COLOR by Countee Cullen | Review first published Nov. 8, 1925
In “Color,” Countee Cullen exhibits an unmistakable lyric gift that is out of the ordinary. It would be easy to overpraise him, for it is not often that men of his blood reveal so deep and so modern a sensitivity to the poetic urge, and so his excellence stands out all the more vividly. He still has some distance to go before he reaches any particularly high eminence as a poet, but what he has accomplished in “Color” leads to the suspicion that if he is not spoiled by overadulation during these early years he will produce distinguished and lasting work.
For Mr. Cullen is young. He was born in 1903, and every poem in his book was written before he was 22 years old. His father is a Methodist minister in Harlem. He has won a number of poetry prizes. He was in high school when he first won recognition, a prize offered by the Federation of Women’s Clubs. At New York University he was elected to Phi Beta Kappa, and while in his sophomore year there he took second place in the Witter Bynner intercollegiate poetry contest. He took this again in his junior year, and in his last year he succeeded in carrying off first prize. Recently he was awarded the Amy Singarn prize for poetry in the contest conducted by The Crisis.
All this, of course, really means but little as far as poetry is concerned, for prize poems are, for the most part, bad poems. It is to the work in “Color” that one must turn to find whether or not Mr. Cullen is a really inspired poet. One reading of “The Shroud of Color” should be enough to convince the most cavilling reader. This sensitive and impressive piece of work is too long to quote, but another aspect of Mr. Cullen’s work may be given, and that is his keen, almost epigrammatic gift that borders on satire. And then there are the many epitaphs, two of which may be quoted:
FOR A LADY I KNOW
She even thinks that up in Heaven
Her class lies late and snores,
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.
FOR A PESSIMIST
He wore his coffin for a hat,
Calamity his cape,
While on his face a death’s-head sat
And waved a bit of crape.
Mr. Cullen is race-conscious and many of his poems are imbued with a somewhat bitter note, but they are all lifted by that indefinable thing which we call poetry. There is much that is arresting here, love poems that are sensitive and compelling and faint satire that is unmistakably piercing. Here is a poet to be watched. — Herbert S. Gorman
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