packers+page

this page is totally random and I dont care if you edit it, in fact I think that if you find something cool or anything like that then you should post it, just nothing mean :)

ERIC'S A BEAST!!! -km

Hello Eric!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! bwaaaaaaaaaaaaa

ok, nevermind your not allowed to edit pages so... just kidding L**AGSTON HUGHES- this is information about my gaw writer that i found online so Im just kinda posting it on there**

James Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri. His parents divorced when he was a small child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his grandmother until he was thirteen, when he moved to Lincoln, Illinois, to live with his mother and her husband, before the family eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. It was in Lincoln, Illinois, that Hughes began writing poetry. Following graduation, he spent a year in Mexico and a year at Columbia University. During these years, he held odd jobs as an assistant cook, launderer, and a busboy, and travelled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In November 1924, he moved to Washington, D.C. Hughes's first book of poetry, //The Weary Blues//, was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1926. He finished his college education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania three years later. In 1930 his first novel, //Not Without Laughter,// won the Harmon gold medal for literature. Hughes, who claimed [|Paul Lawrence Dunbar], [|Carl Sandburg], and [|Walt Whitman] as his primary influences, is particularly known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties. He wrote novels, short stories and plays, as well as poetry, and is also known for his engagement with the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing, as in "Montage of a Dream Deferred." His life and work were enormously important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. Unlike other notable black poets of the period—Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, and Countee Cullen—Hughes refused to differentiate between his personal experience and the common experience of black America. He wanted to tell the stories of his people in ways that reflected their actual culture, including both their suffering and their love of music, laughter, and language itself. Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer in May 22, 1967, in New York. In his memory, his residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York City, has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place." In addition to leaving us a large body of poetic work, Hughes wrote eleven plays and countless works of prose, including the well-known “Simple” books: //Simple Speaks His Mind//, //Simple Stakes a Claim,////Simple Takes a Wife//, and //Simple's Uncle Sam//. He edited the anthologies //The Poetry of the Negro// and //The Book of Negro Folklore,// wrote an acclaimed autobiography //(The Big Sea)// and co-wrote the play //Mule Bone// with Zora Neale Hurston.



Langston Hughes was a prolific writer. In the forty-odd years between his first book in 1926 and his death in 1967, he devoted his life to writing and lecturing. He wrote sixteen books of poems, two novels, three collections of short stories, four volumes of "editorial" and "documentary" fiction, twenty plays, children's poetry, musicals and operas, three autobiographies, a dozen radio and television scripts and dozens of magazine articles. In addition, he edited seven anthologies. The long and distinguished list of Hughes' works includes: **Not Without Laughter** (1930); **The Big Sea** (1940); **I Wonder As I Wander"** (1956), his autobiographies. His collections of poetry include: **The Weary Blues** (1926); **The Negro Mother and other Dramatic Recitations** (1931); **The Dream Keeper** (1932); **Shakespeare In Harlem** (1942); **Fields of Wonder** (1947); **One Way Ticket** (1947); **The First Book of Jazz** (1955); Tambourines To Glory (1958); and Selected Poems (1959); The Best of Simple (1961). He edited several anthologies in an attempt to popularize black authors and their works. Some of these are: **An African Treasury** (1960); **Poems from Black Africa** (1963); **New Negro Poets:** USA (1964) and **The Best Short Stories by Negro Writers** (1967). Published posthumously were: **Five Plays By Langston Hughes** (1968); **The Panther and The Lash: Poems of Our Times** (1969) and **Good Morning Revolution: Uncollected Writings of Social Protest** (1973); The Sweet Flypaper of Life with Roy DeCarava (1984). Langston Hughes died of cancer on May 22, 1967. His residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission. His block of East 127th Street was renamed "Langston Hughes Place". //By:// Andrew P. Jackson (Sekou Molefi Baako)


 * **Langston Hughes a biography by Milton Meltzer 1968** ||
 * **Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks: A Reference Guide by R. Baxter Miller 1979** ||
 * **Langston Hughes, American Poet by Alice Walker 1974** ||
 * **Langston Hughes in the Hispanic World and Haiti by Edward J. Mullen 1977** ||
 * **The World of Langston Hughes Music: A Bibliography of Musical Settings of Langston Hughes' Works with Recordings and Other Listings by Kenneth Neilson 1982** ||
 * **Langston Hughes: Before and Beyond Harlem by Faith Berry 1983** ||
 * **Langston Hughes and the Blues by Steven C. Tracy 1988** ||
 * **Langston Hughes: Black Genius, A Critical Evaluation edited by Therman B. O'Daniel 1977** ||
 * **The Life of Langston Hughes: Vol. I 1902-194, Too, Sing America and Vol. II 1941-1967 Dream A World by Arnold Rampersad 1986** ||

