To share.

It surprises me a little that most of what I've come upon in my various readings and wanted to share has been poetry. Hmm.

I haven't read much Langston Hughes, probably because I didn't go to public school. I like this one:

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --

Bare.

But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now --

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote some poetry while he was in prison. Here's one that stood out to me, with a short preface.

Literature describes universal human experience. In general, the more specific the experience recorded, the more meaningful and relevant it will be to the reader. I think that's a beautiful, remarkable thing.

I've never been in prison, and I don't know that any of my readers have, but I'm sure all of us have at one time or another asked the same questions that Bonhoeffer asks in this poem.


Who am I?

Who am I? They often tell me
I would step from my cell's confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly
like a squire from his country-house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I would talk to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I would bear the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I know of myself,
restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness,
trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today, and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.