Pagan Poet

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning kind, and that his stoop to quibble could tell why the little buried mole continued blind. I flesh that mirrors him, must some day die. Inscrewtable his ways are, and immune to catechism by a mind too strong with petty cares to slightly understand what awful brain compels his awful hand.

What do I marvel at this curious thing? To make a poet black and bid him see? Destination Freedom. Destination Freedom. Dramatizations of the great democratic traditions of the Negro people is brought to you by Station WMAQ as a part of a pageant of history and of America's own destination freedom.

In a career that was short but brilliant, a young American poet collected most of the major poetry awards before he met his maker. He was the much quoted county column. In a chapter entitled, Pagan Poet, Destination Freedom tells the odd story of the growth of county column.

Then I die Send me to my mom I say When I die Send me to my mom And if my mom don't want me Please send me to my mom Hey you He needs my father Hey listen, thanks a lot, hear me?

He told me to do He was teenage in 10 hand and had taken time off from the job of the farm to paint pictures on the canvas. It was wild in wooly head and sang snatches of the blues he'd pick out of the air.

He was painting the sunshine and shadows and the farmer's fingers found his color. I find time to wait when I paint you to work, will you? Let me go. Let me pick your hands off me.