These are random pictures

this is my short story T he Night Whisperer Sunset came and dusk waned away just as quickly while twilight eased by. Darkness fell and night prowled along carelessly; and then, from within his shadow, the night whisperer stepped out upon a small cold street, speaking words that are not heard. And he is but darkness, gliding on to a destination no one knows; and the night whisperer came to a halt beneath a mournful tree in which a songbird sat, silently lamenting the darkness with its melancholy tunes. The night whisperer stayed for a while, listening without ears, then beckoned to the bird, and so it came. And for a moment, it was a raven, dark and mysterious as it fluttered soundlessly through the air, but then it perched upon his shoulder and it was a small chipper bird once more. Then the night whisperer went on to the park, where the children once played, but now the grass was dead, the benches broken and the playground ruined. And the night whisperer sent forth the bird, and for a moment, it was a parrot, bright and tropical as it flapped around the park, perching once more on the night whisperer’s shoulder, a songbird again and in its wake, the park stood anew. Brilliant green grass, shinning benches and a glimmering playground stood in its place. Then the night whisperer moved on, to the river where the people once drank and shared merriment, but now the river had dried up and dead, as arid basin filling its spot. And he sent forth the bird, and for a moment, it was a crane, light and graceful as it glided gently over the river, perching again on the night whisperer’s shoulder, and where it had flown, the river stood, restored. Glistening, sparkling, shimmering water filled the hallow basin, an entrancing elixir. Then the night whisperer carried on, to the field where the men once farmed, but now the field was destroyed, the grass dead, the fertile soil dried and the meadow swept clean, leaving only an endless desert. So the night whisperer sent forth the bird, and for a moment, it was an eagle, grand and majestic as it soared magnificently over the field, perching finally, on the night whisperer’s shoulder, and beneath its path, the desert stood no more. Instead were endless fruited plains, a great farmland and meadow alike. Finally, the night whisperer came to the battleground, where man had once fought a great war for many nights, and all had died. And here the night whisperer stood, lost in memory. He remembered coming here many nights before, and speaking words, desperate, grand words to all who would listen, but no one heard and so they died, and he remembered watching as, one by one, they were killed. Then watching as death called to them, and took them away from this earth, each of them, all of them. Then the night whisperer spoke words. And so the night listened, and the bird set forth for the final time, and for a moment, it was a dove, pure and beautiful as it flew over the many graves, and as it settled for the last time on the night whisperer’s shoulder, something truly remarkable occurred. Headstones began to emerge, beautiful, marble headstones, one for each who had died in the terrible war, and suddenly, the night seemed a little bit brighter. But then man came. They came with their weapons, their weapons that the night whisperer had spoken of, **warned** of! And they saw what he had done and they were furious, and so they broke, broke every headstone, and with each one, a piece of the night whisperer’s heart broke off. And when they had finished, they turned to the night whisperer and they pierced the bird with their weapons, and it fell to the ground, cold as ice. And finally, they wounded the night whisperer, wounded him in his chest, and he stood there and did not fight back, for this was not his way. Then man ran off, laughing and singing they’re battle songs. Then death came for the night whisperer, and called to him, and for the first time, the night whisperer spoke, truly spoke, and he was heard. “But why? Why must I go if all I have done is love?” then, death knew, knew that this creature meant no harm to the world, and was truly pure of heart, and death knew all this but all he could do was nod. So the night whisperer went, and together, they walked away from the earth, and as they stepped over the horizon, a brilliant sun exploded across the sky, and death spoke to the sun. “This way,” death said, “you will be happy, this way you will help the world, this way you will bring light to the people, instead of darkness.” And so the children played and the people drank and the men farmed, and all felt the sun, bringing them warmth, and the night whisperer… was happy.

 ** Ok, so For my research project, I am doing animal rights and how they relate to our utopian ideals. And for those of you who were wondering, yes, I thought of it before Jamon! **