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 comput
With blithe, ecstatic hips
By: Countée Cullen
This poem is very interesting because not only does it explain the finness of the wine, but it also give us a glimse of what Harlem has to bring to us. ".... a wine that must flow on..." This verse really speaks to me in a way that not only is the wine great, but it shows that all the best things comes from Harlem. Also it describes that not only is it great, but it is not needed for an introduction. It is just the best and you have to trust it. You can compare this to what I would say commercials that are sponsered today.They both give a positive description and expect to just be trusted.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Countee Cullen
by Amanda Beltran 
Countee Cullen was raised by his grandmother in New York despite his birth in Louisville, Kentucky 1903. His real name was Countee Leroy Porter. He was adopted in 1918 after the death of his grandmother. He graudated from NYU in 1925. His first book of poems was released in 1925 and was titled "COLOR." This collection of poems contained some of his best work, such as his piece "Heritage." He wrote about the effects of racism and the beauty of African culture. He earned his masters degree at Harvard University in 1926. His other works include "Incident," "Tableau," "Yet Do I Marvel," and "From the Dark Tower." Cullen died in 1946 at the young age of 43 of uremic poisoning (Kidney failure).
Countee Cullen was raised by his grandmother in New York despite his birth in Louisville, Kentucky 1903. His real name was Countee Leroy Porter. He was adopted in 1918 after the death of his grandmother. He graudated from NYU in 1925. His first book of poems was released in 1925 and was titled "COLOR." This collection of poems contained some of his best work, such as his piece "Heritage." He wrote about the effects of racism and the beauty of African culture. He earned his masters degree at Harvard University in 1926. His other works include "Incident," "Tableau," "Yet Do I Marvel," and "From the Dark Tower." Cullen died in 1946 at the young age of 43 of uremic poisoning (Kidney failure).
Monday, April 26, 2010
Poem as a response - Amanda Beltran
A Brown Girl Dead by Countee Cullen
With two white roses on her breasts,
White candles at head and feet,
Dark Madonna of the grave she rests;
Lord Death has found her sweet.
Her mother pawned her wedding ring
To lay her out in white;
She'd be so proud she'd dance and sing
to see herself tonight.
White candles at head and feet,
Dark Madonna of the grave she rests;
Lord Death has found her sweet.
Her mother pawned her wedding ring
To lay her out in white;
She'd be so proud she'd dance and sing
to see herself tonight.
The Sad Memory - Amanda Beltran.
So beautiful and lovely,
why must she leave so soon,
why was she dressed so festively,
If a funeral song was crooned.
Her mother should have kept the ring,
and lay her out in black,
Amidst the sad sad memory,
That her daughter's not coming back.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Emulation of For a Poet by Countee Cullen
For A Poet by Countee Cullen
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found the earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
For You - Amanda Beltran
I locked my heart and gave you the key,
And held on to our memories,
Where only you could see,
I locked my heart and gave you the key,
but you threw it away along with me,
You've left me alone for what feels like centuries,
I locked my heart and gave you the key,
And held on to our memories.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Poem Reaction on "Heritage" by Countee Cullen
"Heritage"
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 treeBudding 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,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who find no peace
Night or day, no slight release
From the unremittent 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;J
esus of the twice-turned cheek,L
amb of God, although I speak
With my mouth thus,
in my heartDo 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 realizedT
hey and I are civilized. - Countée Cullen
Amanda Beltran
Reaction to “Heritage” by Countee Cullen
The poem “Heritage,” by Countee Cullen is about his African culture. He talks about Africa and all of the nature and culture of his people. He also implies about his anger toward the discrimination of such a beautiful culture full of liveliness and pride. An Example of his feelings are expressed in these lines,
“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.”
This poem is an example of Harlem Renaissance poetry because he talks about his pride in his African Heritage. The purpose of this poem was to show the beauty and complexity of African culture. I loved how the poem had a rhythm to it and how he visualized Africa. He showed a lot of feeling and emotion for his heritage and I felt that it gave the poem voice.
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 treeBudding 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,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who find no peace
Night or day, no slight release
From the unremittent 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;J
esus of the twice-turned cheek,L
amb of God, although I speak
With my mouth thus,
in my heartDo 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 realizedT
hey and I are civilized. - Countée Cullen
Amanda Beltran
Reaction to “Heritage” by Countee Cullen
The poem “Heritage,” by Countee Cullen is about his African culture. He talks about Africa and all of the nature and culture of his people. He also implies about his anger toward the discrimination of such a beautiful culture full of liveliness and pride. An Example of his feelings are expressed in these lines,
“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.”
This poem is an example of Harlem Renaissance poetry because he talks about his pride in his African Heritage. The purpose of this poem was to show the beauty and complexity of African culture. I loved how the poem had a rhythm to it and how he visualized Africa. He showed a lot of feeling and emotion for his heritage and I felt that it gave the poem voice.
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