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By Countee Cullen

A big and occasionally debatable determine of the Harlem Renaissance, Countee Cullen fused a mastery of the formal lyric with a passionate engagement with topics social, spiritual, racial, and private in such books as Color, Copper Sun, and The Black Christ. definite of his poems--"Heritage," "Yet Do I Marvel"--are largely celebrated, yet a lot of Cullen's paintings is still came across. This quantity restores to print a physique of labor of singular depth and beauty.

This is quantity 32 within the Library of America's American Poets Project sequence.

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Extra info for Countee Cullen: Collected Poems (American Poets Project, Volume 32)

Sample text

Not I.  .  .  .  .  . nature. Leslie Howard's name had come up, who knows why, maybe apropos my seeing Gone With the Wind for the first time in Paris and being underwhelmed with both it and him. Who? Howard. I didn't see the point of Howard.  .  .  , why would I see Montgomery Clift's portrayal of Matthew Garth in Red River as the high point in movie acting and be numb dumb deaf and blind to the virtues of Howard, and Howard's Ashley, and now his last name is coming to me, Wilkes. Ashley Wilkes.

I continue to get lost daily, but without the nervousness. I make a point of getting into bed no later than 2 AM but rarely get to sleep Page 45 long before the sky, approaching dawn, is gray, and wake, to a vicious inner alarm clock at 7:53, sniffing, roaming the apartment like a lair, almost afraid to open the shutters to the unanswerable blast of light. Leave it to you not to have venetian blinds. And you never were an early riser. It's not just the light, it's vapors and smells that incite me to rise even though I'm desperate for rest and hurry to the cafe to catch Rome on the prowl with a restless beautifully purposeless fervor, destinies never in for questioning, before the senses are numbed by the imminent influx of habitués arriving on growling motorcycles, which make up in noise what they lack in horsepower, converging on the cafe, the near empty space suddenly flooded with cool cats who light up their filterless Camels in unison and blow smoke into each other's faces with the intensity of a lifeguard giving artificial respiration to a rescued child.

Why can't we do both? " <><><><><><><><><><><><> My ragazzo now groans with fatigue. And this sound, far more intense than his complaining, rouses me to lead us through the zigzag into a perilous traffic jam via Via della Cuccagna, distracting ragazzo from distraction, (transcending all physical exhaustion), like belts and wallets, and grab the first Roman taxi I have taken except to and from the airport or train station. Inside, I continue my reverie about the filmic possibilities of Revolt.

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