Memories

Our Grade 4 class (St. John, CIC, 1984) recited this poem for a school celebration. I am quoting it here in light of Barack Obama's recent speech about race.   It is quite special to me because of the fond memories attached to that year.  It is because of this "specialness" that I can still recall some lines from the poem.  This in turn helped me find it on the internet.  It turned out that it is a much longer poem since I believe we recited only the 1st part (Their basic savagery.)  I also thought the spelling of "bucks" was "box." This poem, because of its content and the images it uses to portray the members of the "black race," is controversial during its own time (according to the ever trustworthy wikipedia) just like the statements of Obama's erstwhile pastor.  Baligtad na nga lang ang race ng nagsasalita ngayon.  Having said that, I like the way the poem is constructed.  One can actually imagine the setting of the poem which for me is one where a group of black people are dancing to the beat of drums. There are some marginal notes, presumably by the author which for me serves as guide to the oral reading of the text. I just hope the multiply site is able to lay the poem out quite well.  Read on. The Congo   By Vachel Lindsay     A Study of the Negro Race     I—THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY FAT black bucks in a wine-barrel room, Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, A deep rolling bass Pounded on the table, Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,         5 Hard as they were able, Boom, boom, BOOM, With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision.         10 I could not turn from their revel in derision. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, More deliberate. Solemnly chanted CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. Then along that riverbank A thousand miles         15 Tattooed cannibals danced in files; Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.   And “BLOOD!” screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket “BLOOD!” screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors;         20 “Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, Harry the uplands, Steal all the cattle, Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, Bing!         25 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM!” A roaring, epic, rag-time tune With a philosophic pause From the mouth of the Congo To the Mountains of the Moon. Death is an Elephant,         30 Torch-eyed and horrible, Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre Foam-flanked and terrible. BOOM, steal the pygmies, BOOM, kill the Arabs, BOOM, kill the white men,         35 HOO, HOO, HOO. Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost Like the wind in the chimney Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. Hear how the demons chuckle and yell Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.         40 Listen to the creepy proclamation, Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, Blown past the white-ants’ hill of clay, Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:— “Be careful what you do, All the O sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered         45 Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,         50 Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”   II—THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call Rather shrill and high Danced the juba in their gambling-hall And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, And guyed the policemen and laughed them down         55 With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, Read exactly as in first section. Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. A negro fairyland swung into view, A minstrel river         60 Where dreams come true. The ebony palace soared on high Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. The inlaid porches and casements shone With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.         65 And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore At the baboon butler in the agate door, And the well-known tunes of the parrot band That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.   A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came With pomposity         70 Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call And danced the juba from wall to wall.         75 But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng With a great deliberation and ghostliness With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”… Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats,         80 Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, And tall silk hats that were red as wine. And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet,         85 And bells on their ankles and little black feet. And the couples railed at the chant and the frown Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. (Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.)         90   The cake-walk royalty then began To walk for a cake that was tall as a man To the tune of “Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,” While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end And sang with the scalawags prancing there:         95 “Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.         100 Beware, beware, walk with care, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,         105 BOOM.” Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while Slow philosophic calm That made those glowering witch-men smile.   III—THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION A good old negro in the slums of the town Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.         110 Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. Beat on the Bible till he wore it out Starting the jubilee revival shout. And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,         115 And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs. And they all repented, a thousand strong, From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong, And slammed with their hymn-books till they shook the room With “Glory, glory, glory,”         120 And “Boom, boom, BOOM.” THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.         125 In bright white steel they were seated round, And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high, Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: Sung to the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices” “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;         130 Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you.”   Then along that river, a thousand miles With growing deliberation and joy The vine-snared trees fell down in files. Pioneer angels cleared the way         135 For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, For sacred capitals, for temples clean. Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed, In a rather high key—as delicately as possible A million boats of the angels sailed         140 With oars of silver, and prows of blue And silken pennants that the sun shone through. ’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation. Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation, And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— To the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices”         145 “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you.”   Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the And only the vulture dared again         150 By the far, lone mountains of the moon To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Mumbo … Jumbo … will … hoo-doo … you.”         155