University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

Pan-African poetry in translation

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Pan-African poetry in translation

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Content PAN-AFRICAN POETRY IN TRANSLATION by Maria Rosa Obiols A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (Comparative Literature) December 197 9 UMI Number: DP22540 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a com plete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. Dissertation Publishing UMI DP22540 Published by ProQ uest LLC (2014). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Microform Edition © ProQ uest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United S tates Code ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 4 8 1 0 6 - 1346 UNiVEi-cSii Y u»* b U U lH E R N CA LIFORNIA THE GRADUATE SCH O O L UNIVERSITY PARK LOS A N G ELES, CA LIFO R N IA 9 0 0 0 7 PA. D. Co > w O l z ~ This dissertation, written by ............Maria_ R?sa 9]?A 0 1 ? ............ under the direction of hf.X.... Dissertation Com mittee, and approved by all its members, has been presented to and accepted by The Graduate School, in partial fulfillment of requirements of the degree of D O C T O R OF P H I L O S O P H Y s- Dean DISSERTATION COMMITTEE V M W i , Chairman ___ ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter Page I. INTRODUCTION ....................................... 1 Introductory Notes to Black Poetry ..... 2 Historical Overview ........................... 9 Images of Africa............................... 20 The Translation of Black Poetry ............ 28 II. THE THEME OF THE CASTAWAY...................... 4 5 An Agony. As Now............................... 46 Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) C a l i b a n......................................... 50 Edward Brathwaite Folkways.................................... 60 Edward Brathwaite I am the Exile.................................. 66 Dennis Brutus And I am Driftwood............................. 68 Dennis Brutus Agbor Dancer.................................... 72 John Pepper Clark Nostalgie....................................... 74 Rend Depestre Middle Passage .................................. 76 Robert Hayden Same in B l u e s .................................. 87 Langston Hughes The Negro Speaks of Rivers................... 89 Langston Hughes iii Chapter Page Outcast ............................... Claude McKay . . . . 91 The Castaways ........................ Claude McKay . . . . 93 The Harlem Dancer ................... Claude McKay . . . . 95 Piano and Drums ...................... Gabriel Okara . . . . 97 I Am the Archipelago ................. Eric M. Roach . . . . 99 Telephone Conversation .............. Wole Soyinka . . . . 103 from Another Life ................... Derek Walcott . . . . 105 III. IMAGES OF AFRICA ........................ . . . . 107 Afrique ............................... Carl Brouard . . . . 108 Africa's Plea ........................ Roland Tombekai Dempster . . . . 110 Afrique ............................... David Diop . . . . 112 Afro-American Fragment .............. Langston Hughes . . . . 114 Africa .................................. Ted Joans . . . . 116 Okay, You are Afraid of Africa . . . Ted Joans . . . . 118 Africa . . ............................. Claude McKay The Africa Thing ...................... Adam David Miller . . . . 122 The Meaning of Africa .............. Abioseh Nicol . . . . 128 iv Chapter Page Je n'aime pas 1'Afrique...................... 134 Paul Niger from Song of O c o l ............................. 140 Okot p'Bitek Toko-Waly............ 144 Leopold Senghor Jamaican Fisherman ............................. 146 Philip M. Sherlock A Far Cry from A f r i c a ........................ 148 Derek Walcott IV. THE THEME OF R E T U R N ............................. 150 Numbers, Letters........................ 151 Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) Postlude/Home .................................. 155 Edward Brathwaite Homecoming................................... 163 Edward Brathwaite from Cahier d'un retour au pays natal . . . 167 Aime Cdsaire 0 Daedalus, Fly Away H o m e ................. 169 Robert Hayden H o m e ........................................... . 171 Ted Joans Back Again, H o m e ........................... 173 Don Lee Homecoming................................... 175 Lenrie Peters from Le retour de l'enfante prodigue .... 177 Ldopold Senghor Redecouverte .................................... 181 Guy Tirolien Song of the S o n ........................... 183 Jean Toomer V Chapter Page Homecoming: Anse la Raye ............ Derek Walcott . . . 185 V. POETRY OF AFIRMATION ...................... . . . 189 Black Art ............................... Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) . . . 190 The Black Man is Making New Gods . . . Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) . . . 194 The Awakening................... . . . Edward Brathwaite . . . 198 T o m ....................................... Edward Brathwaite . . . 202 Strong Men ............................... Sterling A. Brown from Cahier d'un retour au pays natal Aimd Cdsaire . . . 214 from Cahier d'un retour au pays natal Aimd Cdsaire . . . 218 Bientot .................................. Ldon Damas . . . 220 Seul dans la nuit ...................... Rend Depestrd . . . 222 Vive Noir ............................... Mari Evans . . . 224 The Emancipation of George-Hector (a colored turtle) ................... Mari Evans . . . 230 My Poem .................................. Nikki Giovanni . . . 232 Harlem .................................... Langston Hughes . . . 236 Dream Boogie ............................. Langston Hughes . . . 238 Chapter . vi Page New Y o r k ......................................... 240 Leopold Senghor from Another L i f e ............................ 245 Derek Walcott BIBLIOGRAPHY.............. 249 CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION '2 i f Introductory Notes" to Black Poetry This dissertation attempts to translate into Spanish a group of poems from Africa, the West Indies and North America. The selection is not based upon criteria of literary excellence: it is not a collection of "the best" of Black poetry. The object has rather been to offer a representative spectrum of poetry from Africa and the Black Diaspora written in English and French during the present century. The poems are significantly related in theme: they illuminate the movement towards.an affirmation of ethnic culture in reaction to centuries of devaluation and repression; they reflect the complexities of Black writers' materials and indicate a process that could be defined as "the making of a Black Aesthetic." In organizing a selection of this kind it is necessary to clarify two fundamental and related issues: first, the basic themes of Black poetry and second, the specific problems of translating Black poetry. In analyzing the recurring topics of Black poetry the cultural ties between the different geographic areas (Pan-African affinities) will become apparent. In spite of their chronological and geo graphical differences the poets of this selection share a common experience and purpose, explained by James Baldwin in the following terms: "What held all Black men together was their precarious, their unutterably painful relation to the White world; their necessity to remake the world and no longer be controlled by the vision of the world and of themselves held by other people." According to Franz Fanon, the colonialist's perception of his victim has penetrated the psyche of the colonized. He claims that the only solution is to break the circle of oppression by means of a revolution of national liberation. Considering that literature does not develop in a vacuum, but rather is influenced by social, political and economic forces, Pan-African literature should manifest the influence of such dramatic experiences as slavery, colo nialism and struggles for independence. In The Wretched of the Earth Fanon points out three stages in the development of Black writing: (1) assimilationist literature, (2) pre combat literature that corresponds to the period of ethnic discovery and (3) revolutionary and national literature 2 that corresponds to the fighting phase. The term "national culture" has often been used demagogically, but its importance in the process of group consciousness should be acknowledged. Harry Levin points out that "colonialism must emancipate itself by developing 3 aewer nationalism of its own." Black Nationalist litera ture has derived from the larger movements of Black Nation alism and Pan-Africanism, born out of the need to reinforce a feeling of pride and belonging. T. S. Eliot claims that there is no art more stubbornly national than poetry since _ _ --- poetry is primarily concerned with the expression o£ 4 feeling and emotion. Ezekiel Mphalele explains that "although we talk prose, poetry more closely approximates the human voice as an expression of feeling and a state of mind. Whereas the novel is a genre borrowed from Europe, poetry has always been ingrained in African traditional life. In the oral literature of Black Africa no distinction was made between prose and poetry. There were songs and incantations appropriate to every occasion, from funerals to marriages. Poetry was used in religious, social and political situations and was always an essential part of life. The African poet functioned as educator and teacher. In the twentieth century several poets have insisted upon their political and nationalistic commitments. Such leading politicians as Ldopold Senghor and Agostino Neto have expressed their ideas and political consciousness through the medium of poetry. In his essays, Senghor defines the function of the artist as two-dimensional: (.1) to heighten people's consciousness about their situation and (2) to defend and help to maintain the nation's culture by portraying it in his poetry. He talks of his desire to become the trumpet of his people and their ambassador through his poetry. He recognizes that he was strongly influenced by the old woman who was the dyallo of his natal village. Dyallo has the connotations of master 5 of language and mystical sorcerer. African writers in English have also used poetry as a "miraculous arm." Wole Soyinka sees the recovery of the past and the celebration of the nation’s traditional culture as a necessary phase. He insists upon the impor tance of a drawing from traditional myths, legends and artistic techniques. He states that "the artist labours from a responsibility to his roots," and that the writer is 7 "the voice of vision of his own time." Dennis Brutus has depicted the physical and moral pain of Blacks in South Africa. He presents himself as a troubadour: "It is the combination of conflict and music in the troubadour that interests me. The man who can be both a fighter and * ..8 poet." This political and social preoccupation of African writers is also found among Caribbean artists. Cesaire explains the role of poetry within the context of national liberation: Tous les reves, ddsirs, toutes les rancunes accumuldes, toutes les experiences informulqes et comme refouldes pendant un si^cle de domination colonialiste, tout cela avait besoin de sortir . . . et le recours est fait ici naturellement a ce langage de 1'essentiel qu'est la poesie, et la poesie joue ici a plein son role liberateur.^ When translating Black poetry, the fact that the Black writer's relationship to the colonial language has not been 6 a direct and straightforward one must be considered, Black writers attempt to integrate the different components of their hybrid heritage. While writing poetry in French, Senghor seeks an approximation to the traditional oral forms of Serer, his native language. He uses musical accompaniment with indigenous instruments and the stylistic devices of assonance and alliteration. The poet Gabriel Okara argues that the African writer's manipulation of language does not have to result in a debased form, but that, on the contrary, this manipulation creates artistic possibilities: "Living languages grow like living things and English is far from a dead language."^ The poet John Pepper Clark describes the African writer as occupying the position of the "ambidextrous man, a man placed in the unique and advantageous position of being able to draw 11 strength from two separate equal sources.” Bruce King claims that the growth of national litera tures written in English somewhat parallels the development 1 2 of vernacular writing during the late Middle-Ages. English is used differently throughout the world. African English poetry shows the influence of tribal language and oral literature. Similarly, West Indian poetry reflects the importance of creolization and of the multiracial society of these islands. Many Black American poets attempt to integrate such elements of their ethnic heritage as Black music and Black speech into their writing. There is an increasing awareness on the part of the critics that most theories and standards of criticism have largely developed within a Western context. Nwoga Ibe warns us of the limitations of "universal,, criteria which really mean the principles and processes learned in univer- 1 2 sity study of English literature. In his evaluation of the Black Aesthetic, Lloyd Brown points out that the Black Aesthetic raises the following points: (1) the limitations of established modes of literary criticism, (2) the entrenched patterns of racism in Western-oriented criticism and C3) the need to evaluate Black literature with an awareness of the relationship between its cultural sources 1 3 and the nature and form of the literature itself. Brown insists that Black literature be seen as a world literature with organic links between its various areas, as well as between Black and non-Black traditions. On the one hand he deplores the ’'Westerner’s ’obscurization' of Black literature," and on the other he warns against the grandiloquent assertions of some Black Aestheticians who claim that Black and White modes of perceiving art are irreconciliable and fundamentally different. He agrees with Mphalele that it is wiser to talk of a Black point of view rather than an exclusive and unique Black Aesthetic: "Comparative criticism needs an awareness of all the parallels, ambiguities and conflict inherent in cultural 1 4 relationships.” 8 Senghor’s proposal to the Black man that he "assimilate without letting himself he assimilated" parallels Brown’s claim that the only sensible aim to pursue is a civili zation of cultural coexistance and complementarity. In his essays Senghor stresses the African cultural contribution to the "civilization de 1 ’universel." Influenced by Theilhard de Chardin’s concept of organic wholeness, he argues that it is possible and practical to subscribe to Western ideas and to benefit from Western technology without rejecting the African cultural background.