In a wilderness of reasons <br />not to write, he wrote. Just wrote. <br />Each word was the belief <br />in the possibility of the next. <br />He kept it going. <br /> <br />Mostly his days and words talk <br />quietly, though he could rant and rage. <br />Mention is what his voices usually do <br />in a world of self-convinced noise. <br /> <br />Truth mentioned is a sweet brass <br />note you’ll never forget. Writing, <br />Langston showed writing to be <br />an unashamed act, one of the few <br />in a shameful, shaming world. Words <br /> <br />grin. Words reside. Words throw <br />a meal together for unexpected friends, <br />make a garden in front of a brownstone, <br />come back from long sea voyages <br />alive. Words aren’t everything, <br />are not the rent, often <br />may be only change left from <br />a last dollar spent in Paris or Reno. <br /> <br />Morning: Hallelujah. <br />The world goes to its terrible work <br />of silencing souls. Out <br />of an open window comes a tapping— <br />the tick, the tack, the click and the clack, <br />Jack, of writing. And all those sorry rooftops <br />get red, get glad, get suave, get saved.<br /><br />Hans Ostrom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/langston-hughes-2/
