April Poetry Month: Yet Do I Marvel
Yet do I Marvel
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He not stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphys
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing.
By Countee Cullen (1903-1946)
Harper, Michael S, and Walton, Antony. The Vintage Book of African American Poetry. Cullen, COuntee, "Yet Do I Marvel", Vintage Books, New York, 2000. 154.