^ Even writers such as Fanon and Soyinka who have expressed some scepticism over Negritude are not so far removed from it. Fanon’s internationalism (he claimed that international consciousness must develop out of national consciousness) is not so dissimilar from Senghor's insistance on syncretism and universality. Mphalele argues that "the best of Senghor reflects the meeting-point between rejection and acceptance of Europe and Africa." He concedes that the poem "New York," with its emphasis upon a harmonizing approach to cultural issues, is a "time- 1 6 piece." This can be seen in the following lines by Senghor: Voici revenir les temps tres anciens, l’unitd retrouvee la reconciliation du Lion du Taureau et de 1’Arbre l’idde liee a l’acte l’oreille au coeur le signe au 17 sens. 1 ' 9 y ' J Historical Overview This section presents the major traditions of Black poetry, and critical responses towards these traditions. A brief examination of these schools will help to place the poems chosen for translation within a socio-historical context, and provide for thematic unity. It will be shown that many of the same themes and preoccupations inform these various schools. The Harlem Renaissance "Harlem Renaissance" is the name given to the movement of Black writers who developed the Harlem literary scene in the twenties and thirties. This name is misleading in so far as the term "Renaissance" implies that the period of pre-Renaissance was negligible. Therefore, this label presupposes a simplistic view of Black America’s cultural and literary history. Historically, Blacks in the West developed strong and distinctive traditions in music, song and popular languages. At the turn of the century, the poet James Weldon Johnson insisted that the place to find the idiom for a poetry that could embody the experience of Black Americans was in the folk tradition of Black America itself. He stressed the need to find a form which would express the imagery, the idioms and distinctive perspectives 1 8 af Black people. Part of the popularity of the Harlem Renaissance was due to the fact that in the twenties, Black 10 culture became more fashionable and acceptable to the literary establishment. Although these writers did not fully identify with the Black Nationalist movement of the times, however, they did follow to varying degrees Johnson’s advice to relate their art with their ethnicity. Langston Hughes incorporated the richness of the blues, work-songs, jazz lyrics and everyday Black speech in his poetry. He departed from conventions such as the ode and the sonnet and made ordinary Black people come alive. His essay "The Negro Writer and the Racial Mountain" represents the Harlem Renaissance's statement of purpose. It points to a growing historical sense of a separate cultural tradition: We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If White people are pleased, we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know that we are beautiful and ugly too. If colored people are pleased, we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn’t matter either.19 In his major work Cane, Jean Toomer stressed the importance of returning to one's roots. He suggested that Blacks look into the "fullness of the past without shame or 2 0 fear." Yet, during his life he went through different stages in regards to his acceptance or denial of his racial heritage. His experimentation with poetic language is linked to the avant-garde artists' desire to renovate literary language. The West Indian poet Claude McKay was associated with 11 ' U ' - ' this group. He explored in his poetry the ambivalent position of the Black intellectual towards his racial heritage. The critic Mphalele believes that McKay’s poems show too much decorum and that a situation of conflict must 21 need another kind of lyricism. Yet what makes McKay an illustrative example of his time and place is precisely this tension between his stilted Western modes of expression and his Afro-Caribbean yearnings: For the dim regions whence my fathers came My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs. Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame; My soul would sing forgotten jungle songs. 2- - L The Negritude Movement Negritude, explained by Senghor as the sum of Black Africa’s cultural values, was the literary counterpart of the growing Pan-Africanist movement. The Negritude poets were concerned with the defense and development of African cultural contributions. This movement can be seen as an example of direct collaboration between the French African and the diaspora writers. Senghor from Sdndgal, Cdsaire from Martinique and Damas from Guadeloupe met in Paris while studying in the metropolis. Influenced by such short lived nagazines as La Revue de Monde Noir (1931) and Legitime Ddfense (1932), they edited L ’Etudiant Noir (1934), their own declaration of principles. These poets shared the deliberate intention to reverse the negative associations of Blackness in Western culture and to use their art as a , ; f 2 'X * .y carrier for political striving. Senghor developed in his essays a rendering of African philosophy. He claimed that African apprehension of reality differs from the Western in so far as the Westerner has a more analytical approach to experience while the African participates more fully in nature. To the Western "eye-vision" Senghor opposes the African "reason-by- embrace" which is closer to "logos" than to "ratio." According to Senghor the African contribution to the reli gious sense lies in his faculty of perceiving the super natural in the natural. Senghor contrasts Western aesthetics where art is an imitation of nature with African aesthetics in which art is a participation in the reality 23 that underlies the world. The Negritude poets from the French Caribbean represent the most combative wing of Negritude, Cdsaire’s major work Cahier d’un retour au pays natal is the story of the return of the Black from physical and psychological exile, and the rejection of resignation. It expands beyond the island's landscape and encompasses the whole of the Black world. It is one of the best examples of poetry as a liberating art form. Its surrealism goes beyond a game of words. It is an indictment of Western pragmatic reason and an act of self-affirmation. Cdsaire1s tone is much more bitter and angry than Senghor's. Senghor has closer ties with his traditions despite the fact that his education 03 also had the effect of assimilating him thoroughly into French culture. In his poems, Senghor renders a nostalgic vision of a life firmly rooted in the African soil, Cesaire, descendant of slaves, deliberately repudiates a tradition of servility, and when talking of return to his native land, he portrays scenes of poverty and human decay. Rene Depestre contrasts the rebellious tone of the French Caribbeans (Cesaire, Damas, Tyrolien) with the playful tone of the Spanish Caribbean Negrismo poets. Although Depestre admits that the Hispanic poets (Tallet, Pales-Matos, Ballagas) timidly recognized the value of the African contribution to West Indian cultures, he argues that the Negrista movement was basically composed of White intellectuals who used Afro-Antillian folklore with but a 24 superficial knowledge of the African heritage. Once colonization was abolished many of the themes of Negritude became outmoded. Many critics had objected to the messianic tone of the movement, and accused Senghor's analysis of the Black's relationship to the world as being overly metaphysical and a confining form of racism. Sembene Ousmane parodied Senghor's emphasis on the African's relationship to the soil in his lines "Nous ne sommes pas les hommes de la danse; nous sommes les hommes 2 5 de la misere," Senghor himself explained that Negritude had been a temporary myth, necessary at a given moment of African history, and recognized that in the sixties the __ ^ myth was no longer relevant. African Poetry in English While the African poetry written in French flourished during the thirties and forties, the growth of African poetry written in English took place during the period of the fifties and sixties which led to freedom from colonial rule. Most of the writers were sceptical of Negritude and saw it as a philosophy reflecting the French policy of assimilation. Yet, the Black English poets' purposes in rehabilitating a cultural past were not that dissimilar. Their magazine Black Orpheus served the function of forging links between writers of Africa and the Americas, and of making available to English speaking readers the works of the Negritude writers. The journal became a forum for the conflicts in the African continent. After independence, some of the poetry has become more introspective. African poetry written in English is more concerned with a personal expression of the world, but should not be seen as a definite break with Negritude poetry. John Pepper Clark and Wole Soyinka draw their imagry from the traditions of their country (Nigeria). The titles of some of the poems--"Abiku," "Ibadan," "Agbor Dancer, indicate their attachment to the African scene. Together with Okara and many others, they record their sense of 15 C '* • * division, illustrated in Okara’s image of his wandering between the mystic rhythm of the jungle drums and the concerto. Lenrie Peters deals with the theme of colonialism as a form of expatriation. The poetry of the South African Dennis Brutus conveys the mental agony he feels towards his country’s political situation. In his poetry, soul and soil are transmuted and fused together. In this sense, Brutus’s poems fit entirely with the Senghorian notion of the Black man’s attachment to the soil. When contrasted with the poetry of the United States written in the sixties, the new African poetry appears to be less vocally and purportedly didactic. Most of the writers recognize and accept the Western influence to which they have been subj ected. West Indian Poetry in English The Barbadian poet Edward Brathwaite claims that the most significant feature of West Indian life has been its sense of rootlessness, which has resulted in a "dissociation of sensibility." Yet Brathwaite claims that West Indian literature is entering a new phase in which the intellectual having become conscious of the problem, seeks to transcend and heal it. He stresses that in order to achieve a positive identity it is necessary to fully accept the 27 wholeness of Black history. He explains his trilogy The Arrivitants as "the making of a tale of deprivation, paradoxically balanced upon a sense of hope, of continuity: 2 8 fragments that still hold secrets of the whole." Other critics agree that the Caribbean search for a national iden tity has enormous potential. Brown develops this theme and sees the West Indian identity as a "symbol of the human capacity to transform the nothingness of the past into a 29 source of a creative self-consciousness." . He suggests that there has been a growing awareness over the last two centuries and that this creative sense of self-affirmation counteracts the effects of slavery, colonization and racism. The Trinidad poet Derek Walcott sees his role of poet as a 30 "namer" of the wonders and contradictions of his island. Like Neruda and Whitman he fully identifies with a New World ethos: "Gregorias listen, lit / We were blest with a vir ginal, unpainted world / with Adam's task of giving things 31 their names." The Black Aesthetic The Black Aesthetic is the artistic and cultural product of the Black Power Movement that flourished in the United States in the late sixties and early seventies. It constitutes one more example of Black literature related to a movement of national liberation. Although the Black Aesthetic encompassed different tendencies, all of its members agreed on the need for a redefinition of Blackness, and on the importance of building upon Black folk roots. 17, Inspired by Langston Hughes, many of these poets reevaluated the uses of blues, jazz rhythms and Black idioms as poetic material. They followed his determination to move poetry off the page and to address themselves to Black audiences. Nevertherless, the revolutionary fervor of many of the new poets is stronger than that of the Harlem poets, and their critique of Western modes is absolute. Their cultural fathers are Marcus Garvey, Nat Turner and Malcolm X. They share with the latter his emphasis on the importance for Blacks of recapturing their heritage in order to free them selves from the bonds of White supremacy. In his essays Home and Raise, Race, Rays, Raze, Baraka insists upon the need to wed the cultural with the socio-political, and on the social function of Black art. Some theoreticians tend to use a grandiose rhetoric in articulating their purposes, and their essays often read as political pamphlets. Lindsay Barret's essay "The Tide, Inside, *It Rages" defines the Blacks' situation in today's Western world as a "war 32 situation." He equates the White world with capitalist society and postulates the Black artist's need to give birth to violence and destructive moods. In his introduction to the essays collected under The Black Aesthetic Addison Gayle argues that the de-Americanization of Black people lies at the heart of the Black Aesthetic. The attitudes of these writers towards America are far removed from the ambivalence apparent in such writers as Hughes and McKay. This 1-8 resurgence of Pan-Africanism is partially due to the better knowledge that is possible today of the African continent as well as to the emergence of the new African nations. Hoyt Fuller argues against the idea of the American melting pot and refers to the "dividing walls which hate and history 33 have erected." Stephen Henderson stresses the role of the poet as savior: "Our poets are now our prophets.Mari Evans’s "Vive Noir," Lee's volumes Think Black, We Walk the Way of the New World, and Don’t Cry, Scream, and Baraka’s Black Magic are some of the examples of the new poetry celebration of Blackness. In his essay "Afterword" Larry Neal insists that the poet be a performer: "We must learn to sing, dance and chant; we must make literature move people to a deeper understanding of what this thing is all about; be a kind of priest, a black magician, working juju 35 with the word in the world." This perception of the role of the Black poet has many points in common with the role of the traditional African poet invested with supernatural powers. In an interview of A1 Young by Nate Mackey, both deplore the vociferousness and more superficial aspects of the Black Aesthetic. They adopt a critical perspective, and resent the preacher-like qualities of the movement. Young laments the "emotional madness that typifies most discussion of 'What is the Black Aesthetic.'" Mackey views the Black Aesthetic as an "attempt to arrive at a kind of Black trade 7 £ mark, as a marketing device." The Black Aesthetic had obvious shortcomings. Its poetry had a far less revolutionary impact than its authors claimed; the actual accomplishments were far more modest. Furthermore, many of the authors who labelled Western ideology as obsolete seemed oblivious to an entire branch of Western aesthetics that focuses on the social and moral function of art. Yet, the new Black poetry had a positive effect: it increased an emotional sense of belonging, which allegedly was the primary aim of this poetry. Mphalele argues that even if much of Black poetry is an act of defiance, the subject matter does not necessarily distinguish a Black from a White poem. He claims that the Black poet is still probing towards an aesthetic. Mphalele insists on the need to examine the fabric of the poem-- diction, rhythm, movement, structure--as a more valuable way to approach Black poetry. He seems doubtful of the power of this poetry as a political tool, but recognizes its impor tance as an expression of the Blacks' revolutionized sense of the self: Poetry is not going to help us resolve social conflict. But through it we are going to see ourselves as we are and perhaps as we want to be; through it we are going to recite to one another our own selves; especially when it is a chorus of voices we are listening to. That is really all we can hope for--a self-reali zation . 