman for the same company, Barclay’s, that he worked for now.
But he had to sow his wild oats, do his reefer, do his two-year stretch, do his high hat corner boy routine just like all of his boys who distrusted, seriously distrusted any guy who thought being “book smart” was better than savvy “street smart.” Looked askance at Negro intellectuals, black men like that be-bop poet Langston Hughes who pitter patter poetry he read in Sing Sing just to pass the time. Brother, that Hughes knew all the words, knew the street beat too. But just then Harry came up and told him he was done for the day and his thoughts drifted from be-bop poets to that night’s doing when he would “walk with the king,” and his sorrows would soon be forgotten.]
…he, Sam Walker, everybody called him Sam except his mother naturally wanting to proud say his full sired name Samuel Maxwell, Maxwell like the Chicago blues street his father had worked before he hit the long dusty road west, just this moment, this Saturday night high-kicking moment being called by his moniker by Miss Ella from across the street reflecting his Saturday night time name, Sidewalk Slim (known as such ever since his corner boy days around 125th Street back in the late 1940s when he was really slim and when he ruled, ruled for a moment in time, the sidewalk in front of Sadie Barker’s Pool Hall and guys would listen to him “talk the talk” just to hear him talk the talk and figure out how to some young thing out of her virtue), was, as always on Saturday night, dressed to the nines, yes, the nines. Resplendent in his now well-worn, although serviceable, wide lapel dark brown suit that had seeable pants creases, and off-pink collared shirt to highlight the brown (also well- worn but like the suit serviceable, serviceable Saturday night especially after a few drinks, or some reefer madness kicks, dimmed the lights), a signature string tie reflecting a local hip trend, shoe-shine black shoes, ready to dance almost by themselves. And to top off that resplendent as he walked in the front door of the Red Fez (red to make one think of sunsets, of flaming heats, and fez to make one think back to Mother Africa times and some eternal birth mysteries) was his woman, his lady, Miss Molly, fully gowned, new, new and freely given by a, ah, gentleman friend to show some appreciation for her kindnesses. Sidewalk Slim didn’t like the fact that it was new, that he had not purchased it, and that someone else had. They had argued about it for a bit but as usual Slim was at the losing end of a Molly argument when it came to her looks. Finished.
Moreover, this night, the Molly Red Fez night, Slim was eager to have Molly around as his arm piece in another man’s bought dress or not because none other than the man, Be-Bop Benny and his quartet, Benny (Benny Bartlett) from his old corner boy days, who looked like he and his crew were ready to break out, break out big in the emerging swing bing, bang, bing jazz night, maybe like the Count or the Duke, were playing the house that night and he needed to show he fit in, fit in nicely with the new be-bop, with the hip. So reefer loaded, feeling a little mellow as he sat down at the front table Benny had reserved for him, ordering some high-shelf liquor, a bottle, as befit the occasion Slim for once felt that old time corner boy king of the hill walking daddy feeling that he used to feel around 125th Street. And the night, really the night and the next morning because he and Molly stayed after hours when Benny and other guys from around town after finishing their money gigs for the Mayfair swells and that crowd came by to really blast, worked out just that way. He was beat, beat to hell and back and slept most of the Sunday away.
Come Monday morning, early, in a different suit, the green khaki uniform, complete with his Sam Walker name in white label above the shirt pocket, of the Barclay Cleaning Company, taking the old A-train to work he thought about the day ahead, the long day ahead, and about how his supervisor, Harry, would probably yell to him for the millionth time “Did you clean that women’s toilet on the fifth floor?” or something like that. Jesus.
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
February is Black History Month
Dream Boogie
Good morning, daddy!
Ain't you heard
The boogie-woogie rumble
Of a dream deferred?
Listen closely:
You'll hear their feet
Beating out and beating out a -
You think
It's a happy beat?
Listen to it closely:
Ain't you heard
something underneath
like a -
What did I say?
Sure,
I'm happy!
Take it away!
Hey, pop!
Re-bop!
Mop!
Y-e-a-h!
