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Eat your Eggs, Walter!

11 Feb

The above is a line from A Raisin in the Sun, which I had the pleasure of watching again this weekend. A beautiful movie; just rich with meaning and message and Sidney Poitier. Sidney Poitier! I just adore him.

The following poem is by Langston Hughes, entitled Harlem. Lorraine Hansberry, the author of A Raisin in the Sun, obtained the title of her powerful play from the first line of this equally powerful poem. (On a side note, Girley wrote a short story based on said poem, as well. The end results were pretty interesting, I would say. Memories).

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’ve always been fascinated by that poem–what happens when a dream simultaneously grows larger and larger, but moves further and further away from the dreamer. Very, very interesting stuff.


Sincerely, Taj

Dear World, I have stuff to say, so get cozy. Here, I've got cupcakes.

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