37 Mphalele's goals are more modest than the ones expressed by other theoreticians, but probably are more realistic. > 2 0 Images of Africa For the Westerner, Africa has always been the antithesis of civilization, "the other world," "the dark continent.” Africa has been presented as (1) the romantic setting of the innocent, pre-logical savage (the African child), (2) a fearful place of triumphant chaos and ape men, or (3) the place where Western man went to be con fronted with the hidden part of himself. All have been distorting and ultimately dehumanizing visions of Africa. In all cases Africa was a projection of the White man’s limiting perceptions. Sartre himself has partially succombed to this myth when in Black Orpheus he refers to 3 8 "Africa beyond reach, imaginary continent." In order to counteract these negative images, African nationalists have insisted on the importance of the past as the reservoir of traditional values. In his essay "On African Socialism," Senghor points to the need of "an inventory of our traditional civilization" as an essential ingredient in the process of nationbuilding. French African poets have presented an often idealized vision of the ancestral past. The English-speaking poets have been a bit more suspicious of such a vision, but they have been equally persistent in their search for clues that will help them to shape a more accurate image of themselves than the one transmitted to them by the colonizer. ______Given the enforced exile that has defined the Black diaspora, it is not surprising to find numerous accounts of these experiences. The theme of exile is tightly interwoven with that of return to the African homeland. Sartre analyzes the theme of return to the native country at the psycho-existential level: The redescent into the glaring hell of the Black soul is indissolubly mixed up in the vates of Negritude. A quest is involved here, a systematic stripping and an "ascese" accompanied by a continual effort of investi gation; I shall call these poets Orphic: their tireless descent into themselves makes me think of Orpheus going to claim Euridice from Pluto.39 Brown explores the same theme of exile and return in psycho-cultural terms. He claims that we should go beyond the first impression of labelling this yearning for Africa as mere sentimental primitivism or an artificial dream. He stresses the importance--especially for the Black intellec tual and artist--of "coming home" to the cultural origins which can be associated with Harlem, with an African Eden or a Caribbean paradise. He sees this emotional and intellectual experience of coming home as a fundamental issue and stresses that the often unrealistic images of their roots portrayed by these poets reflect a "very real psychological need, an existing desire to establish a Black frame of reference. For Afro-Americans --more than for West Indians, for whom the vestiges of the African past were less violently suppressed-- it was for a long time difficult to perceive Africa positively. The eighteenth-century Black American ■22 poetess Phillis Wheatly refers to Africa as a "land of 41 errors and gloom," obviously reflecting her White master1s indoctrination. Still, the importance of ethnicity was always assumed and never really died. The alleged "New Negro" of the Harlem Renaissance was not the first to realize the existence of Africa. In the nineteenth century the work of Martin Delany, Alexander Crummel and Edward Blyden among others illustrated that the memory of Africa had never disappeared. The poets of the Harlem Renaissance share to varying degrees a concern for the alien status of Blacks in the West. Brown claims that those writers’ images of them selves were of "transplanted Africans, or rootless aliens 42 in an hostile culture." He argues that the African heritage was "elusive at best" and that the relationship of these poets with their African themes was rooted in a sense of distance. Some of them explore the image of Africa as a magical dreamscape and an ideal land. When Countee Cullen, expressing in his poem "Heritage" the feelings of many Afro-Americans, asks in a self-questioning mood: "What is 43 Africa to me?" he is unable to give a clear-cut answer. The poem is thematically structured as a kind of counter point in which the poet voices his dual allegiances between his attraction for Africa--described as a place of luxur ious vegetation and vital exuberance --and his deep-rooted suspicion of the mythical nature of his fantasy. v2 3 " X i In the poet Claude McKay we find the same cultural dilemma as in Cullen. He attempted to cut himself off from Western values, and that implied an agony to him. In "Outcast" the poet has no illusions concerning the possi bility of recapturing the African past. At the end of his poem "Africa," a celebration of past A.frican glories, the poet addresses the African continent in a lamenting tone: "Thou are the harlot / Now thy time is gone."^ Ultimately, he is detached from both worlds. Langston Hughes is also ambivalent towards Africa. In "Afro-American Fragment" the poet is nostalgic for the African beat he feels in his own veins, but he is aware of his actual distance from Africa: "So long, so far away / is Africa.In his autobiography I Wonder as I Wander, Hughes describes his personal impression of Africa: Unfortunately I did not feel the rhythms of the primitive surging through me. I was only an American Negro who had loved the surface of Africa and the rhythms of Africa. But I was not Africa. I was Chicago and Kansas City and Broadway and Harlem.46 Yet, Hughes’s tone is not as despairing as is that of McKay. Brown points out that Hughes experiences the Afro-American heritage as a creative process and realizes the importance of an active cultural memory. In "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," Hughes develops the theme that Blacks are united in their fate and have achieved a dignity by what they have lived through. Subsequent Black American writers have coincided in <23 their tenuous relation to Africa. Richard Wright commented that his visit to Africa had baffled and eluded him: "I 4 7 was Black and they were Black but it did not help me." Making explicit the dichotomy between the real image and his own image, he deplored that after having been there he would no longer be able to dream about Africa. When talking about the subject, James Baldwin refered to "a gulf of three 4 8 hundred years." Elison suggested that the African content 49 m the Afro-American is "more fanciful than factual." With the Black Aesthetic of the sixties there was a resurgence of the African theme. The new Afro-American poets no longer showed an ambivalence towards Africa. Baraka’s "African Love History," Ted Joans’s Afrodisiac and David Adam Miller's "The Africa Thing" are examples of these authors' complete allegiance to the African continent, and of their treatment of Africa as a source of racial pride. In the Caribbean, Africa has always been a dominant presence. Coulthard explains this as a compound of his torical memories, of social and economic frustrations and of the peculiar tensions of Black West Indians forced to live in a world of predominantly White values.^ Africa is mentioned in many proverbs and folk sayings and in the language of calypso lyrics. There was an old belief among the slaves that upon death the soul returns to Africa. The Shango cult in Trinidad and the Rastafarians of Jamaica € testify to the African presence in West Indian religious practices. For those who had never known it, the idea of a Black homeland, of mother Africa, had a special attraction. Sartre speaks of the exile poet's vision of Africa as "the umbilical center of the world.The very titles of George Lamming's essays The Pleasures of Exile and Edward Brathwaite's A Kind of Homecoming point to the West Indian's pervading sense of rootlessness and his desire for an emotional home. The growth of a positive racial consciousness developed particularly in Haiti, where the African survivals had been stronger. In 1927 the ethnographer Jean Price-Mars published a series of lectures, Ainsi Parla L'Oncle, where he rehabilitated the African elements in Haitian life, long regarded with contempt. In the thirties there was an intensification of this cultural movement. The group of poets Les Griots (1938-1939) continued this re-evaluation of the racial factor. They stressed folk material as a valid source of literary inspiration. They adopted the name from the African poet-sorcerors "griots" which also had religious connotations. In Carl Brouard's "Nostalgie," Africa is depicted as an idealized Arcadia that arouses atavistic feelings: "Tambour, quand tu resonnes, mon 'ame hurle vers 52 I’Afrique." The Haitian poets received an obvious influence from the Harlem poets, but their treatment of the African theme was less convoluted than that of the Black H-Qj American poets. Yet, the nostalgic tone is the same, and Africa is also seen freqnently as a vague geographical region that the poet rarely knows from direct experience. In the late thirties two landmarks of the Negritude movement appeared in the West Indies: Leon Damas’s Pigments and Aim§ Cesaire's Cahier d'un Retour au Pays Natal. Both coincided in their rejection of European culture and their attempt to render a sense of pride to the West Indian. Cesaire's poem is the most complete indictment of coloni alism. The emotional identification with Africa acts as a counterbalance to the poet's experience of the West. Cesaire uses surrealistic images as a vehicle for a poetic vision ingrained with African philosophy. The poem echoes the character of African incantations: "voum rooh oh / a charmer les serpents a conjurer / les morts / voum rooh . it 5 3 oh...." Of the West Indian poets writing in English, Edward Brathwaite is by far the one who has most utilized African sources in his work. He recognizes the African presence not as a static quality, but as something living which he uses as material for his poetry. In the following passage he speaks of the recollection of the past as redeeming enter prise and of the organic links between Africa and the Caribbean: In Ghana I came to a sense of identification with myself and with these people. I came to connect my history with theirs, the bridge of my mind now linking •27 ^ W Atlantic and ancestor, homeland and heartland. When I turned to leave, I was no longer a lonely individual talent. The experience of having lived eight years in Africa brought me to the realization that the home-- the true imaginative home--of the ’rootless’ Afro- American and West Indian was in A f r i c a . 54 The second book of Brathwaite's trilogy, Masks, presents the poet’s pilgrimage through Africa and his immersion in the African sources of his identity. Ama Ata Aidoo, commenting on Brathwaite's treatment of Africa, speaks of "what excel lence can emerge from an honest awareness and utilization of one's inheritance."^ She thinks that Brathwaite's recog nition of Africa is quite objective; he does not fall into false romantizations, nor does he project great expectations. Being herself African, Aidoo is impressed by this poet's skillful use of the African language Akan in combination with English. Derek Walcott's approach to the African theme is quite different. He claims that the West Indian has a horror for the past, and that "amnesia is the true history of the New Wo rld. In his poems, Africa plays the remote part of an "exhausted past." He is more concerned with developing an islander identity. The title of the poem "A Far Cry From Africa" suggests that Africa is a mere memory that does not touch the poet. The poem "Jamaican Fisherman" by the West Indian Philip Sherlock is a vivid illustration of Walcott's statement that "fisherman and peasant know who they are, and when we ,28 show them our wounded sensibilities we are, most of us, 57 displaying self-inflicted wounds." The poem describes the movements of a traditional fisherman on a shore. The poet sees the fisherman as a symbol of his own estranged origins: "Nor knew how fiercely spoke his body then / Of 5 8 ancient wealth and freeborn regal men." Finally, the African critic Mphalele gives us the dispassionate insider's view of Africa and claims that "the most realistic and meaningful symbol of Africa is that of an 59 ambivalent continent searching for equilibrium." The Translation of Black Poetry The idea underlying this dissertation is (1) that translation plays a crucial role in the dissemination and development of literature and literary theory, and (2 ) that the art of translation provides the student with a methodo logical and linguistic framework which is interdisciplinary. In a recent meeting of the International Federation of Translators a special resolution was adopted to encourage comparative literature programs to make the art and theory of translation a regular part of their curriculum. Trans lation ought to be a part of the study of literature in the same way that courses in creative writing have been incor porated in the humanities. In spite of the need for cross-cultural exchanges between nations and national literatures, very few research projects have been carried out in the field of literary translation. The student who is interested in such matters is handicapped by the lack of developed methodologies, learning aids and textbooks. Moreover, a cultural bias not only conditions criteria for literary evaluation, but deter mines also what gets translated. Prospective translators might be hindered both by their ignorance of Third World works and by the linguistic and cultural difficulties of the texts. Therefore, there is a pressing need for such trans lations since so little is known outside the boundaries of emerging national literatures, and little has been done to fill this void. While trying to familiarize myself with the literature on the theory and practice of translation, I not only encountered a limited bibliography, but was struck by the fact that most of it dealt with the difficulties of translating the classics: the Bible, Homer, the Elizabe thans and other enthroned, accepted works of Western 1 iterature. This literature presents a variety of views concerning translation. Most stress the severe difficulties involved in translation. As George Mounin points out in his study of translation, the ideal translator should combine the abilities of a linguist, a scholar, a critic and a creative writer. In spite of these difficulties, his study is an encouraging one. At the end of Les Belles Infideles, after having concluded that it is possible to translate, he adds: i3b Mais en fait il ne s'agissait pas de ddmontrer que la traduction soit facile, ni toujours tout a coup possible du premier coup. Ce serait ddja beau d'avoir combattu cette maladie qui paralyse les traducteurs eux-memes avant d 'avoir commencd leur tache: la conviction qu’ils entreprennent une tache thdoriquement imposs ible.oO In Defense et Illustration de la Langue Francaise, Joachim de Bellay insists that poetry should not be translated. Wilhem von Humbold is also suspicious, and emphasizes the hardships of translation: All translation seems to me an attempt to accomplish what is impossible. Every translator must run ship wreck on one of two rocks: either at the cost of the style and idiom of his own nation, he will hold too closely to the original, or at the cost of the original he will hold too close to the peculiarity of his nation. The middle ground between this is not only hard, but absolutely impossible.61 Others present what seems an idealized vision of translation James Russell Lowell claims that translation "compels us to such a choosing, a testing, to such a discrimination of sound, propriety, position and shade of meaning, that we now first learn the secrets of the words we have been using all our lives." He enthusiastically concludes that "translation 6 2 teaches us as nothing can." Maurice Blanchot shares a romantic view of translation. He defines the translator as "the secret master of the difference between languages." He describes the translator's task in these grandiloquent terms: The man prepared to translate is in a constant, dangerous and admirable intimacy with language, and it is because of this familiarity that he holds the right to be the proudest and the most secret of all the . 31 - . • > writers-—with the conviction that translating is, all told, madness.63 Paul Engle also speaks o£ translation in laudatory terms: "If countries more and more reach each other’s most intense 64 utterances, they might know their likeness." He warns the reader that translation of poetry does not consist in putting down in one language equivalent words from another language. He argues that the translator must be imaginative, and therefore poetry should be translated by poets so that the end result is close to a poem as well as the poem. In his Principles of Literary Translation, Paul Hadley examines the peculiarities of English which affect the work of the translator. He points out the extreme difficulty of rendering poetry written in English into Spanish or French due to the lack of weak syllables and open vowels in English. The dynamic basis of English is stress, the alter nation of accented and unaccented syllables, while in French and Spanish each syllable is clearly enunciated and the accent or stress has little to do with the inherent nature of the syllable. The major distinctions between English and the Romance languages lie (1) in the non-syllabic nature of the Anglo-Saxon, (2) the relative prominence of consonants in English as compared with French and Spanish and (3) the accentual rather than quantitative pattern of the English verse. Hadley notes that the loss of inflections in English has shortened both Latin and Saxon words, and has. "■w/ left it with heavy final syllables closed by consonant stops so that even in prose a more rugged and powerful effect is achieved than in French or Spanish, where many words ter minate in feminine syllables or soft, vocalic, inflectional 6 5 endings. English language has much power of contraction because of its frequent use of present and past participles. Moreover, because of its concrete verbs and particles, English defines movement and shape much more clearly than does French or Spanish. The translations which I attempted from English to Spanish were accordingly much more problematic and challenging than the ones from French to Spanish. Besides these general problems common to all literary translations from English into Spanish, there are additional problems in attempting to translate Black English poetry into Spanish. Black poetry relies heavily on the Black musical heritage, and many Black poets share the conviction that emotional effects can be more easily achieved by music. In the process of translation, when changing the words of a poem, we necessarily alter the effect since the suggestive ness of poetry depends partially on sound. Considering that the actual sounds of a verse undergo radical changes in translation, it is obviously harder to translate poets- musicians. The only solution lies in the choice of equivalents, since all languages possess musical resources. Still, a certain amount of displacements will be " - : ' 33 unavoidable. Langston Hughes’s poems illustrate the Black poet's drawings from folk music and idioms. The poem "Same in Blues" is an example of Hughes’s use of the classic blues configuration that bears some resemblance to the call and response chant of West Africa: "I said to my baby / Baby, take it slow / I can't, she said, I can't’ / I got to go I" There is then a repetition with slight variations: "A certain amount of traveling / A certain amount of nothing / A certain amount of impotence." Finally all is rounded off with a final comment, an offshoot of the original statement and its variations. "Three parties / On my line-- / But that third party / Lord, ain't mine."^ Some colloquialisms such as "baby" or "daddy" can be easily conveyed into Spanish, sinch "nina" and "papacito" can occasionally be used as affectionate ways of addressing sexual partners. Yet, other expressions ("my lovin days is through" or "You won't get a goddam thing!") result in unavoidable displacements. Although, of course, Spanish accommodates its own "street" dialects, these are not comparable with Black "street" English in America. In "Dream Boogie" the musical structure is further enhanced by the use of the ethnic dance form. The poem becomes a boogie dance. In my first attempt to translate the poem I was not familiar with the expression "take it away." After I learned that this expression is a traditional call to musicians to begin playing, I still could not find an exact (34 Spanish equivalent. The final lines of the poem are untranslatable since they are so culturally rooted: "Hey, 61 pop! / Re-bop! / Mop! / Yeah!” I left them in their original form. Many other words from other poems are, for the same reasons, untranslatable too: "nigger," "spade," "wop," "boogie-woogie," etc. Often, a footnote is the only solution. Another problem arises from the strong emphasis on the ritualistic power of words in some Black poetry. The strong rhythmic patterns of Damas's poem "Bientot" convey a sense of urgency further enhanced by the use of repetition and alliteration: "Bientot / je n'aurai pas que dansd / bien tot / je n ’aurai pas que frottd / bient'St / je n'aurai pas que trempd / bienfSt / je n ’aurai pas que dansd / chantd / / n 68 frottd / chante / danse / bientot." In this case, due to the simplicity of the poem and the rhythmic similarities between French and Spanish, the translation did not present many problems. In the case of Brathwaite's poem "Limbo," the translation was not as straightforward. Brathwaite explores his African origins at both the thematic and structural levels. The first part of the poem depicts a Caribbean island setting in long, descriptive lines. The tempo and style are totally different from the second and third parts. The short lines and split of these portions of the poem illustrate the poet’s ability to build upon basic oral and musical modals. The shattered verse recalls the , . ; _ 3 S rhythms of the drum beats and the sound of the steel pans which serve as drums: "And / Ban / Ban / Cal- / iban / like to play / pan / at the Car / nival." When read aloud, the energy of the short verses and the poem’s dense texture are further enhanced. Brathwaite adopts the African stylistic device of heightening the effect by repetition, becoming a word-sorcerer: "limbo / limbo like me / stick hit sound / and the ship like it ready / stick hit sound / and the dark 6 9 still steady / limbo / limbo like me." Brathwaite’s skill at punning and associating words with related sounds makes more difficult the task of the translator who is already trying to find an adequate rhythmic substitution. Brenda Packan suggests that the translator's task is more difficult when dealing with Pan-African literature due 70 to its dualistic nature. This duality arises from the fact that the writer is expressing African (or Afro-American, or Caribbean) realities in terms of the collective experi ence and literary traditions of English and French. Claude McKay's sonnets, written in the twenties, are examples of work commited to change but without questioning Western literary conventions. But other poets repeatedly reflect the desire to do violence to the Westerner's language. The poet and aesthetician Edouard Glissant elaborates: Les dpurations academiques de la langue ne me concer- nent pas (ne me satisfont ni m'indignent ni me font sourire); me pas'sione' par contre (pour ne j>as dire, o grammarien, en revanche) mdn affrontement a sa loi. Car les liens de mes collectivities a 1'ensemble ^ 36 culturel qu'elle manifestait on ete, quoi qu'on en dise, d'alienation. Je n ’ai a lui prouver fiddlite, non continuite, mais a la brusquer dans mon sens: c' est ma maniere de la reconnaitre.'/1 Glissant is rephrasing at the linguistic level Fanon's 7 2 dictum that violence is man’s recreating himself or Quincy Troupe's notion that the Third World writer is attempting to construct a new culture as antibody to the 7 3 culture he rejects. Baraka’s poem "Black Art" illustrates the Black Aesthe- tician’s claims of "taking the white man's language, dislo cating his syntax, recharging his words with new strength and sometimes with new meaning before hurling them back in his teeth, while upsetting his self-righteousness and 74 cliches." "Black Art" is an obvious example of the aesthetics of violence proposed by the Black Aesthetician of the sixties. Expressions such as "Assassin poems, poems that shoot guns," "fuck poems," "knockoff poems," "we want poems that kill," "rrrrrrr tuh tuh tuhtuh" manifest Baraka's artistic rebellion. He sees Black art as functional, and adopts the role of the poet as teacher, prophet and leader. The end of the poem recalls the oratory tradition of the Black sermon: "Let the world be a Black Poem / And Let All Black People Speak This Poem / Silently or LOUD."^ The African poet John Pepper Clark attempts a new form of synthesis between an alien medium (the English language) and an African theme in "Agbor Dancer." The poem describes (37 the Black poet's divided loyalties between his African heritage and his Western adquisitions. In this poem Clark appreciatively describes the dancer, but his self-conscious ness increases his awareness of his distance from her. The poem's form successfully conveys the tension between the intellectual penchants of the poet-voyeur, (a "scribe," "early sequestered from his tribe,") and the sensuality he perceives in the dancer, a symbol of traditional Africa. Using an introspective mode, Clark starts with the descrip tion of the dancer: "See her caught in the throb of a * 7 6 drum." Then he expands this description with observation, recollection and reflection. The angularity of the lan guage and the complicated syntax are appropriate to the poet's uneasy condition, but they create obvious problems for the translator. Clark uses a highly compacted language: "hide-brimmed-stem," "lead-tethered," which is hardly translatable since Spanish does not have this power of contraction. The rhythm of the Spanish version will unavoidably be very different considering Clark's tendency to use monosyllabic words. There is a salient aspect of Pan-African poetry which the translator should note. As Quincy Troupe points out, a characteristic of this kind of poetry lies in "the humorous 77 distance." This lack of directness and the quality of irony are repeatedly used by the Black poet to identify the assumptions of racism and exploitation. Some poets present < 3 § descriptions of themselves from a White point of view in order to emphasize the narrowness of Western interpretations of other cultures. Brathwaite uses this device in his description of a prototypical Black man: MI am a fuck / in’ 7 8 negro, / man, hole / in my head, / brains in / my belly." Langston Hughes's poetry of understatement is often decep tively simple. The first impression of gaiety is a false one. The humor of many of his lines underscores the presence of sarcasm and bitterness. The translator should keep this factor in mind, lest he misinterpret the texts he is dealing with. Fernando Moran's Nacidn y alienacion en la literatura negro-africana, one of the few essays on this subject written in Spanish, fails to understand the full implications of the poetry. When analyzing Damas's verses "Rendez-les-moi, mes poupees noires / que je joue avec elles / les yeux naifs de mon instinct," Moran claims that the poet "se aferra inconscientemente al escapismo de la 7 9 ninez sin barreras." His reading is a superficial one if he argues that the poet wishes to remain a child. Beyond the specific linguistic (phonetic, semantic) obstacles the translator fights with, first and above all, his task presupposes a critical understanding of the underlying ambiguities of the literature. .3.9 Notes to Chapter I 1 James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name (New York: Dial Press, 1961), p. 29. 2 Franz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (New York: Grove Press, 1963). 3 Harry Levin, "Literature and Cultural Identity," Comparative Literature Studies 10 (.1973): 140. 4 T. S. Eliot, "The Social Function of Poetry," On Poetry and Poets (New York: Farrar § Strauss, 1943), pp. 3-16. ^Ezekiel Mphalele, "Writers and Commitment," Black Orpheus 2 (1968):37. ^Leopold Senghor, Prose and Poetry, trans. John Reed and Clive Wake (London: Longman § Dalhousie University Press, 197 6 ). 7 Wole Soyinka, "The Writer in a Modern African State," in The Writer in Modern Africa, ed. Per Wastberg (New York: Africana, 1969) , pp. 4-24 . 8 Dennis Brutus, "An Interview," in African Writers Talking: A collection of Interviews, ed. Dennis Duerden and Cosmo Pieterse (London: Heinemann, 1972), p. 55. 9 Aime Cdsaire, "New Sum of Poetry from the Negro World," Presence Africaine, 56 (1966):42. 1 0 Gabriel Okara, "African Speech . . . English Words," in African Writers on African Writing, ed. G. D. Killam (Evanston, 111.: Northwestern University Press, 1973), p. 137. ^John Pepper Clark, "The Legacy of Caliban," Black Orpheus, 2 (1968) : 16-39. 1 2 Ibe Nwoga, "The Limitations of Universal Critical Criteria," in Exile and Tradition, ed. Rowland Smith (London: Longman 8 Dalhousie University Press, 1976), pp. 8-30. 1 3 Lloyd Brown, "Black Biographies," The Conch Review of Books 2 (September 1 974) : 199-204. '40 1 4 Lloyd Brown, "The Black Aesthetic and Comparative Criticism," Report 1 (1 974) :6 . 1 5 Senghor, Prose and Poetry, pp. 47-49. 1 6 Ezekiel Mphalele, Voices in the Whirlwind (New York: Hill and Wang, 1967),p . 143. 1 7 Leopold Senghor, Poernes (Paris: Editions de Seuil, 1964) , p . 56. 1 8 Blyden Jackson and Louis Rubin, Black Poetry in America: Two Essays in Historical Interpretation (Baton Rouge, Louisiana: Louisiana State University Press, 1974), pp. 38-39. 1 9 Langston Hughes, "The Negro Writer and the Racial Mountain," in Black Expression: Essays by and about Black Americans in the Creative Arts, ed. Addison Gayle (New York: Weybright and Talley, 1969), p. 201. 2 0 Jean Toomer, Cane (New York: Boni E j Liveright, Inc., 1923; reprint ed., New York: Harper and Row, 1969). 21 Mphalele, Voices in the Whirlwind, pp. 1-120. 2 2 Claude McKay, Selected Poems of Claude McKay (New York: Harcourt, Brace § World, Inc., 1 953) , p~! 41. 23 Senghor, Prose and Poetry, p. 63. ^Rene Depestre, "Problems of Identity for the Black Man in Caribbean Literature," Caribbean Quarterly 19 (1973): 51-61. 2 5 Lilyan Kesteloot, Les ecrivains noirs de langue francaise: naissance d'une litterature (Brussels: Univ. Libre de Bruxelles, 1965), p. 81. 9 Leopold Senghor, Ethiopiques (Paris: Editions de Seuil, 1956), p . 59. 27 Edward Brathwaite, "Timehri," in Is Massa Day Dead: Black Moods in the Caribbean, ed. Orde Coombs (New York: Doubleday, 1974), pp. 29-44. 2 8 Edward Brathwaite, Rights of Passage back of PLP 1110, Argo Co. 29 Lloyd Brown, West Indian Poetry (Boston: Twayne editions, Hall § Co., 1978). 3 0 Derek Walcott, "The Muse of History: An Essay,” in Is Massa Day Dead: Black Moods in the Caribbean, ed. Orde Coombs (New York: Doubleday, 1974), p. 52. 31 Derek Walcott, Another Life (New York: Farrar, Strauss § Giroux, 1973), p. 152. 32 Lindsay Barret, "The tide, inside, it rages!” in Black Fire: An Anthology of Afro-American Writing, ed. LeRoi Jones and Larry Neal (New York: William Morrow § Co., 1966), p. 158. 3 3 Hoyt Fuller, "Towards a.Black Aesthetic,” in The Black Aesthetic, ed. Addison Gayle (New York: Doubleday, 1972), p. 7. 34 Stephen Henderson, "Survival Motion: A Study of the Black Writer and the Black Revolution in America," in The Militant Black Writer in Africa and the United States, ed. Stephen Henderson and Mercer Cook (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969). 35 Larry Neal, "Afterword," in Black Fire, p. 655. 3 6 Nate Mackey, "Interview with A1 Young," Melus 5, No. 4 (Winter 1978):43-51. 37 Ezekiel Mphalele, "Poetry and Conflict in the Black World," in Voices in the Whirlwind, p. 113. T O Jean Paul Sartre, "Black Orpheus," in The Black American Writer, ed. Christopher Bigsby (Deland, Florida: Everett Edwards, 1969), p. 6 . 39 Ibid., p . 6 . 40 Lloyd Brown, "The African Heritage and the Harlem Renaissance: A Re-evaluation," African Literature Today 9 (1 972):1 - 9. 41 Michael Furay, "Africa in Negro-American Poetry to 1929," African Literature Today 2 (1969):35. 42 Lloyd Brown, "The Expatriate Consciousness in Black American Literature," Studies in Black Literature 3, No. 2 (Summer 1972) :9-12. 43 Countee Cullen, "Heritage," in You Better Believe it: Black Verse in English, ed. Paul Bremen (Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1973), p. 97. 44 Claude McKay, Selected Poems of Claude McKay, p. 40. 45 Langston Hughes, Selected Poems (New York: Knopf, 1965), p. 2. 46 Langston Hughes, I Wonder as I Wander (New York: Rinehart, 1956), p. 325. 47 Furay, "Africa in Negro-American Poetry," p. 40. 48 Ezekiel Mphalele, The African Image (New York: Praeger, 1962), p. 48. 49 Ibid., p . 47. ^Georges Coulthard, Race and Color in Caribbean Literature (London: Oxford University Press, 1962). 51 Sartre, "Black Orpheus," p. 13. 52 Edward Brathwaite, "The African Presence in Caribbean Literature," Daedalus 103 (1974) : 73-1 40. ’5 3 Aime Cesaire, Cahier d'un retour au pays natal (Paris: Presence Af r icaine , 19 71) , p~! 7 9 . ■^Edward Brathwaite, "Timehri," p. 39. 55 Michael Popkin, Modern Black Writers: A Library of Literary Criticism (New York: Frederick Ungar 8 Co., 1978) , pp. 94-95 . ^Derek Walcott, "The Muse of History," p. 4. 5 7 Ibid., p. 27. 5 8 Philip M. Sherlock, "Jamaican Fishmerman," in You Better Believe it: Black Verse in English, ed. Paul Bremen (London: Penguin Books, 1 97 3) , jk 87. 59 Ezekiel Mphalele, Voices in the Whirlwind, p. 151. ^Georges Mounin, Les belles infideles (Paris: Cahiers de Sud, 1955), p. 158. ^Herbert Tolman, The Art of Translation (Boston: Sarborn 8 Co., 1901), p. 24. 6 2 Ibid., p. 29. <43 6 3 Maurice Blanchot, ’’ On Translation,” Modern Poetry in Translation 16 (1973):3. 64 Paul Engle, ”0n Translating in Iowa City," Modern Poetry in Translation 19 (1974):4. ^Paul E. Hadley, "Principles of English Literary Translation" (Ph.D. dissertaion, University of Southern California, 1955), p. 39. 