The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes *DEADLINE CHANGE*
There's Room For Two In This Grave by AshIsNotOnFire: http://www.ficwad.com/story/205292: Dang. See, that's what I wanted this to do, this here challenge. I never would have seen that in Lucy's poem girl. It was so morbid, where do I even begin? It set the jumper cables to something unpleasant in me. Fantastic hon.
Merry go-round by OutForTheCount: http://www.ficwad.com/story/205054: Do I detect an Orson Welles vibe here? You always do that Cecilia. He is the author your work most resonates with if you ask me. Man, the subjects you cover... Dudes, this was bizarre but her work truly seems to frequently have this 1984 feel to it. I'm not even kidding and that's a compliment. Read it.
Excerpt by AdnarimSmada: http://www.ficwad.com/story/205290: This is a very fitting piece of the second book in the trilogy I'm writing. It pairs rather well with Lucy's poem. THE WRITING IS MY WORK ALONE. PROPERTY OF ADNARIM SMADA, COMPLETELY ORIGINAL, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. I HAVE LAWYERS AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY BOOKS IN PROGRESS IS WRITTEN OUT LONG HAND SO DON'T TRY ANY FUNNY BUSINESS OKAY? GOOD. ENJOY. I APPRECIATE YOUR FEEDBACK.
Okay, so now we get into the meat and potatoes. This piece of poetry is professionally done and all credit goes to this author of the Harlem Renaissance.
The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Coming from a black man's soul.
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
"Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied—
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.
I have decided to make the entry deadline for this event next Sunday, 11/25/2012 at midnight and from now on, you'll see a new poem every two weeks. It'll make it easier for me to keep up with both events.