Poet's Corner: two by Countee Cullen

From the Dark Tower by Countee Cullen

To Charles S. Johnson

We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made to eternally weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

( Scottsboro, Too, Is Worth Its Song )

Quiz: Mall Outfit

I never have much luck in folks finding these quizzes as interesting or amusing as I do, but hope springs eternal, so here's another one.

put together ur mall outfit and ill assign you a gender

You pick out an outfit from pieces of clothing available at an (presumably American?) shopping mall. Some of them were definitely the lesser of many evils, in my opinion, but I got:

art museum gay
you are going to be the coolest person in this art museum probably through pattern mixing

Just to preview, the possible answers are:


19% mxlf
14% emo
9% tenured professor
8% gamer
8% stephanie lazytown gender
6% pirate
6% subway witch
5% art museum gay
4% bowling alley
4% citrus gender
3% new jersey
3% farmers market wizard
2% flower indulgence
0% tobias funke gender

My Poems

1. rondeau, the iron maiden round the heart

an iron maiden clamped around the heart,
whose soldered halves cannot be pried apart,
whose spikes are iron, too, unyielding quills,
whose hinges clench like jaws, of woes and wills
and metal cruel, is forged this work of art.

bright piercing pain from each and every dart,
with just a single twitch or sudden start,
and then, from all the little tears, blood spills
around the heart

the legion of scabs and scars impart
no wisdom or relief; barnacles, they chart
mistakes, the disremembered stays and stills,
the iron maiden clutches as it kills
inertly, passively, desires depart
around the heart

2. rondel, the constellation Sherlock Holmes

The constellation Sherlock Holmes is out tonight.
It’s made of seven stars in something like a clew,
or smoking pipe in curling meditative queue,
a logical arrangement of celestial might.

For four months of the year, it disappears from sight,
but not this eve, a septet of gas-glow’s the cue
the constellation Sherlock Holmes is out tonight.
It’s made of seven stars in something like a clew.

And yet, among the points, there’s one, most loved, and bright,
if anyone looks up, sees the craft, sees the true,
it’s you, my dear Watson, it’s because of you—
your words, your awe, writ on high—that it comes to light:
the constellation Sherlock Holmes is out tonight

3. rondelet, safe from sorrow

safe from sorrow
silent and still, let my sleeps be
safe from sorrow
life today brings tears tomorrow
buried deep but that worm creeps free
try as I might, nothing keeps me
safe from sorrow

4. quintilla, Mycroft Holmes

to see him trod from place to place
no variation in routine
to view his girth, impassive face,
you’d think him planet, set in space,
a Jupiter on course serene

without a single step off track
you’d think his orbit, without pause,
from home to desk to club and back,
avoiding parlay, delay, slack,
obeying his own nature’s laws

but unassuming crust belies
the universe beneath his skin
celestial orb, a mere disguise,
for teeming wits and worlds comprise
the he, the galaxies within

5. tricube, space

sun moon star
shine glow light
warm cool bright

space between
points patterns
clues twinkling

firmament
heavenly
mystery