6 6 Langston Hughes, Selected Poems, p. 221. 6 7 Ibid., p. 2 2 1 . 6 8 Leon Damas, "Bientot," in Anthologie negro-africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues du XXieme siecle, ed. Lilyan Kesteloot (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967), p. 91. 69 Edward Brathwaite, Islands (London: Oxford Univer sity Press, 1969), p. 34. 7 0 Brenda Packham, "Some Problems of Translation in African Literature," in Perspectives on African Literature, ed. Cristopher Heywood (London: Heinemann, 1971), pp. 67- 68 . 7 1 Edouard Glissant, L Tintention poetique (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1969), p. 45. 7 2 Franz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth. 7 3 Quincy Troupe, "Introduction," in Giant Talk: An Anthology of Third World Writing, ed. Quincy Troupe and Rainer Schulte (New York: Random House, 197 5). 74 Mercer Cook, "African Voices of Protest," in The Black Militant Writer in Africa and the United States, p. 52. 7 5 Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones), Black Magic Poetry: 1961-1967 (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merril, 1969), pp. 116-117. 7 6 John Pepper Clark, "Agbor Dancer," in Poems from Black Africa, ed. Langston Hughes (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1963), p. 97. 77 Quincy Troupe, ''Introduction," in Giant Talk, p. xv. 7 8 Edward Brathwaite, Rights of Passage (London: Oxford University Press, 1967), p. 29. 79 Fernando Moran, Nacion y alienacion en la literatura ne g r oafricana (Madrid: Taurus, 1964), p. 14. 45 CHAPTER II THE THEME OF THE CASTAWAY \4.6 AN AGONY. AS NOW . 1 Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) I am inside someone who hates me. I look out from his eyes. Smell what fouled tunes come in to his breath. Love his wretched women. Slits in the metal, for sun. Where my eyes sit turning, at the cool air the glance of light, or hard flesh rubbed against me, a woman, a man, without shadow, or voice, or meaning. This is the enclosure (flesh, where innocence is a weapon. An abstraction. Touch. (Not mine. Or yours, if you are the soul I had and abandoned when I was blind and had my enemies carry me as a dead man (if he is beautiful, or pitied. It can be pain. (As now, as all his flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or pain. As when she ran from me into that forest. Or pain, the mind silver spiraled whirled against the sun, higher than even old men thought God would be. Or pain. And the other'. The yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They are withered yellow flowers and were never beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, say ’beauty.’ Beauty, practiced, as the tree. The slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences. Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly. Where the God is a self, after all.) 1from Amiri Baraka, The Dead Lecturer (New York: Grove Press, 1969). /47 Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Elesh, white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun. It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton you recognize as words or simple feeling. But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not, given to love. It burns the thing inside it. And that thing screams. 48 UNA AG0N1A. COMO AHORA. Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) Estoy dentro de alguien que me odia. Miro desde sus ojos. Huelo los fetidos alientos que llegan a su boca. Amo a sus despreciables mujeres. Rajas en el metal, para el sol. Donde mis ojos giran, en el aire frxo el fulgor de la luz, o carne dura frotada contra mi, una mujer, un hombre, sin sombra, ni voz, ni sentido. Esta es la envoltura (carne, donde la inocencia es un arma. Una abstraccion. Toque. (No mio. 0 tuyo, si tti eres el alma que tuve ,y abandone cuando era ciego y mis enemigos me arrastraron como hombre muerto (si el es bello, o compadecido. Puede ser dolor. (Como ahora, cuando toda su carne me duele.) Puede ser esto. 0 dolor. Cuando ella huyo de mi hacia aquel bosque. 0 dolor, la mente espiral de plata giraba contra el sol, mas alto aun que el Dios imaginado por los viejos. 0 dolor. Y el otro. El si. (Dentro de sus libros, sus dedos. Son flores amarillas marchitas y nunca fueron hermosas.) El si. Tu diras, alma perdida, ’belleza. 1 Belleza, practicada, como el arbol. El rio lento. Un sol bianco en sus frases mojadas. 0, hombres frios en un temporal. Extasis. Carne o alma. El si (sus tunicas infladas al aire. Sus cop as vacias. Cantan a mis tobillos, no a los tuyos. Carne o alma, corrompidas por igual. Donde la respuesta es demasiado rapida. Donde el Dios es un ente, de verdad.) (49 Aire frio soplado a travds de estrechos ojos ciegos. Carne, bianco metal ardiente. Brilla como el dia con su sol. Es un amor humano, yo vivo dentro. Un esqueleto huesudo que tu reconoces como palabras o simple emocion. Pero no siente nada. Como el metal, es ardiente, no es, dado al amor. Quema la cosa dentro de el. Y aquella cosa grita. CALIBAN2 50 Edward Brathwaite 1 Ninety-five per cent of my people poor ninety-five per cent of my people black ninety-five per cent of my people dead you have heard it all before 0 Leviticus 0 Jeremiah 0 Jean-Paul Sartre and now I see that these modern palaces have grown out of the soil, out of the bad habits of their crippled owners the Chrysler stirs but does not produce cotton the Jupiter purrs but does not produce bread out of the living stone, out of the living bone of coral, these dead towers; out of the coney islands of our mind less architects, this death of sons, of songs, of sunshine; out of this dearth of coo ru coos, home less pigeons, this perturbation that does not signal health. In Havana that morning, as every morning, the police toured the gambling houses wearing their dark glasses and collected tribute; salute blackjack, salute backgammon, salute the one-armed bandit Vieux Fort and Andros Island, the Isle of Pines; the morals squadron fleeced the whores Mary and Mary Magdalene; newspapers spoke of Wall Street and the social set who was with who, what medals did the Consulate’s Assistant wear. The sky was cloudy, a strong breeze; maximum temperature eighty-two degrees. 2 from Edward Brathwaite, Rights of Passage (London: Oxford University Press, 1 96 7) . .51 It was December second, nineteen fifty-six. It was the first of August eighteen thirty-eight. It was the twelfth October fourteen ninety-two. How many bangs how many revolutions? 2 And Ban Ban Cal iban like to play pan at the Car nival ; pran cing up to the lim bo silence down down down so the god won’t drown him down down down to the is land town down down down and the dark ness fall ing; eyes shut tight and the whip light crawl- ing round the ship where his free dom drown down down down to the is- lan town. X 52 Ban Ban Cal iban like to play pan at the Car nival ; dip ping down and the black gods call ing, back he falls through the water's cries down down down where the music hides him down down down where the si lence lies. 3 And limbo stick is the silence in front of me limbo limbo limbo like me limbo limbo like me long dark night is the silence in front of me limbo limbo like me stick hit sound and the ship like it ready stick hit sound and the dark still steady ,"53 \ - - \ j limbo limbo like me long dark deck and the water surrounding me long dark deck and the silence is over me limbo limbo like me stick is the whip and the dark deck is slavery stick is the whip and the dark deck is slavery limbo limbo like me drum stick knock and the darkness is over me knees spread wide and the water is hiding me limbo limbo like me knees spread wide and the dark ground is under me down down down and the drummer is calling me limbo limbo like me sun coming up and the drummers are praising me out of the dark and the dumb gods are raising me up up up and the music is saving me slow on the burning ground. 55 CALIBAN Edward Brathwaite 1 Noventa y cinco por ciento de mi gente pobres noventa y cinco por ciento de mi gente negros noventa y cinco por ciento de mi gente muertos lo habeis oido todo antes 0 Levitico 0 Jeremias 0 Jean-Paul Sartre. Y ahora veo que estos palacios modernos han crecido* del suelo, de las malas costumbres de sus tullidos duehos el Chrysler gira pero no da algoddn el Jupiter ronronea pero no da pan de la piedra viva, del hueso vivo del coral, estas torres muertas; de los parques de atracciones de nuestros in- sensatos arquitectos, esta muerte de hijos, de sones, de sol; de este yermo de cu-ru-cus, de palomas sin- hogar, esta perturbacidn que no indica salud. En la Habana aquella manana, como cada manana, los policias visitaban los casinos con sus gafas oscuras recaudaban el tributo; salud veintiuno real, salud chaquete, salud bandido de-un-solo-brazo Vieux Fort e Isla de Andros, la Isla de Pinos; el escuadrdn de la moral tonsuraba a las prostitutas Maria y Maria Magdalena; los periodicos hablaban de Wall Street y del mundo de sociedad quidn se juntaba con quidn, qug medallas lucia el Asistente del Consulado. El cielo estaba nublado, la brisa fuerte; temperatura mdxima, veintiocho grados. Era el dos de diciembre de mil novecientos cincuenta y seis. Era el primero de agosto de mil ochocientos treinta. f 5 6 I . - abaj o abaj o a la ciu- dad de la isla. Ban Ban a Cal iban le gusta tocar el pan en el Car- naval ; su- mergidndose y los dioses negros 1 1 a- mandole, el cae en el lamento del agua hacia abajo abaj o aba j o donde la musica le esconde hacia abajo abajo abaj o donde el si- lencio se tumba. 3 Y el palo del limbo es el silencio enfrente mio limbo limbo limbo como yo 1 imbo limbo como yo la larga noche oscura es el silencio enfrente mio limbo limbo como yo el palo suena y el barco se prepara c5| Era el doce de octubre de mil cuatrocientos noventa y dos . iCuantos golpes cuantas revoluciones? Y Ban Ban a Cal iban le gusta tocar el pan^ en el Car- naval ; cabrio- lando al limbo en silencio hacia abajo abaj o abaj 0 asl el dios no le aho- ga hacia abajo abaj o abaj o a la ciu- dad de la isla hacia abajo abaj o abaj o y la oscuri- dad ca- yendo; ojos cerrados y el latigo claro ser- peando por el barco donde su li- bertad se ahog6 hacia abajo 3 en ingles significa cazuela, usada en el Carnaval a modo de tambor o instrumento de percusion I el palo suena y la oscuridad es constante limbo limbo como yo largo puente oscuto y el agua me rodea largo puente oscuro y el silencio me encubre limbo limbo como yo el palo es el l&tigo y el puente oscuro la esclavitud el palo es el Idtigo y el puente oscuro la esclavitud limbo limbo como yo el palo del tambor golpea y la oscuridad me encubre las rodillas separadas y el agua me esconde limbo limbo como yo las rodillas separadas y el suelo oscuro debajo hacia abajo abaj o abaj o y el tambor me llama limbo limbo como yo el sol sale y los tamborileros me invocan de la oscuridad los dioses tontos me levantan \5’ 9 hacia arriba arriba arriba y la musica me salva calido paso lento sobre la tierra ardiente. .60 FOLKWAYS4 Edward Brathwaite I am a fuck in’ negro, man, hole in my head, brains in my belly; black skin red eyes broad back big you know what:not very quick to take offence but once offended, watch that house you livin’ in an’ watch that lit tle sister. My puffy pink- faced sin ful palms are hands that hit hard, hold no futures. The precious life line readings there outline no ready fortunes. Just hard hands, man, spade hard and licensed with their blisters. I am a fuck in’ negro, man, hole in my head, brains in my belly; 4from Edward Brathwaite, Rights of" Passage CLondon: Oxford University Press , 1967). ,6 ! steel hits the rock and the broad blade shivers, eye sockets bulge and burn with the shock, sweat silvers the back until I feel bad, mother, I feel like the sick dog kicked from the garbage, the snicked hawk gripped in its tightening circle of air. This is the hate that makes my skin stink, gives me my body odour. And I feel bad, mother, I feel like a drum with a hole in its belly, and old horse lost at the hurdle. But don't touch me now,don't hold me; for the good God's sake, if you scheme- in' now to relieve me now, to sweet talk me now, to support me now, just forget it now, please forsake me now. Just watch me fall in the mud o' my dreams with my face in the cow- pen, down at heart, down at hope, down at heel. 66 2 But bes' leh we get to rass o' this place; out of this ass hole, out o' the stink o' this hell. To rass o' this work-song singin1 you singin' the chant o' this work chain gang, an* the blue bell o' this horn that is blowin' the Lou- eee Armstrong blues; keep them for Alan Lomax, man, for them swell folkways records, man, that does sell for two pounds ten. But get me out' a this place, you hear, where my dreams are wet as hell. ~E3| \ / COSTUMBRES TRADICIONALES5 Edward Brathwaite Soy un negro jo~ dido, compahero, en mi cabeza, un frueco, en ni barriga, el seso; piel negro ojos negros ancha espalda grande ya sabes que: no nuy rapido en ofenderme pero una vez ofendido, nigila la casa en que vives y vigila aquella chiquilla. Mis palnas hin- chadas t o - sadas son nanos que pecan que pegan fuerte, sin futuro. Las lineas de la nano no dicen fortunas seguras. Son s6 lo nanos duras, conpanero, ^ duras como espadas estampadas con ampollas Este tltulo posee una doble connotacidn: (1 ) costumbres tradicionales y (2) titulo de una serie discografica especializada en canciones folkldricas de origen etnico. ^hombre negro (en relacion con el as de espadas de la baraj a). <64 Soy un negro io- d ido, companero, en mi cabeza, un hueco, en mi barriga, el seso; el acero hiere la roca y el ancho cuchillo tirita, los ojos se me salen y arden con el sobre- salto, el sudor me azoga la espalda hasta que me siento mal, madre, me siento como el perro enfermo apartado a puntapies de la basura, el halcon cortado agarrado en su cxrculo de aire agobiante. Ese es el odio que hace apestar a mi piel, apestar a mi cuerpo. Y me siento mal, madre, me siento como un tambor con un hueco en su vientre, como un caballo viejo perdido frente a la valla. Pero no me toques ahora, no me abra- ces; por gracia de Dios, si inten- tas aliviarme ahora alentarme ahora ayudarme ahora, olvidate ahora, por favor desampara- me ahora. Mirame solo caer- me en el lodo de mis suenos con mi cara en el cor ral, mi corazon hundido, mi esperanza hundida, hundido '6 5 en mis tobillos. Pero es mejor salir fuera a rasear;? fuera de ese agujero de mierda de este infierno. A rasear g con este canto de trabajo que cantas el canto de esta cadena de presos, y el triste timbre de esta trompa que toca los blues de Louis Armstrong; guardatelos para Alan Lomax,9 companero, para ellos fenomenal discos de costumbres tradicionales, companero, que se venden a dos libras diez. Pero saca- me de este lugar, me oyes, donde mis suenos estan mojados como demonios. 7 rass: tirmino expletivo del lenguaje coloquial de dificil traduccidn. 8 worksong: cantos que se cantan para hacer el trabajo mas llevadero. 9 folklorista; colecciona cantos tradi cionales y populares. I AM THE EXILE10 [66 -’ Vy I am the exile am the wanderer the troubadour (whatever they say) gentle I am, and calm and with abstracted pace absorbed in planning, courteous to servility but waitings fill the chambers and in my head behind my quiet eyes I hear the cries and sirens Dennis Brutus of my heart 1 0 from Dennis Brutus, A Simple Lust. Collected Papers of South African Jail and Exile (New York: Hill and Wang, 1973). '67 SOY EL ETC ILADO Dennis Brutus Soy el exilado el caminante el trobador (digan lo que digan) apacible soy, y tranquilo de paso abstraido absorto en -mis planes cortds hasta ser servil mas los aposentos de mi corazdn se pueblan de gemidos y en mi cabeza detras de mis ojos quietos escucfio los gritos y sirenas 168 AND I AM DRIFTWOOD11 Dennis Brutus \ And I am driftwood on an Algerian beach along a Mediterranean shore and I am driftwood. Others may loll in their carnal pool washed by tides of sensual content in 'variable flow, by regulated plan but I am driftwood. And the tides devour, lusts erode the shelving consciousness fierce hungers shark at the submerged mind while the quotidian battering spray... Even the seabird questing weaving away and across the long blue rollers coasting from green shelves of shore-land and rock-tipped banks, even the seabird has a place of rest-- though it may vary by season or by tide and a mate brooding with swollen nares and puffed breast signalling nest-routes with tender secret cries though it vary by season or by tide. But I am driftwood by some white Algerian plage. And the riptides rip and tear erode, devour and unrest, questing, yeasts in my querying brain and I beat on the fierce savaging knowledge rampaging through my existence accepting the knowledge, seeking design. 