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Barbican Young Poets: On Langston Hughes

Performance poet and one of the early pioneers of jazz poetry, Langston Hughes was one of the leading voices of the Harlem Renaissance through to the beat poets and the birth of bebop and the explosion of black performance arts in the 1960s.

Ahead of a performance of Langston Hughes’ Ask Your Mama: 12 Moods for Jazz with Ice-T and Ron McCurdy, we asked the Barbican Young Poets to write their responses to Hughes’ creative masterpiece.

Ararat

Ask Your Mama – Theresa Lola

Ask your mama why she keeps cutting you out of her will
Ask her why she’s so scared of the black child gaining an ounce of power
Ask your mama where the real root of her fear stems from
Tell her you found some of the trees after you saw your brother hanging off it.
Ask your mama why she keeps giving birth to racism
Ask her why she never claims some of her children, but
instead pits them against each other
Ask your mama why she keeps making jokes about the darkest child being the
ugliest
Ask your mama why she always makes the black child the scapegoat
Ask your mama what drug the doctor prescribed her to avoid being infected by
black skin
Ask your mama if she thinks black skin is contagious
Ask your mama if that’s why she doesn’t hug you
Ask your mama if she’ll love you better if you get a degree
—I heard smart black men make the perfect children.
Ask your mama if she enjoys seeing war outside her window
Ask your mama why
Ask your mama why
Ask your mama why she doesn’t think her womb is wide enough to fit all the
different races her children come in.

Theresa Lola, born 1994, is a British Nigerian poet based in London. Her work has appeared in Brittle Paper. @theresa_lola

 

Ararat

Warning – Damilola Odelola

A clap punctuates the end of each line.

In the quarter of the negroes
blood pressure is high
and shadows cut through roads
like diamond on glass.

We’ve learnt how to move
with the earth so
the soul
of the city sings
to the rhythm
of our steps.

‘Blacks attack’?
‘Blacks on blacks’?
Darling, wait until Black
strikes back;
gets fed up if you using her
babies as food for the land.

Oh, sweetheart
she’ll tire of you sucking
the air from her lungs
like they’re helium balloons.
Only so much
mimicking one can do
before the joke runs
out of breath.

So, don’t waste time
because you see her dancing
and laughing
in the quarter of the negroes.
Here,
where shadows cut through roads
like diamond on glass and
blood pressure is high

because we sit
in the sun
like raisins
waiting
to
explode.

Damilola Odelola is a Barbican Poet alumn & author of self-published
#000000 and Eyewear Poetry published Lost and Found. In the day time she
develops software and web applications @damiodelola

 

Ararat

No Reply – Josette Joseph

certain things
are bricks falling on skin
like mothers

across the table
sinking further
into an empty purse
– a wound licked clean
By Brixton, now bone dry

a child should not be able to see
a mother’s bones so early
but the south of anywhere
is always a burial ground
for those
matching the colour
of it’s soil

money is the first religion
brown women didn’t worship perfectly
now they all know ’bout hell.

across the table,
i asked the body i passed through
why she was empty of money
but full of blood.
her eyes replied
how you gonna worship something you’ve never seen?

and i thought,
what becomes of brown bodies
that doesn’t become of the sick?

mahogany skin
is always made into wooden chairs,
sat on
and it’s flesh always served on white plates,
eaten
till the belly is full
yet the taste, always criticised.

that emptied plate became a brown family’s emblem,
hunger turned generations deep.

and last night
i found my mother
hung from Meshell Ndegeocello’s guitar strings uttering the lyrics
capitalism has his hands around my throat
like a memorised Bible verse.

it was then i realised
what becomes of brown bodies.

nothing less than
mouths that never small talk about the sun,
the women never look up from cut palms.
eyes that learned to read from gravestones
skin with dementia,
forgetting it is supposed to be touched
by something that is not
wand-thin
white fingers
pointing them to the space
they should dig their own grave.

my mother and I live a few miles from you
on a concrete plantation of fruitless labour

and at the moment there is
a rumour passing through
the grapevine of brown bodies;
that if we are not careful
we will be picked to the bone
and swallowed like wine.

apparently,
something is drunk off of our loving.
if we don’t divorce it quickly
it will burst wombs
with babies
born weak and shivering,
the alcohol of racial prejudice
swimming in its waters
and no western doctor will be able to help us.

my mother just told me this
across the table.

and I’m looking down
counting the rice grains
wondering
how many brown bodies
a spirit has to pass through
to feel the sun.

this biology is a lesson
the world has not yet learned
and a brown mother is still trying to unlearn
it’s mistakes.

Josette Joseph is a member of creative collective SXWKS @JosetteJoseph_

 

 

Find out more about Barbican Young Poets.

Ice-T and Ron McCurdy – The Langston Hughes Project, Ask Your Mama: 12 Moods for Jazz takes place on Saturday 21 November as part of EFG London Jazz Festival.

 

Listen to a taster of The Langston Hughes Project: