Poem by Countee Cullen

Harlem Wine

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 or 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 measurements of joy compute
With blithe, ecstatic hips.

1. To Certain Critics
2. Song in Spite of Myself
3. That Bright Chimeric Beast
4. For a Poet
5. Karenge Ya Marenge

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