11 from Dennis Brutus, A Simple Lust. Collected Poems of South African Jail and Exile (Wew York: HTll and Wang, 1973). ,69 For I am driftwood in a life and place and time thrown by some chance, perchance to an occasional use a rare half-pleasure on a seldom chance and I grate on the sand of being of existence, circumstance digging and dragging for a meaning dragging through the dirt and debris the refuse of existence dragging through the diurnal treadmill of my life. And still I am driftwood. Still the restlessness, the journeyings, the quest, the queryings, the hungers and the lusts. (Though we know how clouds gather and have weighed the moon, though we have erected and heaved ourselves in some vast orgasmic thrust to be unmundane and to trample the moon-- still the blind tides lunge and eddy, still we writhe on some undiscovered spit, coil in some whirlpool of undefinable tide) Yet in the unmarked waters I discern traceries of patterns like wisps of spume where I have gone and snailtrails in seasands on a hundred shores where I have dragged my sad unresting loins --tracks on a lunar landscape that suggest some sense-- And still I am driftwood on some sun-soaked plage. 7 7 0 Y SOY LEftO A LA DERIVA Dennis Brutus Y soy leno a la deriva en una playa de Algeria por una costa mediterranea y soy leno a la deriva Otros se recuestan en un remanso carnal banados por mareas de contento sensual de fluir variable, segun un plan regulado pero soy leno a la deriva. Y las mareas devoran, la lujuria se desgasta y desnivela hambres fieras tiburonean la mente sumergida mientras la golpeante espuma cotidiana... Aun el pajaro de mar acosante zigzagueando a lo lejos y a traves las largas olas azules que costean los verdes arrecifes de la playa y las riberas punteadas de rocas, aun el pajaro de mar tiene un paraje aunque varxe por estacion o marea y su pareja empollando con narinas infladas y el pecho hinchado le senala las rutas de los nidos con tiernas llamadas secretas aunque varie por estacion o marea. Pero soy leno a la deriva junto a una blanca playa de Algeria Y las mareas desgarran y rompen corroen, devoran y la inquietud asaltante, fermenta en mi interrogante mente y me bato contra el fiero y feroz saber alborotando mi existencia aceptando el saber, buscando una pauta (71 Pues soy leno a la deriva. en una -vida, lugar y ti empo arrojado por algdn azar, tal vez para unuso fortuito un semiplacer ocasional en un raro azar. Y escarbo en la arena del ser de la existencia, hurgo un acontecer y rastreo un sentido rastreo por el barro y los escombros una basura de existencia rastreo por la rutina diurna de mi vida. Y aun soy leno a la deriva. Aun la inquietud, los viajes, la busqueda, los acosos, las hambres y los apetitos. (Aunque sabemos c6mo se juntan las nubes y abruman la luna, aunque nos hemos erguido y alzado en algun vasto empuje orgdsmico para ser inmundanos y pisotear la luna” -- aun las ciegas mareas embisten y engarzan, adn nos doblega un escollo insospecbado, nos ovilla alguna vordgine de marea indefinible) Mas en las aguas sin descubrir descifro trazos de pautas como tiras de espumas en los lugares donde he ido y pasocaracoles en las nararenas de cien riberas donde arrastrd mis tristes e inquietos rinones --huellas en un paisaje lunar que sugieren algun sentido-- Y aun soy leno a la deriva en una playa empapada de sol. .? 1.2 ' ' ~ y AGBOR DANCER12 John Pepper Clark See her caught in the throb of a drum Tippling from hide-brimmed stem Down lineal 'veins to ancestral core, Opening out in her supple tan limbs Like fresh foliage in the sun. See how entangled in the magic maze of music In trance she treads the intricate pattern, Rippling crest after crest to meet The green clouds of the forest. Tremulous beats wake trenchant In heart a descant Tingling quick to her finger tips And toes virginal habits long Too atrophied for pen or tongue. Could I, early sequestered from my tribe, Free a lead-tethered scribe, I would answer her communal call, Lose myself in her warm caress Intervolving earth, sky and flesh. 1 2 from Langston Hughes, ed., Poems From Black Africa (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963). '•7-3 V , BAILARINA DE AGBOR John Pepper Clark Mirala atrapada en el latido de un tambor Soplando desde el tronco rebosante de cuero Hasta las renas descendentes al corazon ancestral, Abriendo sus flexibles y tostados miembfos Como follaje fresco bajo el sol. Mirala enmaranada en el laberinto magico de la musica en un trance trenzando intricados disenos, Ondulante cresta tras cresta hasta encontrar Las verdes nubes de la selva. Trdmulos latidos despiertan penetrantes Un contrapunto dentro de ella Estremeciendose hasta la punta de sus dedos Y sus pies largos hdbitos virginales Demasiado atrofiados para la pluma o el habla. Si yo, tempranamente secuestrado de mi tribu, Pudiera rescatar a un amanuense amaestrado, Responderia a su llamada comunal, Me perderla en su cdlida caricia Envolviendo tierra, cielo y cuerpo. 7’ 4 NOSTALGIE1 3 Ren§ Depestre Ce n ’est pas encore 1 *aube dans la^maison La nostalgie est couchie a mes cotes. Elle dort, elle reprend des forces, Ca fatigue beaucoup la compagnie D ’un negre rebelle et romantique. Elle a quinze ans, ou mille ans, Ou elle vient seulement de naitre Et c’est son premier sommeil Sous le leme toit que mon coeur. Depuis quinze ans ou depuis des siecles Je me leve sans pouvoir parler La langue de mon peuple, Sans le bonjour de ses dieux paiens Sans le gout de son pain de manioc Sans 1’odeur de son cafe de petit matin. Je me reveille loin de mes racines, Loin de mon enfance. Loin de ma propre vie. Depuis quinze ans ou depuis que mon sang Traversa^en pleurant la mer La premiere vie que je salue a mon rSveil C ’est cette inconnue au front tres pur Que deviendra un jour aveugle A force d’user ses yeux verts A compter les tresors que j’ai perdus. 13 from Lilyan Kesteloot, ed., Antologie negro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, po'Stes et dramaturgues noirs de XXierne siecle (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967). 7 5 n o s t a l g ia Rene Depestre Aun no ha amanecido en la casa La nostalgia estd tendida a mi lado. Duerme, re-fine fuerzas, Le cansa mucho la compahia De un negro rebelde y romdntico. La nostalgia tiene quince anos, o mil afios, 0 acaba solo de nacer Y es su primer sueno Bajo el mismo techo que mi corazon. Desde hace quince anos o desde hace siglos Me levanto sin poder hablar La lengua de mi pueblo, Sin el saludo de sus dioses paganos Sin el sabor de su pan de yuca Sin el olor de su caf§ de madrugada. Me despierto lejos de mis raices, Lejos de mi infancia, Lejos de mi propia vida. Desde hace quince anos o desde que mi sangre Llorando atravesd el mar La primera vida que saludo al despertar Es esta desconocida de frente pura Que un dia se volverd ciega De tanto usar sus ojos verdes Para contar mis tesoros perdidos. 7 6 MIDDLE PASSAGE1 4 Robert Hayden i Jesus, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy: Sails flashing to the wind like weapons, sharks following the moans the fever and the dying; horror the corposant and compass-rose. Middle Passage: voyage through death to life upon these shores. '10 April 1800-- Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says their moaning is a prayer for death, ours and their own. Some try to starve themselves. Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under.’ Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann: Standing to America, bringing home black gold, black ivory, black seed. Deep in the "festering hold thy father lies, of his bones New England pews are made" those are altar lights that were his eyes. Jesus Saviour Pilot Me Over Life’s Tempestuous Sea We pray that Thou wilt grant, o Lord, safe passage to our vessels bringing heathen souls unto Thy chastening. Jesus Saviour 1 4 from Paul Bremen, ed., You Better Believe it: Black Verse in Englishf(Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1973). " 1$ ! 8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick with fear, but writing eases fear a little since still my eyes can see these words take shape upon the page 8 so I write, as one would turn to exorcism 4 days scudding, but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning tutelary gods). Which one of us has killed an.albatross? A plague among our blacks--Ophthalmia: blindness--^ we have jettisoned the blind to no avail. It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads. Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes 8 there is blindness in the fo'c'sle 8 we must sail 3 weeks before we come to port.' What port awaits ttsV Davy Jones* or home? I’ve heard of slavers drifting, drifting, playthings Of wind and storm and chance, their crews gone blind, the" jungle hatred c r a wl i n g up' on d e'ckT ’ Thou Who Walked On Galilee ’Deponent further sayeth the Bella J left the Guinea Coast with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd for the barracoons of Florida: 'that there was hardly room 'tween-decks for half the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there; that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh and sucked the blood: 'that Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins; and there was one they called the Guinea Rose and they cast lots and fought to lie with her: 'that when the Bo's'n piped all hands, the flames spreading from starboard already were beyond control, the negroes howling and their chains entangled with the flames: 'that the burning blacks could not be reached, that the crew abandoned ship, leaving their shrieking negresses behind; that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches: 'further Deponent sayeth not.' Pilot 0 Pilot Me ii Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories, Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar; have watched the artful mongos baiting traps of war wherein the victor and the vanquished were caught as prizes for our Darrocoons. Have seen the nigger kings whose vanity and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah, Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us. And there was one--King Anthracite we named hira-- fetish face beneath French parasols of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth whose cups were carven skulls of enemies: he'd honor us with drum and feast and conjo and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love, and for tin crowns that shone with paste, red calico and German-silver trinkets would have the drums talk war and send his warriors to burn the sleeping villages and kill the sick and old and lead the young in coffles to our factories. Twenty years a trader, twenty years, for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested from those black fields, and I'd be trading still but for the fevers melting down my bones. iii Shuttles in the rocking loom of history, the dark ships move, the dark ships move, their bright ironical names like jests of kindness on a murderer's mouth; plough through thrashing glister toward fata morgana's lucent melting shore, weave toward New World littorals that are mirage and myth and actual shore. (79 Voyage through death, voyage whose chartings are unlove. A charnel stench, effluvium of living death, spreads outward from the hold, where the living and the dead, the horribly dying, lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement. Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, the corpse of mercy rots with him, rats eat love * s rotten gelid eyes. But oh the living look .at you with human eyes whose suffering accuses you, whose hatred reaches through the swill of dark to strike you like a leper's claw. You cannot stare that hatred down or chain the fear that stalks the watches and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath; cannot kill the deep immortal human wish, the timeless will. 'But for the storm that flung up barriers of wind and wave, the Amistad, senores, would have reached the port of Principe in two, three days at most; but for the storm we should have been prepared for what befell. Swift as the puma's leap it came. There was that interval of moonless calm filled only with the water's and the rigging's usual sounds, then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries and they had fallen on us with machete and marlin-spike. It was as though the very air, the night itself were striking us. Exhausted by the rigors of the storm, we were no match for them. Our men went down before the murderous Africans. Our loyal Celestino ran from below with gun and lantern and I saw, before the cane- knife’s wounding flash, Cinquez, that surly brute who calls himself a prince, directing, urging on the ghastly work. He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then he turned on me. The decks were slippery when daylight finally came. It sickens me to think of what I saw, of how these apes threw overboard the butchered bodies of our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam. Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told: -8C Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us you see to steer the ship to Africa, and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea sailed east by day and west by night, deceiving them, hoping for rescue, prisoners on our own vessel, till at length we drifted to the shores of this your land, America, where we were freed from our unspeakable misery. Now we demand, good sirs, the extradition of Cinquez and his accomplices to La Havana, And it distresses us to know there are so many here who seem inclined to justify the mutiny of these blacks, Fe find it paradoxical indeed that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty are rooted in the labor of your slaves should suffer the august John Quincy Adams to speak with so much passion of the right of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero's garland for Cinquez. I tell you that we are determined to return to Cuba with our slaves and there see justice done. Cinquez-- or let us say "the Prince"--shall die.' The deep immortal human wish,- the timeless will: Cinquez its deathless primaveral image, life that transfigures many lives, Voyage through death to life upon these shores. 81 TRAVESIA DEL MEDIO1 5 Robery Hayden i Jesus,' Estrella, Esporanza, Merced: Velas destellando al viento corao armas, tiburones siguiendo a los moribundos, los gemidos y la fiebre; horror al Fuego de San Telmo y la rosa de los vientos. Travesia del Medio: viaje por la muerte hacia la vida en estas orillas. ’ 1 0 de abril de 1800-- Negros rebeldes. Tribulacion inquieta. Nuestro linguista dice que sus gemidos son un rezb pidiendo la muerte, la nuestra y la suya. Algunos tratan de morirse de hambre. Perdimos esta manana a tres que con loca sonrisa brincaron hacia los tiburones al acecho, cantando mientras desapare- cian. Deseo, Aventura, Tartaro, Ana: De pie ante America, trayendo a casa oro negro, marfil negro, semillas negras. Abajo en la bodega iriflamada yace tu padre, con sus hue so s hic ieron 'banc'o's' de iglesia en Nueva Inglaterra lo que fueron sus oj-os son hoy luces de altar Jesds Salvador Conduce Me Por el Mar Tempestuoso de la Vida 1 5 Se refiere al recorrido triangular del barco negrero: Europa, Africa, America; la "Travesia del Medio” era el viaje durante el cual los esclavos eran transportados al Nuevo Mundo. a Rogamos que Tu nos concedas, Senor, un aeceso seguro a las naves que llevan a las almas paganas a Tu disciplina. Jesds Salvador f 8 campanas. No puedo dormir, pues estoy enfermo de miedo, pero escribir calma un poco mi miedo pues mis ojos pueden aun ver las palabras formarse sobre la pdgina § por eso escribo, como si uno recorriera a un exorcismo. 