What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal
Women from whose loins I
When the birds of Eden sang?
One three centuries
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who all day
Want no sound except the
Sung by wild barbaric
Goading massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts of flesh that
Trampling tall defiant
Where young forest lovers lie,
Plighting troth beneath the sky.
So I lie, who always hear,
Though I cram against my
Both my thumbs, and keep them there,
Great drums throbbing through the air.
So I lie, whose fount of pride,
Dear distress, and joy allied,
Is my somber flesh and skin,
With the dark blood dammed
Like great pulsing tides of
That,
I fear, must burst the
Channels of the chafing
Where they surge and foam and fret.
Africa?
A book one
Listlessly, till slumber comes.
Unremembered are her
Circling through the night, her
Crouching in the river reeds,
Stalking gentle flesh that
By the river brink; no
Does the bugle-throated
Cry that monarch claws have
From the scabbards where they slept.
Silver snakes that once a
Doff the lovely coats you wear,
Seek no covert in your
Lest a mortal eye should
What's your nakedness to me?
Here no leprous flowers
Fierce corollas in the air;
Here no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping mingled rain and sweat,
Tread the savage measures
Jungle boys and girls in love.
What is last year's snow to me,
Last year's anything?
The
Budding yearly must
How its past arose or set—Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even what shy bird with
Wonder at her travail there,
Meekly labored in its hair.
One three centuries
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who find no
Night or day, no slight
From the unremittent
Made by cruel padded
Walking through my body's street.
Up and down they go, and back,
Treading out a jungle track.
So I lie, who never
Safely sleep from rain at night—I can never rest at
When the rain begins to fall;
Like a soul gone mad with painI must match its weird refrain;
Ever must I twist and squirm,
Writhing like a baited worm,
While its primal measures
Through my body, crying, "Strip!
Doff this new exuberance.
Come and dance the Lover's Dance!"In an old remembered
Rain works on me night and day.
Quaint, outlandish heathen
Black men fashion out of rods,
Clay, and brittle bits of stone,
In a likeness like their own,
My conversion came high-priced;
I belong to Jesus Christ,
Preacher of Humility;
Heathen gods are naught to me.
Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost,
So I make an idle boast;
Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,
Lamb of God, although I
With my mouth thus, in my
Do I play a double part.
Ever at Thy glowing
Must my heart grow sick and falter,
Wishing He I served were black,
Thinking then it would not
Precedent of pain to guide it,
Let who would or might deride it;
Surely then this flesh would
Yours had borne a kindred woe.
Lord,
I fashion dark gods, too,
Daring even to give
Dark despairing features where,
Crowned with dark rebellious hair,
Patience wavers just so much
Mortal grief compels, while
Quick and hot, of anger,
To smitten cheek and weary eyes.
Lord, forgive me if my
Sometimes shapes a human creed.
All day long and all night through,
One thing only must I do:
Quench my pride and cool my blood,
Lest I perish in the flood,
Lest a hidden ember
Timber that I thought was
Burning like the dryest flax,
Melting like the merest wax,
Lest the grave restore its dead.
Not yet has my heart or
In the least way
They and I are civilized."For Harold Jackman"
