Heritage

What is Africa to me:Copper sun or scarlet sea,Jungle star or jungle track,Strong bronzed men, or regal blackWomen from whose loins I sprangWhen the birds of Eden sang?One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who all day longWant no sound except the songSung by wild barbaric birdsGoading massive jungle herds,Juggernauts of flesh that passTrampling tall defiant grassWhere young forest lovers lie,Plighting troth beneath the sky.So I lie, who always hear,Though I cram against my earBoth 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 withinLike great pulsing tides of wineThat, I fear, must burst the fineChannels of the chafing netWhere they surge and foam and fret.

Africa? A book one thumbsListlessly, till slumber comes.Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night, her catsCrouching in the river reeds,Stalking gentle flesh that feedsBy the river brink; no moreDoes the bugle-throated roarCry that monarch claws have leaptFrom the scabbards where they slept.Silver snakes that once a yearDoff the lovely coats you wear,Seek no covert in your fearLest a mortal eye should see;What’s your nakedness to me?Here no leprous flowers rearFierce corollas in the air;Here no bodies sleek and wet,Dripping mingled rain and sweat,Tread the savage measures ofJungle boys and girls in love.What is last year’s snow to me,Last year’s anything? The treeBudding yearly must forgetHow its past arose or set--Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,Even what shy bird with muteWonder at her travail there,Meekly labored in its hair.One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who find no peaceNight or day, no slight releaseFrom the unremittant beatMade by cruel padded feetWalking through my body’s street.Up and down they go, and back,Treading out a jungle track.So I lie, who never quiteSafely sleep from rain at night--I can never rest at allWhen 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 dripThrough my body, crying, “Strip!Doff this new exuberance.Come and dance the Lover’s Dance!”In an old remembered wayRain works on me night and day.

Quaint, outlandish heathen godsBlack 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 speakWith my mouth thus, in my heartDo I play a double part.Ever at Thy glowing altarMust my heart grow sick and falter,Wishing He I served were black,Thinking then it would not lackPrecedent of pain to guide it,Let who would or might deride it;Surely then this flesh would knowYours had borne a kindred woe.Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,Daring even to give YouDark despairing features where,Crowned with dark rebellious hair,Patience wavers just so much asMortal grief compels, while touchesQuick and hot, of anger, riseTo smitten cheek and weary eyes.Lord, forgive me if my needSometimes 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 setTimber that I thought was wetBurning like the dryest flax,Melting like the merest wax,Lest the grave restore its dead.Not yet has my heart or headIn the least way realizedThey and I are civilized.