Read Ebook: Color by Cullen Countee

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Ebook has 222 lines and 16845 words, and 5 pages

Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder.

This is not water running here, These thick rebellious streams That hurtle flesh and bone past fear Down alleyways of dreams.

This is a wine that must flow on Not caring how nor where, So it has ways to flow upon Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips, Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips.

He never spoke a word to me, And yet He called my name; He never gave a sign to me, And yet I knew and came.

At first I said, "I will not bear His cross upon my back; He only seeks to place it there Because my skin is black."

But He was dying for a dream, And He was very meek, And in His eyes there shone a gleam Men joerney far to seek.

It was Himself my pity bought; I did for Christ alone What all of Rome could not have wrought With bruise of lash or stone.

Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December; Of all the things that happened there That's all that I remember.

From where she stood the air she craved Smote with the smell of pine; It was too much to bear; she braved Her gods and crossed the line.

And we were hurt to see her go, With her fair face and hair, And veins too thin and blue to show What mingled blood flowed there.

We envied her a while, who still Pursued the hated track; Then we forgot her name, until One day her shade came back.

Calm as a wave without a crest, Sorrow-proud and sorrow-wise, With trouble sucking at her breast, With tear-disdainful eyes,

She slipped into her ancient place, And, no word asked, gave none; Only the silence in her face Said seats were dear in the sun.

He rode across like a cavalier, Spurs clicking hard and loud; And where he tarried dropped his tear On heads he left low-bowed.

But, "Even Stephen," he cried, and struck His steed an urgent blow; He swore by youth he was a buck With savage oats to sow.

To even up some standing scores, From every flower bed He passed, he plucked by threes and fours Till wheels whirled in his head.

But long before the drug could tell, He took his anodyne; With scornful grace, he bowed farewell And retraversed the line.

Some are teethed on a silver spoon, With the stars strung for a rattle; I cut my teeth as the black raccoon-- For implements of battle.

Some are swaddled in silk and down, And heralded by a star; They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown On a night that was black as tar.

For some, godfather and goddame The opulent fairies be; Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me.

For I was born on Saturday-- "Bad time for planting a seed," Was all my father had to say, And, "One mouth more to feed."

Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow.

All night we danced upon our windy hill, Your dress a cloud of tangled midnight hair, And love was much too much for me to wear My leaves; the killer roared above his kill, But you danced on, and when some star would spill Its red and white upon you whirling there, I sensed a hidden beauty in the air; Though you danced on, my heart and I stood still.

But suddenly a bit of morning crept Along your trembling sides of ebony; I saw the tears your tired limbs had wept, And how your breasts heaved high, how languidly Your dark arms moved; I drew you close to me; We flung ourselves upon our hill and slept.

Not for myself I make this prayer, But for this race of mine That stretches forth from shadowed places Dark hands for bread and wine.

For me, my heart is pagan mad, My feet are never still, But give them hearths to keep them warm In homes high on a hill.

For me, my faith lies fallowing, I bow not till I see, But these are humble and believe; Bless their credulity.

For me, I pay my debts in kind, And see no better way, Bless these who turn the other cheek For love of you, and pray.

Our Father, God, our Brother, Christ-- So are we taught to pray; Their kinship seems a little thing Who sorrow all the day.

Our Father, God; our Brother, Christ, Or are we bastard kin, That to our plaints your ears are closed, Your doors barred from within?

Our Father, God; our Brother, Christ, Retrieve my race again; So shall you compass this black sheep, This pagan heart. Amen.

Now I am young and credulous, My heart is quick to bleed At courage in the tremulous Slow sprouting of a seed.

Now I am young and sensitive, Man's lack can stab me through; I own no stitch I would not give To him that asked me to.

Now I am young and a fool for love, My blood goes mad to see A brown girl pass me like a dove That flies melodiously.

Let me be lavish of my tears, And dream that false is true; Though wisdom cometh with the years, The barren days come, too.

Though I score you with my best, Treble circumstance Must confirm the verdict, lest It be laid to chance.

Insufficient that I match you Every coin you flip; Your demand is that I catch you Squarely on the hip.

Should I wear my wreaths a bit Rakishly and proud, I have bought my right to it; Let it be allowed.

My father is a quiet man With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days.

My mother's life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you're sure it can Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father's eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin.

And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I've seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil's art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit?

Or hast Thou, Lord, somewhere I cannot see, A lamb imprisoned in a bush for me?

Not so? Then let me render one by one Thy gifts, while still they shine; some little sun Yet gilds these thighs; my coat, albeit worn, Still holds its colors fast; albeit torn, My heart will laugh a little yet, if I May win of Thee this grace, Lord: on this high And sacrificial hill 'twixt earth and sky, To dream still pure all that I loved, and die. There is no other way to keep secure My wild chimeras; grave-locked against the lure Of Truth, the small hard teeth of worms, yet less Envenomed than the mouth of Truth, will bless Them into dust and happy nothingness. Lord, Thou art God; and I, Lord, what am I But dust? With dust my place. Lord, let me die."

Across the earth's warm, palpitating crust I flung my body in embrace; I thrust My mouth into the grass and sucked the dew, Then gave it back in tears my anguish drew; So hard I pressed against the ground, I felt The smallest sandgrain like a knife, and smelt The next year's flowering; all this to speed My body's dissolution, fain to feed The worms. And so I groaned, and spent my strength Until, all passion spent, I lay full length And quivered like a flayed and bleeding thing.

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