"What is Africa to me?",
the poet, Countee Cullen, says,
and then proceeds to answer that
in many different ways.
Blood must answer blood, it seems,
though centuries intervene,
and bones that begot other bones
must make their presence seen.
Ancestral memory leaves its trace,
not only in the skin;
but also in the undertow
of bone and flesh and kin.
The pull, the lure, of Africa,
the old ancestral home,
will still attract the migrant bee
to seek its honeycomb.
So, "What is Africa to me?",
the question Cullen posed,
is still as relevant today
as when he first composed
his mighty poem "Heritage",
in which his fertile mind
explored the gulf between his "now"
and what was left behind.
Author notes
I have chosen option 8--Countee Cullen's great poem Heritage.
A contest entry
- Harlem Renaissance Reunion - A Contest by poetryality.
1750 points, ended March 30, 2008, 4 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Heritage
by Countee Cullen
"What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal black
Women from whose loins I sprang
When the birds of Eden sang?
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who all day long
Want no sound except the song
Sung by wild barbaric birds
Goading massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts of flesh that pass
Trampling tall defiant grass
Where young forest lovers lie,
Plighting troth beneath the sky.
So I lie, who always hear,
Though I cram against my ear
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 within
Like great pulsing tides of wine
That, I fear, must burst the fine
Channels of the chafing net
Where they surge and foam and fret.
Africa? A book one thumbs
Listlessly, till slumber comes.
Unremembered are her bats
Circling through the night, her cats
Crouching in the river reeds,
Stalking gentle flesh that feeds
By the river brink; no more
Does the bugle-throated roar
Cry that monarch claws have leapt
From the scabbards where they slept.
Silver snakes that once a year
Doff the lovely coats you wear,
Seek no covert in your fear
Lest a mortal eye should see
What's your nakedness to me?
Here no leprous flowers rear
Fierce corollas in the air;
Here no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping mingled rain and sweat,
Tread the savage measures of
Jungle boys and girls in love.
What is last year's snow to me,
Last year's anything? The tree
Budding yearly must forget
How its past arose or set—
Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even what shy bird with mute
Wonder at her travail there,
Meekly labored in its hair.
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who find no peace
Night or day, no slight release
From the unremittent beat
Made by cruel padded feet
Walking through my body's street.
Up and down they go, and back,
Treading out a jungle track.
So I lie, who never quite
Safely sleep from rain at night—
I can never rest at all
When the rain begins to fall;
Like a soul gone mad with pain
I must match its weird refrain;
Ever must I twist and squirm,
Writhing like a baited worm,
While its primal measures drip
Through my body, crying, "Strip!
Doff this new exuberance.
Come and dance the Lover's Dance!"
In an old remembered way
Rain works on me night and day.
Quaint, outlandish heathen gods
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 speak
With my mouth thus, in my heart
Do I play a double part.
Ever at Thy glowing altar
Must my heart grow sick and falter,
Wishing He I served were black,
Thinking then it would not lack
Precedent of pain to guide it,
Let who would or might deride it;
Surely then this flesh would know
Yours had borne a kindred woe.
Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,
Daring even to give You
Dark despairing features where,
Crowned with dark rebellious hair,
Patience wavers just so much as
Mortal grief compels, while touches
Quick and hot, of anger, rise
To smitten cheek and weary eyes.
Lord, forgive me if my need
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 set
Timber that I thought was wet
Burning like the dryest fax,
Melting like the merest wax,
Lest the grave restore its dead.
Not yet has my heart or head
In the least way realized
They and I are civilized."
Please excuse the copy/paste. I wanted other viewers to see why you were so inspired by this work of Countee Cullen.
I must admit that he is one of my favorite Harlem Renaissance poets. His works are imaginative and witty, and like all great art speaks for itself. I must also admit that you placed his heartfelt poetry into a concise visual with your words. You have captured with what seems the least amount of struggle of what I believe the poet may have been trying to convey with his poem "Heritage".
These lines are a pure delight;
"The pull, the lure, of Africa,
the old ancestral home,
will still attract the migrant bee
to seek its honeycomb."
Thank You for entering this astutely written work of poetry in our contest. I wish you the best.
Much Love & Respect ♥
Renee
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I have not read the poem in which this relates but I found your piece to be beautiful. The rhyme and flow are superb, all the best in your contest
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Very good, I like this take on Cullen's poem a lot, the question of "ancestral memory" is eloquently posed here in this thoughtful piece. Thanks for this entry!
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"The pull, the lure, of Africa,
the old ancestral home,
will still attract the migrant bee
to seek its honeycomb."
This verse sums up the original poem very nicely and happens to be my favorite lines of your poem.
Well done. Good luck in the contest.
John
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I am on my third read-through, Bill. Now, you know me, I use rhyme and meter a lot. I always worry in case it sounds too "rinky-dink" - it's a fine line. You're on the right side of the line here, and though you have not gone in for startling metaphors or images, what you have given us here is one fine poem. I like it very much!
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Bad Bill, I should have guessed you were gonna try to make this hard. But guess what? It's not my contest and I'm not judging it! Neener, neener, neener! LOL Well done, poet. "Heritage" is my favorite Cullen poem. Write on. One.
Dez -
an interesting presentation of the melodic poem by Cullen in free verse and a unique point of view; i think the reader might very well be enlightened by the discussion style here...very well done...PK
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