The Negro <br />With the trumpet at his lips <br />Has dark moons of weariness <br />Beneath his eyes <br />where the smoldering memory <br />of slave ships <br />Blazed to the crack of whips <br />about thighs <br /> <br />The negro <br />with the trumpet at his lips <br />has a head of vibrant hair <br />tamed down, <br />patent-leathered now <br />until it gleams <br />like jet- <br />were jet a crown <br /> <br />the music <br />from the trumpet at his lips <br />is honey <br />mixed with liquid fire <br />the rhythm <br />from the trumpet at his lips <br />is ecstasy <br />distilled from old desire- <br /> <br />Desire <br />that is longing for the moon <br />where the moonlight's but a spotlight <br />in his eyes, <br />desire <br />that is longing for the sea <br />where the sea's a bar-glass <br />sucker size <br /> <br />The Negro <br />with the trumpet at his lips <br />whose jacket <br />Has a fine one-button roll, <br />does not know <br />upon what riff the music slips <br /> <br />It's hypodermic needle <br />to his soul <br />but softly <br />as the tune comes from his throat <br />trouble <br />mellows to a golden note<br /><br />Langston Hughes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trumpet-player/
