In honor of Martin Luther King Day, I am going to post poetry from black poets. I’m hoping to post some people I’ve never heard of and then some people who I’ve always liked.
This one is by Langston Hughes and it’s one of my very favorites of his.
A Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
I like this poem, it speaks on what it is to live wishing and hoping for change, feeling as if there really isn’t any point to trying – the thought of, “this is my place, but I wish it could be more.” But I notice at the end, it feels as if it is the prelude to something more. Could we be on the precipice of something better? Or is it a prelude to something worse?