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Poem by Countee Cullen


Fruit of the Flower


My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days. 
My mothers life is puritan,
No hint of cavalier,
A pool so calm youre sure it can
Have little depth to fear.

And yet my fathers 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,
Ive 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 devils 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?



Countee Cullen


Countee Cullen's other poems:
  1. From the Dark Tower
  2. Simon the Cyrenian Speaks
  3. That Bright Chimeric Beast
  4. Karenge Ya Marenge
  5. Yet Do I Marvel


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