Quote

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, So I make an idle boast Jesus of the twice-turned cheek Lamb of God, although I speak With my mouth thus, in my heart Do I play a double part.

Countee Cullen

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Countee Cullen
Age: 42 †
Born: 1903
Born: May 30
Died: 1946
Died: January 9
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Louisville
Kentucky
Countee LeRoy Porter
Countee Cullen
Make
Turned
Double
Holy
Twice
Lamb
Jesus
Ghost
Lambs
Speak
Mouth
Cheek
Father
Mouths
Boast
Part
Although
Cheeks
Play
Thus
Hypocrisy
Heart
Son
Idle

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Africa? A book one thumbs Listlessly, till slumber comes.
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Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
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The truth is... everything counts. Everything. Everything we do and everything we say. Everything helps or hurts everything adds to or takes away from someone else.
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I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
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The loss of love is a terrible thing They lie who say that death is worse.
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[W]e have always resented the natural inclination of most white people to demand spirituals the moment it is known that a Negro is about to sing. So often the request has seemed to savor of the feeling that we could do this and this alone.
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What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang?
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Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me.
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Never love with all your heart, It only ends in aching.
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For we must be one thing or the other, an asset or a liability, the sinew in your wing to help you soar, or the chain to bind you to earth.
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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.
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There is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call 'the breaks.
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Lord, I fashion dark gods, too, Daring even to give You Dark despairing features
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The key to all strange things is in thy heart..../ My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.
Countee Cullen
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Quaint, outlandish heathen gods Black men fashion out of rods
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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.
Countee Cullen