4 dias con viento en pop a, pero ahora el mar se ha calmado de nuevo. El infortunio nos persigue en la vigilia como,los tiburones (nuestros burlones dioses tutelares). iQuien de nosotros ha matado un albatros? Una plaga entre nuestros negros--Oftalmia: ceguera--^ hemos arrojado los ciegos al mar sin ningun provecho. La aterradora enfermedad se extiende, se extiende. Sus garras han aranado los ojos del Capitcln § hay ceguera en el castillo de proa 5 debemos navegar tres semanas antes de llegar a puerto. 1 6'Qu§ puerto nos espera, David Jones ^ ^ o huestro hogar? He sabido de barCos negreros a la deriva, juguetes del viento y la tormenta y la suerte, con sus tripulaciqnes ciegas, el odio de la jungla arrastr^ndose hacia cubierta. Tu Que Caminaste Por Galilea 'El declarante dijo adem&s que el Bella J abandono la costa de Guinea con un cargamento de quinientos y pico de negros hacia los barracones de Florida: 'que no habia casi espacio entre cubiertas ni para la mitad de la achicharrada manada hacinada como cucharas; que algunos enloquecieron de sed y se arrancaban su carne y sorbian su sangre: 16 David Jones: la muerte .8 3 ’que la Tripulacion y e l Capitan codiciaban a las mas hermosas de las muchachas salvaj es retenidas desnudas en las cabinas; que habia una llamada la Rosa de Guinea y que se echaron a suertes y pelearon para acostarse con ella: ’que cuando el Bo's’n silbo a toda pastilia, las llamas extendi^ndose desde estribor estaban ya fuera de control, los negros aullaban y sus cadenas se enredaban con las llamas: ’que no se pudo llegar hasta los negros abrasados, que la tripulacion abandonaba el barco, dejando atrds a las negras chillando; que el Capitan murio borracho con las mozuelas: ’El Declarante no dice nada mas.'' Conduce 0 Conduce Me ii Si, muchacho, he visto aquellas fa.bricas en Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar; he visto a los astutos traficantes aprovecharse de una guerra en que vencedores y vencidos eran atrapados para presas de nuestros barracones. He visto a los reyezuelos negros cuya vanidad y avaricia hizo que los salvajes pellejos negros de Fellatah, Mandingo, Ibo, Kru nos reportaran oro. Y habia uno--Rey Antracita le llamabamos-- con cara de fetiche bajo sombrillas francesas de latdn y terciopelo naranja, y de boca impudica cuyas copas estaban talladas con los craneos de enemigos: nos honraba con tambores y fiestas y conjo y negras relucientes de aceite de palmera diestras en el amor, y a cambio de coronas de hojalata que brillaban con engrudo, percal roio v chucherias de plata alemana_______________ S' 4 estaba dispuesto a que los tambores llamaran a guerra y a mandar a sus guerreros quemar los pueblos adormecidos y matar a enf ermos y viej os y enviar a los j 6venes encadenados para nuestras fabricas. Veinte anos traficando, veinte anos, pues habia muchisima riqueza para cosechar en los campos negros, y traficaria aun hoy a no ser por las fiebres que me consumen hasta las rodillas. iii Lanzaderas en el vacilante telar de la historia, los barcos oscuros se mueven, los barcos oscuros se mueven con sus rutilantes nombres irdnicos como burlas afectuosas en la boca de un criminal; por las trillas centellean los arados hacia la reluciente disolvente orilla de fata morgana, serpentean hacia los litorales del Nuevo Mundo que son espejismo y mito y orilla de verdad. Viaje a travSs de la muerte, viaje cuyos mapas no son apreciados. Un tufo de huesos, efluvios de muerte viviente, se extiende hacia afuera desde la bodega donde los vivos y muertos y los moribundos horribles yacen entrelazados, yacen sucios de sangre y excremento. Abajo en la bodega inflamada yace tu padre, el cadaver de la merced se pudre con el, TaJs rafas se comen los gelidos y putrefactos ojos je- } _ amor" . Pero o los que viven te miran con ojos humanos cuyo sufrimiento te acusa cuyo odio te llega a traves de la basura de oscuridad para agarrarte como la garra de un leproso. <85, No puedes hacerles bajar la mirada de odio ni encadenar el miedo que acecha a los guardas y sopla sobre ti su abrasante y fetido aliento; no se puede matar el hondo inmortal deseo humano, la voluntad eterna. ’A no ser por la tormenta que derribd barreras de viento y olas, El Amistad, senores, habria arrivado a puerto Principe en dos, tres dias a lo mas; a no ser por la tormenta hubidramos estado preparados para lo que acontecid. Llegd rdpido como el brinco de puma. Hubo aquel intervalo de calma sin luna cubierto solo con los ruidos acostumbrados del agua y las maniobras luego un movimiento sbbito, golpes y gritos de rina y cayeron sobre nosotros con machetes y pasadores. Fu§ como si el aire mismo, la nocbe misma nos estuvieran golpeando. E^chaustos por los rigores de la tormenta no pudimos con ellos. Nuestros hombres sucumbieron ante los asesinos africanos. Nuestro leal Celestino corrid desde abajo con pistola y linterna y vi, antes del hiriente destello del cuchillo de cana, a Cinquez, aquel tosco salvaje que se autodenomina principe, dirigiendo, incitando la espantosa accion, Macheted al pobre mulato y luego se volvid hacia mi. Las cubiertas estaban resbaladizas cuando finalmente amanecio. Me enferia pensar en lo que vi, cdmo esos monos tiraron por la borda los cuerpos troceados de nuestros hombres, todos ellos cristianos, como carga echada al mar. Basta, basta. El resto estd dicho rdpido: Cinquez no tuvo mas remedio que usar clemencia para nosotros dos para que timonearamos el barco rumbo a Africa, y como fantasmas condenados a errar por el mar navegabamos hacia el este durante el dia y hacia el oeste por la noche, enganandoles, esperando rescate, prisioneros en nuestra propia nave, hasta que al fin fuimos arrastrados por la corriente hasta las costas de esta tierra vuestra, Amdrica, donde fuimos liberados de nuestra inenarrable miseria. Ahora, amables caballeros, exigimos la extradicion a la Habana de Cinquez y sus complices. Y nos entristece saber que hay tantos aqul que parecen inclinados 86 a justificar la sublevacidn de estos negros. Encontramos paraddjico en efeeto que ustedes que deben su riqueza, su arbol de la 1ibertad al trabaj o de sus esclavos deban tolerar al augusto John Quincy Adams hablar con tanta pasion del derecho de los esclavos a matar a sus amos legales y con su retbrica romana teja Quincy una guirnalda de hbroe para Cinquez. Les decimos que estamos decididos a volver a Cuba con nuestros esclavos y alii ver que se haga justicia. Cinquez-- o digamos ME1 Principe”--Cinquez deberia morir.’ El hondo inmortal deseo humano, la voluntad eterna: La primaveral imagen inmortal de Cinquez, vida que transfigura a muchas vidas. Viaje a travds de la muerte hacia la vida en estas orillas. • 8 7 SAME IN BLUES17 Langston Hughes I said to my baby, Baby, take it slow. I can* t, she said, I can't! I got to go! There * s a cert ain amount of traveling in a dream deferred'. Lulu said to Leonard, I want a diamond ring. Leonard said to Lulu, You won’t get a goddamn thing! A certain ■ amount of nothing 'in a dream deferred. Daddy, daddy, daddy, All I want is you. You can have me, baby-- but my lovin* days is through. A certain amount of impotence in a dream deferred. Three parties On my party line-- But that third party, Lord, ain’t mine! 17 from Abraham Chapman, ed., An Anthology of Contemporary Afro-American Literature (New York: New American Library, 1968). 8 8 IGUAL EN BLUES Langston Hughes Le dije a mi nina, Nina, calmate, iNo puedo, ella dijo, no puedo! ]Voy a irme! Hay una cierta dosis de viaj e en un sue no' sin porvcnir Lulu dijo a Leonard, Quiero un anillo de brillantes. Leonard dijo a Lulu, ]No esperes conseguir nada! Una cierta dosis de nada en un sueno sin porvenir. Papacito, papacito, Tu eres todo lo que quiero. Puedes tenerme, mi nina-- Pero mis dias de amor se fueron. Una cierta dosis de impotencia en un sueno sin porvenir. Hay tres voces En mi linea-- Pero la tercera voz, iDios, no es mia! 8 c THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS18 for W.E.B DuBois Langston Hughes I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. 1 8 from Langston Hughes, Selected Poems (New York: Knopf, 1965). ;9 0 EL NEGRO HABLA DE RIOS para W .E .B . DuBois Langston Hughes He conocido rios: He conocido rios anc ianos como el mundo y mds viejos que el f luir de la sangre humana en las venas humanas. Mi alma ha crecido honda como los rios. Me ban6 en el Eufrates cuando las auroras eran j6venes. Construi mi cabana cerca del Congo que me arrullo hasta dormirmc. Me acerqu§ al Nilo y levant^ las pirdmides sohre 61. 01 el cantar del Misisipi cuando Abe Lincoln bajo a New Orleans, y he visto su enlodado regazo volverse todo oro a la puesta del sol. He conocido rios: rios ancianos, oscuros. Mi alma ha crecido honda como los rios. ■ 91 OUTCAST19 Claude McKay For the dim regions whence my fathers came My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs. Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame; My sould would sing forgotten jungle songs. I would go back to darkness and to peace, But the great western world holds me in fee, And I may never hope for full release While to its alien gods I bend my knee. Something in me is lost, forever lost, Some vital thing has gone out of my heart, And I must walk the way of life a ghost Among the sons of earth, a thing apart. For I was born, far from my native clime, Under the white man’s menace, out of time. 1 9 from Claude McKay, Selected Poems (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1953) . ',.92 DESTERRADO Claude "McKay ' Mi esplritu, esclavizado por mi cucrpo, anhela Las regiones tenebrosas de mis antepasados. Palahras sentidaa, irunca oidas-, mis lablos quisieran formar, Mi alma sacar del olvido los cantos de la selva. Volverla a la oscuridad y la paz, Mas el gran mundo del oeste me tiene sobornado, Y jamds puedo as-pirar a la libertad Si ante sus dioses ajenos.me arrodillo. Algo en ml estd perdido, perdido para siempre, De mi corazSn algo vital se ha ido, Y sombra he de andar por la vida Una cosa aparte, entre los hijos de la tierra. Pues yo naci lejos de mi patria, Bajo la amenaza del bianco, fuera de tiempo. 93 THE CASTAWAYS20 Claude McKay The vivid grass with visible delight Springing triumphant from the pregnant earth, The butterflies, and sparrows in brief flight Dancing and chirping for the season’s birth, The dandelions and.rare daffodils That touch the deep-stirred heart with hands of gold, The thrushes sending forth their joyous thrills',-- Not these, not these did I at first behold! But seated on the benches daubed with green, The castaways of life, a few asleep, Some withered women desolate and mean, And over all, life's: shadows dark and deep. Moaning I turned away, for misery I have the strength to bear but not to see. 20 from Claude McKay, Selected Poems (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1953). 94 LOS RECHAZADOS Claude McKay La hierba resplandece con visible deleite Y brota triunfante de la prenada tierra, Las mariposas y gorriones en breve vuelo Bailan y celebran la nueva estacidn, Los dientes de leon y los delicados narcisos Con brazos de oro eonmueven el inquieto corazdn, Los tordos exhalan sus alegres trinos ,-- jNo a ellos, no a ellos, contempld primero! Sino, sentados en los bancos manchados de verde, A los rechazados por la Vida, algunos dormidos, Mujeres marchitas, solitarias y abatidas, Y a las oscuxas y hondas sombras de la vida. Afligido me a l e , pues la xniseria Soportarla puedo, mas no verla. THE HARLEM DANCER21 Claude McKay Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes Blown by black players upon a picnic day. She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, The light gauze hanging loose about her form; To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise, The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze; But looking at her falsely-smiling face, I knew her self was not in that strange place. 2 1 from Claude McKay, Selected Poems (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1953). -.96 LA BAILARINA DE HARLEM Claude McKay Aplaudiendo los muchachos reian con prostitutas jovenes Y miraban su perfecto cuerpo ondear medio-desnudo; Su voz era sonido de combinadas flautas Sopladas por musicos negros en un dla de campo. Cantaba y bailaba con gracia y con calma, Suelta colgaba la gasa ligera sobre su figura; Me parecla a ml una palmera moviendose altiva Que por la tormenta mas bella crecib. Exuberantes calan por su cuello moreno Los negros y lustrosos rizos; elogiosos, arrojaban monedas Los impudentes y ebrios muchachos, y abn las muchachas, Devoraban su figura con intensa y bvida mirada; Mas al mirar su. faz de sonrisa falsa Supe que ella no estaba en aquel lugar extrano. 9T PIANO AND DRUMS22 Gabriel Okara When at break of day at a riverside I hear jungle drums telegraphing the mystic rhythm, urgent, raw like bleeding flesh, speaking of primal youth and the beginning, I see the panther ready to pounce, the leopard snarling about to leap and the hunters crouch with spears poised; And my blood ripples, turns torrent, topples the years and at once I'm in my mother's lap a suckling; at once I'm walking simple paths with no innovations, rugged, fashioned with the naked warmth of hurrying feet and groping hearts in green leaves and wild flowers pulsing. Then I hear a wailing piano solo speaking of complex ways in tear sowed concerto; of faraway lands and new horizons with coaxing diminuendo, counterpoint, crescendo. But lost in the labyrinth of its complexities, it ends in the middle of a phrase at a daggerpoint. And I, lost in the morning mist of an age at a riverside, keep wandering in the mystic rhythm of jungle drums and the concerto. 7 from Langston Hughes, ed., Poems from Black Africa (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963). ;9 8 PIANO Y TAMBORES Gabriel Okara Cuando al amanecer en la ribera Oigo los tambores de la jungla telegrafiando el ritmo mistico, urgente, crudo como carne sangrante hablandonos de la juventud original y del principio, veo la.pantera a punto de saltar, el leopardo grunente casi brincando y a los cazadores agachados con lanzas apuntadas; Y mi sangre se agita, se vuelve torrente, retrocede en el tiempo y en seguida estoy en el regazo.de mi madre; en seguida camino por simples senderos sin innovaciones, escarpados, moldeados por el desnudo vigor de pies apresurados y corazones a tientas entre hojas verdes y vibrantes flores selvaticas. Luego oigo el lamento de un solo de piano habldndome de complejos estilos en un concierto surcado de lagrimas; de lejanos paises y horizontes nuevos con el adulante diminuendo, contrapunto, crescendo. Pero perdido en el laberinto de su complejidad, termina cual punal en medio de una frase. Y yo, perdido en la bruma matinal de una gpoca junto a la ribera, sigo errante entre el ritmo mistico de los tambores de la jungla y el concierto. I AM THE ARCHIPELAGO23 Eric M. Roach I am the archipelago hope Would mould into dominion; each hot green island Buffetted, broken by the press of tides And all the tales come mocking me Out of the slave plantations where I grubbed Yam and cane; where heat and hate sprawled, down Among the cane--my sister sired without Love or law. In that gross bed was bred The third estate of colour. And now My language, history and my names are dead And buried with my tribal soul. And now I drown in the groundswell of poverty No love will qUell. I am the shanty town, Banana, sugarcane and cotton man; Economies are soldered with my sweat Here, everywhere; in hate’s dominion; In Congo, Kenya, in free, unfree America. I herd in my divided skin Under a monomaniac sullen sun Disnomia deep in artery and marrow. I burn the tropic texture from my hair; Marry the mongrel woman or the white; Let my black spinster sisters tend the church, Earn meagre wages, mate illegally, Breed secret bastards, murder them in womb; Their fate is written in unwritten law, The vogue of colour hardened into custom In the tradition of the slave plantation. The cock, the totem of his craft, his luck, The obeahman infects me to my heart Although I wear my Jesus on my breast And burn a holy candle for my saint. I am a shaker and a shouter and a myal man; My voodoo passion swings sweet chariots low. 2 3 from Paul Bremen, ed., You Better Believe It: Black Verse in English (Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1 973) . 1 0 , 0 My manhood died on the imperial wheels That bound and ground too many generations; From pain the terror and ignominy I cower in the island of my skin, The hot unhappy jungle of my spirit Broken by my haunting foe my fear, The jackal after centuries of subjection. But now the intellect must outrun time Out of my lost, through all man’s future years, Challenging Atalanta for my life, To die or live a man in history, My totem also on the human earth. 