To Certain, by Langston Hughes

To Certain

You sicken me with lies,

With truthful lies.

And with your pious faces.

And your wide, out—stretched,

mock—welcome, Christian hands.

While underneath

Is dirt and ugliness,

And rotting hearts,

And wild hyenas howling

In you soul’s wasteland.

In places like Selma, Alabama, Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York...

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams

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

Where is the Jim Crow section On this merry—go—round, Mister, cause I want to ride? Down South where I come from White and colored

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

How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water

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

Listen! Dear dream of utter aliveness— Touching my body of utter death— Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliv… The flaming source of your bright…

Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:

Goin’ down the road, Lawd, Goin’ down the road. Down the road, Lawd, Way, way down the road. Got to find somebody

'Me an’ ma baby’s Got two mo’ ways, Two mo’ ways to do de Charleston!… Da, da, Da, da, da!

I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.

I will take you heart. I will take your soul out of your… As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand

Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy—mercy! I’s frustrated!

I got to leave this town. It’s a lonesome place. Got to leave this town cause It’s a lonesome place. A po’, po’ boy can’t