2 min read
Слушать(AI)Saturdays Child
Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black racoon—For implements of battle.
Some are swaddled in silk and down,
And heralded by a star;
They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth
On a night that was black as tar.
For some, godfather and
The opulent fairies be;
Dame Poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me.
For I was born on Saturday—"Bad time for planting a seed,"Was all my father had to say,
And, "One mouth more to feed."Death cut the strings that gave me life,
And handed me to Sorrow,
The only kind of middle
My folks could beg or borrow.
Countee Cullen
Countee Cullen (born Countee LeRoy Porter; May 30, 1903 – January 9, 1946) was an American poet, novelist, children's writer, and playwright, pa
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Fruit Of The Flower
My father is a quiet With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days
A Brown Girl Dead
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
Under the Mistletoe
I did not know she'd take it so, Or else I'd never dared; Although the bliss was worth the blow, I did not know she'd take it so She stood beneath the
Thoughts In A Zoo
They in their cruel traps, and we in ours, Survey each other’s rage, and pass the hours Commiserating each the other’s woe, To mitigate his own pain’s fiery glow Man could but little proffer in exchange Save that his cages have a la...
