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Decline [Nov. 27th, 2016|08:01 pm]
rejectomorph
There was sunshine when I set out on my shopping trip today, but heavy, low clouds gathered before I got home, and tonight there could be more rain. After tomorrow there will be several mostly clear days, but they will be cold, and the nights will be very cold indeed. It's definitely feeling like winter already, though some of the trees have yet to shed their last leaves and my yard is still strewn with many of those that have fallen. I should get a chance to rake them before the next round of rainstorms arrives early next week.

Last night I let the computer do the disc check that now goes so slowly. It took close to fifteen hours, and wasn't done until early this afternoon, but the machine has been stable so far today (though still terribly slow) so maybe it was worth it. I was asleep about half the time it was going on anyway, and got caught up on some reading (of stuff printed on actual paper) part of the time. There was also some television, but damned if I can remember any of what I watched.

There was something else I was going to write about, but both my memory and my attention span are so diminished these days that it has left my mind altogether. Maybe I could figure out some way to use that big empty space where my brain used to be for something else. But then I'd probably just forget what I'd put there, and wander around the house looking for it. Oh, well. I decline, like the year.




Sunday Verse





Let America Be America Again


by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this 'homeland of the free.')

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?


I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

linkReply

Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2016-11-28 06:24 pm (UTC)
Oh yes, the Langston Hughes! I don't think I had read it before it turned up at Tumblr and FB recently. (I went off to IU intending to major in English Lit, but that lasted one semester. Boo hoo. Anyway, it means I'm pig-ignorant.)

Disk checking, ugh, so slow.
(Reply) (Thread)
[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2016-11-28 08:54 pm (UTC)
It wasn't properly formated on Rather's Facebook post. FB has such an annoying interface. With all the capabilities of digital publishing at hand, one would expect the most popular site on teh webz to have a few more of them available— and especially one so basic.

(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)