Langston Hughes
[“Did you clean that women’s toilet on the fifth floor?,” yelled Harry, Harry Simons his goddam building cleaning supervisor, from across the foyer near the elevators on the ground floor who knew damn well that he had done that job, had finished all his jobs in the Acme Trust Building and then some so that he could get off before noon on this Saturday, and every Saturday when he needed his rest before he stepped out for his big Saturday night. It was during those times, those damn Saturday morning work times as if five days were not enough, Sam wished he had stayed in school like his Mama, bless her name, told him to do and get an education so he could apply for a civil service job and take life easier than she had had it as a scrubwoman for the same company, Barclay’s, that he worked for now.
But he had to sow his wild oats, do his reefer, do his two-year stretch, do his high hat corner boy routine just like all of his boys who distrusted, seriously distrusted any guy who thought being “book smart” was better than savvy “street smart.” Looked askance at Negro intellectuals, black men like that be-bop poet Langston Hughes who pitter patter poetry he read in Sing Sing just to pass the time. Brother, that Hughes knew all the words, knew the street beat too. But just then Harry came up and told him he was done for the day and his thoughts drifted from be-bop poets to that night’s doing when he would “walk with the king,” and his sorrows would soon be forgotten.]
…he, Sam Walker, everybody called him Sam except his mother naturally wanting to proud say his full sired name Samuel Maxwell, Maxwell like the Chicago blues street his father had worked before he hit the long dusty road west, just this moment, this Saturday night high-kicking moment being called by his moniker by Miss Ella from across the street reflecting his Saturday night time name, Sidewalk Slim (known as such ever since his corner boy days around 125th Street back in the late 1940s when he was really slim and when he ruled, ruled for a moment in time, the sidewalk in front of Sadie Barker’s Pool Hall and guys would listen to him “talk the talk” just to hear him talk the talk and figure out how to some young thing out of her virtue), was, as always on Saturday night, dressed to the nines, yes, the nines. Resplendent in his now well-worn, although serviceable, wide lapel dark brown suit that had seeable pants creases, and off-pink collared shirt to highlight the brown (also well- worn but like the suit serviceable, serviceable Saturday night especially after a few drinks, or some reefer madness kicks, dimmed the lights), a signature string tie reflecting a local hip trend, shoe-shine black shoes, ready to dance almost by themselves. And to top off that resplendent as he walked in the front door of the Red Fez (red to make one think of sunsets, of flaming heats, and fez to make one think back to Mother Africa times and some eternal birth mysteries) was his woman, his lady, Miss Molly, fully gowned, new, new and freely given by a, ah, gentleman friend to show some appreciation for her kindnesses. Sidewalk Slim didn’t like the fact that it was new, that he had not purchased it, and that someone else had. They had argued about it for a bit but as usual Slim was at the losing end of a Molly argument when it came to her looks. Finished.
Moreover, this night, the Molly Red Fez night, Slim was eager to have Molly around as his arm piece in another man’s bought dress or not because none other than the man, Be-Bop Benny and his quartet, Benny (Benny Bartlett) from his old corner boy days, who looked like he and his crew were ready to break out, break out big in the emerging swing bing, bang, bing jazz night, maybe like the Count or the Duke, were playing the house that night and he needed to show he fit in, fit in nicely with the new be-bop, with the hip. So reefer loaded, feeling a little mellow as he sat down at the front table Benny had reserved for him, ordering some high-shelf liquor, a bottle, as befit the occasion Slim for once felt that old time corner boy king of the hill walking daddy feeling that he used to feel around 125th Street. And the night, really the night and the next morning because he and Molly stayed after hours when Benny and other guys from around town after finishing their money gigs for the Mayfair swells and that crowd came by to really blast, worked out just that way. He was beat, beat to hell and back and slept most of the Sunday away.
Come Monday morning, early, in a different suit, the green khaki uniform, complete with his Sam Walker name in white label above the shirt pocket, of the Barclay Cleaning Company, taking the old A-train to work he thought about the day ahead, the long day ahead, and about how his supervisor, Harry, would probably yell to him for the millionth time “Did you clean that women’s toilet on the fifth floor?” or something like that. Jesus.
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