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Countee Cullen Poet, Editor
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Born
May 30, 1903
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Died
January 9, 1946
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Country
United States of America
By the time aspiring poet Countee Cullen graduated from New York University in 1925, his work had appeared in national magazines such as Harper’s and The Nation. His first book of poems—Colors, published the year he graduated—earned the praise of critics and readers alike.
Cullen resisted being pigeonholed as a Black poet, yet many of his poems tackled issues of race. Indeed, he embodied the New Negro Movement (which, as described by the Library of Congress, “promoted a renewed sense of racial pride, cultural self-expression, economic independence, and progressive politics”) and the values and abilities of the Talented Tenth (a phrase for the concept of an elite group of highly educated Black leaders, or the Black intelligentsia).
That’s no surprise when you consider his background: The adopted son of the pastor of Salem Methodist Episcopal Church, Cullen grew up surrounded by notable figures of Harlem’s cultural life.
In 1921, Cullen’s connections and ambition led him to join a writers’ group at the local public library. Among the talents he met there was Ethel Nance, the secretary of Opportunity magazine; Jessie Fauset, editor of the NAACP’s The Crisis magazine; and writer Gwendolyn Bennett.
Before long, Cullen had become Opportunity’s assistant editor, working under Charles S. Johnson, and he began writing his own column, “The Dark Tower.” Cullen’s connection to the Harlem literati network also led him to collaborate with writer Arna Bontemps and composer Harold Arlen on St. Louis Woman, a musical adaptation of Bontemps’ 1931 novel, God Sends Sunday.
Cullen’s literary style rivaled his personal flair. While his poems explored modern racial injustices within classical forms such as the 14-line sonnet, his courtly manners and impeccable dress distinguished him as a true gentleman. Cullen’s 1928 marriage to Yolanda Du Bois, daughter of civil rights pioneer W. E. B. Du Bois, was a watershed event in Harlem society; guests packed not only the church balcony but also the streets outside.
Cullen’s writing brought him plenty of plaudits in his lifetime. Among the honors he received were literary prizes from Opportunity magazine, the Harmon Foundation Gold Medal Award, and one of the first Guggenheim Fellowships ever awarded to an African American artist.
 I n t e r s e c t i o n s |
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Cullen dedicated his poem “To a Brown Boy” to Langston Hughes, an usher at his wedding. |
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Scholar Alain Locke supported Cullen. |
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His poem “Heritage” was published in Survey Graphic. |
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The Dark Tower, a literati hang out, was named after his column. |
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Photographer James VanDerZee took his portrait. |
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“Heritage” by Countee Cullen
(For Harold Jackman)
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?
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who all day long
Want no sound except the song
Sung by wild barbaric birds
Goading massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts of flesh that pass
Trampling tall defiant grass
Where young forest lovers lie,
Plighting troth beneath the sky.
So I lie, who always hear,
Though I cram against my ear
Both my thumbs, and keep them there,
Great drums throbbing through the air.
So I lie, whose fount of pride,
Dear distress, and joy allied,
Is my somber flesh and skin,
With the dark blood dammed within
Like great pulsing tides of wine
That, I fear, must burst the fine
Channels of the chafing net
Where they surge and foam and fret.
Africa? A book one thumbs
Listlessly, till slumber comes.
Unremembered are her bats
Circling through the night, her cats
Crouching in the river reeds,
Stalking gentle flesh that feeds
By the river brink; no more
Does the bugle-throated roar
Cry that monarch claws have leapt
From the scabbards where they slept.
Silver snakes that once a year
Doff the lovely coats you wear,
Seek no covert in your fear
Lest a mortal eye should see;
What’s your nakedness to me?
Here no leprous flowers rear
Fierce corollas in the air;
Here no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping mingled rain and sweat,
Tread the savage measures of
Jungle boys and girls in love.
What is last year’s snow to me,
Last year’s anything? The tree
Budding yearly must forget
How its past arose or set—
Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even what shy bird with mute
Wonder at her travail there,
Meekly labored in its hair.
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spice grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who find no peace
Night or day, no slight release
From the unremittant beat
Made by cruel padded feet
Walking through my body’s street.
Up and down they go, and back,
Treading out a jungle track.
So I lie, who never quite
Safely sleep from rain at night—
I can never rest at all
When the rain begins to fall;
Like a soul gone mad with pain
I must match its weird refrain;
Ever must I twist and squirm,
Writhing like a baited worm,
While its primal measures drip
Through my body, crying, “Strip!
Doff this new exuberance.
Come and dance the Lover’s Dance!”
In an old remembered way
Rain works on me night and day.
Quaint, outlandish heathen gods
Black men fashion out of rods,
Clay, and brittle bits of stone,
In a likeness like their own,
My conversion came high-priced;
I belong to Jesus Christ,
Preacher of humility;
Heathen gods are naught to me.
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.
Ever at Thy glowing altar
Must my heart grow sick and falter,
Wishing He I served were black,
Thinking then it would not lack
Precedent of pain to guide it,
Let who would or might deride it;
Surely then this flesh would know
Yours had borne a kindred woe.
Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,
Daring even to give You
Dark despairing features where,
Crowned with dark rebellious hair,
Patience wavers just so much as
Mortal grief compels, while touches
Quick and hot, of anger, rise
To smitten cheek and weary eyes.
Lord, forgive me if my need
Sometimes shapes a human creed.
All day long and all night through,
One thing only must I do:
Quench my pride and cool my blood,
Lest I perish in the flood.
Lest a hidden ember set
Timber that I thought was wet
Burning like the dryest flax,
Melting like the merest wax,
Lest the grave restore its dead.
Not yet has my heart or head
In the least way realized
They and I are civilized.
Listen: “Heritage” by Countee Cullen
Countee Cullen, “Heritage” from My Soul’s High Song: The Collected Writings of Countee Cullen. Copyrights held by the Amistad Research Center, Tulane University, administered by Thompson and Thompson, Brooklyn, NY.
Source: My Soul’s High Song: The Collected Writings of Countee Cullen (Anchor Books, 1991)
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