0 drummers, fall to silence in my blood You thrum against the moon; break up the rhetoric Of these poems I must speak. 0 seas, 0 Trades, drive wrath from destinations. 101 • SOY EL ARCHIPIELAGO Eric M. Roach Soy el archipielago que espera Amoldarse a una potencia; cada isla verde y calurosa Abofeteada, rota por la presion de la marea Y vienen las historias burlandose de mi Desde las plantaciones de esclavos donde arranque Boniatos y azucar; donde el calor y el odio se desparramaron Entre el azucar--mi hermana pario Sin amor ni ley. En aquella cama tosca fu§ engendrado El tercer tipo de color. Y ahora Mi lengua, mi historia y mis nombres estan muertos Y enterrados con mi alma tribal. Y ahora Me ahogo en una tierra hinchada de pobreza Que ningdn amor mitigard. Soy el barrio bajo El hombre de la banana, de la caha de azucar y del algodon; Las economias quedan soldadas con mi sudor Aqui y en todas partes; bajo el dominio del odio; En el Congo, en Kenya, en la libre, no-libre America. Voy en manada en mi piel dividida Bajo un adusto y monomaniaco sol Y profunda disnomia en mis arterias y medula. Quemo la textura del tropico desde mi pelo; Me caso con la mestiza o con la blanca; Dejo que mis hermanas negras solteronas atiendan la iglesia, Ganen salarios escasos, se apareen ilegalmente, Engendren bastardos secretos, los asesinen en sus entranas; Su destino esta escrito en una ley no-escrita, La boga del color se convirtio en costumbre Segun la tradicion de la plantacion de esclavos. El gallo, el totem de su gremio, su suerte, El obiman^ me infecta hasta adentro Aunque llevo en mi pecho a mi Jesus Y quemo velas sagradas a mi santo.r Grito y tiemblo y soy un myal man Mi pasion del vudu balancea dulces carrozas bajas. ^termino de origen africano; un hechicero. 2 5 termino de origen africano; un hombre investido de poderes especiales. io2 Mi hombria murio bajo las ruedas imperiales Que ataron y encallaron a demasiadas generaciones; De la pena, el terror y el ignominio Me protego encogido en la isla de mi piel, La infeliz y calurosa jungla de mi espiritu Abatida por mi acosante enemigo, mi miedo, El jacal despuds de siglos de sumisidn. Pero ahora el intelecto debe superar el tiempo Desde mi confusion, durante los anos futuros del hombre, Desafiando a Atalanta por mi vida, Morir o vivir coio un hombre dentro de la historia, Y tambidn mi totem sobre la tierra humana. Oh tamborileros, acallaros en mi sangre Pues golpeais contra la luna; acabad con la retorica De estos poemas que debo decir. Oh mares, Oh vientos, arrojad la ira de nuestros destinos. 103 TELEPHONE CONVERSATION26 Wole Soyinka The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived Off premises. Nothing remained But self-confession. "Madam," I warned, "I hate a wasted journey--I am African." Silence. Silenced transmission of Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came, Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully. "HOW DARK?" ...I had not misheard. ..."ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak. Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed By ill-mannered silence, surrender Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification. Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-- "ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came. "You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?" Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted, I chose. "West African sepia" --and as afterthought, "Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding "DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like Brunette." "THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether. Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused-- foolishly madam--by sitting down, has turned My bottom raven black--One moment madam!" --sensing Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather See for yourself?" from Gerald Moore and Ulli Bier, eds., Modern Poetry from Africa (London: Penguin, 1968). 1-04 N » • ’ - 1 CONVERSACION TELEFONICA Wole Soyinka El precio parecia razonable, el lugar Mediocre. La patrona aseguraba no vivir en el edificio. Ya solo quedaba la autocon£esi6n. "Senora," le adverti "Odio un viaje en vano--Soy Africano." Silencio. Transmisidn silenciosa de buena crianza puesta a prueba. A1 fin, la voz llego empastada de carmin y ajustada con boquilla de largos cigarrillos dorados. Estaba atrapado, y mucho. "iCUAN OSCURO?" ...No habia oxdo mal. ..."iES USTED CLARO 0 MUY OSCURO?" Boton B. Boton A. Hedor de aire rancio de telgfonos publicos. Cabina roja. Caja de soporte roja. Omnibus rojo de dos pisos despachurrando alquitran. j Era real I Avergonzado por mi silencio de mal gusto, aturdido, renuncio, imploro una simplificacion. Considerada, lo era, variando el enfasis-- "iES USTED OSCURO? 10 MUY CLARO?" La revelacion llego. "iQuiere decir--como chocolate sin leche o con leche?" Su aprobacion sono clinica, aplastante por lo impersonal. Rapidamente, ajustandome a su tono, me decidi. "Sepia de Africa occidental" --y repensandome, "Consta en mi pasaporte.” Silencio originado por mi ocurrente fantasia, hasta que el parecido endurecio su acento. "iQUE ES ESO?" cedio, "NO SE LO QUE ES ESO." "No del todo. De cara, soy moreno, pero senora, deberia usted ver el resto de mi persona. Las palmas de mi mano, las suelas de mis pies son de un rubio peroxido. La friccion, causada-- tontamente, senora--al estar sentado, ha cambiado mi trasero en negro cuervo--Un momento, senora!" notando por la tronada en mis oidos que su receptor se enfurecia--"Senora," insisti, "£no quisiera me j or verlo por si misma?" from ANOTHER LIFE27 10 5 Derek Walcott About the August of my fourteenth year I lost my self somewhere above a valley owned by a spinster-farmer, my dead father's friend. At the hill's edge there was a scarp with bushes and boulders stuck in its side. Afternoon light ripened the valley, rifling smoke climbed from small labourers' houses, and I dissolved into a trance. I was seized by a pity more profound than my young body could bear, I climbed with the labouring smoke, I drowned in labouring breakers of bright cloud, then uncontrollably I began to weep, inwardly, without tears, with a serene extinction of all sense; I felt compelled to kneel, I wept for nothing and for everything, I wept for the earth of the hill under my knees, for the grass, the pebbles, for the cooking smoke above the labourers' houses like a cry, for unheard avalanches of white cloud, for "darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting." For their lights still shine through the hovels like 1itmus, the smoking lamp still slowly says its prayer, the poor still move behind their tinted scrim, the taste of water is still shared everywhere, but in that ship of night, locked in together, through which, like chains, a little light might leak, something still fastens us forever to the poor. But which was the true light? Blare noon or twilight, "the lonely light that Samuel Palmer engraved," or the cold iron entering the soul, as the soul sank out of belief. 2 7 from Derek Walcott, Another Life (New York: Farrar, Strauss § Giroux, 1973). <TD6 de OTRA VIDA Derek Walcott Hacia agosto de mis catorce anos me perdi en alguna parte mas allci. de un valle propiedad de una granjera solterona, amiga de mi padre muerto. A1 final de la colina habla una pendiente con matorrales y cantos adheridos. La luz de la tarde maduraba el valle, el humo estriado se elevaba de las casas de los campe- sinos, y me disolvi en un trance. Fui embargado por una piedad mas profunda de lo que mi joven cuerpo podia soportar, me eleve con el humo de los campos, y me ahogud en los penosos escollos de nubes flamantes, luego incontroladamente me puse a llorar, por dentro, sin lagrimas, con una extincion serena de todos los sentidos; me senti impelido a arrodi- llarme, llore por nada y por todo, llore por la tierra de la colina bajo mis rodillas, por la hierba, los guijarros, el humo del hogar que se elevaba como un llanto de las casas de los cam- pesinos, por las silenciosas avalanchas de nube blanca, pero "cuanto mds oscuro el valle, mas y mas olvido." Pues sus luces aun brillan como tornasoles a traves de las chozas, la lampara humeante aun dice su rezo lentamente, los pobres aun van y vienen detras de sus destenidos andraj os, por todas partes es aun el sabor del agua compartido, pero, apresados en aquel barco de la noche por el que, como cadenas, puede filtrarse una pequena luz , algo nos ata aun para siempre a los pobres. iPero cual era la verdadera luz? El mediodia estruendoso o la medianoche, "la solitaria luz que esculpio Samuel Palmer," o el frio hierro penetrando el alma, mientras el alma se hundia incredula. ToTl CHAPTER III IMAGES OF AFRICA .108 AFRIQUE1 Carl Brouard Tes enfants perdus t’envoient le salut, maternelle Afrique. Des Antilles aux Bermudes, et des Bermudes aux Etats-Unis, ils soupirent apres toi. Ils songent aux baobabs, aux gommiers bleus pleins du vol des toucans. Dans la nuit de leurs reves, Tombouctou est un onyx mys- t6rieux, un diamant noir, Abomey, ou Gao. Les guerriers du Bornou sont partis pour le pays des choses mortes. L rempire du Manding est tombb comme une feuille seche. Et partout la misere, la douleur, la mort. Dans quel lieu n !egrenent-ils pas 1’interminable rosaire de leurs miseres? . "Les fils paient la faute des peres jusqu'a la qua- trie’ me g§n§ration", as-tu dit, Seigneur. Cependant la malediction des fils de Cham dure encore! Jusques "a quand, Eternel? Consolation des affligSs, elixir des souffrants, source des assoiffes, sommeil des dormants, myst€rieux tambour negre, berce les Chamites nostalgiques, endors leurs souffrances immemoriales! i from Lilyan Kesteloot, ed. Antologie negro- v africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs du XXieme sieble (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967). ll09 AFRICA Carl Brouard Tus hijos extraviados te mandan un saludo, Africa maternal. De las Antillas a las Bermudas y de las Bermudas a los Estados Unidos, suspiran por tl. Suenan en los boababs, en los gomeros azules cargados del vuelo de los tucanes. En la noche de sus suenos Tumbuctu es un onix misterioso, un diamante negro, Abomey o Gao. Los guerreros de Bornou se han ido al pals de las cosas muertas. El imperio de Mandingo ha caldo como una hoja seca. Y por todas partes la miseria, el dolor, la muerte. iEn que lugar no desgranan el interminable rosario de sus miserias? "Los hijos pagan por las faltas de sus padres hasta la cuarta generacion" has dicho, Senor. Sin embargo la malediccion de los hijos de Cham dura aun. iHasta cuando, Padre Eterno? Consolacidn de los afligidos, elixir de los sufrientes, fuente de los que tienen sed, sueno de los durmientes, misterioso tambor negro, acuna a los Chamitas nostal- gicos, adormece sus sufrimientos inmemoriales. ttut AFRICA’S PLEA2 Roland Tombekai Dempster I am not you-- but you will not give me a chance, will not let me be me. "If I were you’’-- but you know I am not you, yet you will not let me be me. You meddle, interfere in my affairs as if they were yours and you were me. You are unfair, unwise, foolish to think that I can be you, talk, act and think like you. God made me me. He made you you. For God’s sake Let me be me. 2 from Langston Hughes, ed., Poems from Black Africa (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963) . Ill w*.. SUPLICA DE AFRICA Roland Tombekai Dempster Yo no soy tu-- pero tu no me dards la oportunidad de que yo sea yo. "Si yo fuera td"-- pero tu sabes que yo no soy tu y aun asi no me dejas que yo sea yo. Te entrometes, te interfieres en mis asuntos como si fueran tuyos y tu fueras yo. Eres injusto, ignorante, bobo de pensar que yo pueda ser tu, hablar, actuar y pensar como tu. Dios me hizo a ml mi Te hizo a tx t_i Por Dios Dejame ser mi mismo. AFRIQUE3 David Diop Afrique mon Afrique Afrique des fiers guerriers dans les savanes ancestrales ^ Afrique que chante ma grand-mere Au bord de son fleuve lointain Je ne t ’ai jamais connue Mais mon regard est plein de ton sang Ton beau sang noir a travers les champs r6pandu Le sang de ta sueur La sueur de ton travail Le travail de I’esclavage L'esclavage de tes enfants Afrique dis-moi Afrique Est-ce done toi ce dos qui se courbe Et se couche sous le poids de l’humilit§ Ce dos tremblant a z§brures rouges Qui dit oui au fouet sur la route de MIDI Alors gravement une voix me repondit Fils imp6tueux cet arbre robuste et jeune Cet arbre la-bas Splendidement seul au milieu des fleurs blanches et fan6es C’est 1’Afrique ton Afrique qui repousse Qui repousse patiemment obstindment Et dont les fruits ont peu a peu L’amere saveur de la liberte. 3 from Lilyan Kesteloot, ed.- Antologie nbgro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs de XXierne siecle (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967) . 113 AFRICA David Diop Africa mi Africa Africa de fieros guerreros en las savanas ancestrales Africa que canta mi abuela A la orilla de su rio lejano Janicis te he conocido Pero mi mirada estd llena de tu sangre Tu bella sangre negra esparcida por los campos La sangre de tu sudor El sudor de tu trabajo El trabajo de la esclavitud La esclavitud de tus hijos Africa dime Africa Eres tu esta espalda que se dobla Y se tiende bajo el peso de la humildad Esta espalda que tiembla con rayas rojas Que dice si al ldtigo por el camino del SUR Entonces una voz me respondio gravemente Hijo impetuoso este drbol robusto y joven Este arbol de alld esplendidamente solo en medio de las flores blancas y mustias Es Africa, tu Africa que renace Que renace con paciencia con obstinacidn Y cuyos frutos tienen poco a poco El sabor amargo de la libertad. AFRO-AMERICAN FRAGMENT4 Langston Hughes So long, So far away Is Africa. Not even memories alive Save those that history books create, Save those that songs Beat back into the blood-- Beat out of blood with words sad-sung In strange un-Negro tongue-- So long, So far away Is Africa. Subdued and time-lost Are the drums--and yet Through some vast mist of race There comes this song I do not understand, This song of atavistic land, Of bitter yearnings lost Without a place-- So long, So far away Is Africa's Dark face. 4from Langston Hughes, Selected Poems (New York: Knopf, 1965). 115 ' \ ; v FRAGMENTO AFRO-AMERICANO Langston Hughes Tan distante, Tan lejana Africa estd. Ya ni los recuerdos viven Salvo los que los libros de historia crean, Salvo aquellos que los cantos Reverberan en la sangre-- Y arrancan de la sangre tristes palabras cantadas En una extrana lengua que no-es-negra-- Tan distante, Tan lejana Africa esta. Reprimidos y perdidos en el tiempo Los tambores--y sin embargo A traves de una inmensa neblina de raza LLega este canto Que no entiendo, Este canto de una tierra atavica, De amargos anhelos malogrados Sin hogar-- Tan distante, Estd la oscura faz de Africa. ,116 AFRICA5 Ted Joans Africa I guard your memory Africa you are in me My future is your future Your wounds are my wounds The funky blues I cook are black like you--Africa Africa my motherland America is my fatherland although I did not choose it to be Africa you alone can make me free Africa where the rhinos roam Where I learned to swing before America became my home Not like a monkey but in my soul Africa you are the rich and natural gold Africa I live and study for thee And through you I shall be free Someday I'll come back and see Land of my mothers, where a black god made me My Africa, your Africa, a free continent to be. 5from Ted Joans, Afrodisia: New Poems (New York: Hill and Wang, 1970). lil 1 : ■ v v AFRICA Ted Joans Africa guardo tu memoria Africa td estas en mi Mi futuro es tu futuro Tus heridas mis heridas Los miedos cobardes que cocino son negros como tu--Africa Africa mi madre-patria America es mi padre-patria aunque no lo escogi asl Africa tu sola puedes hacerme libre Africa donde los rinocerontes van errantes Donde aprendi a columpiarme antes de que Amdrica fuera mi hogar No como un mono pero en mi alma Africa eres rica de oro natural Africa vivo y estudio por ti Y gracias a ti sere libre Algun dxa volvere y te ver§ Tierra de mis madres, donde un dios negro me hizo a mi Mi Africa, tu Africa, sera libre al fin. ;i< ;is OKAY, YOU ARE AFRAID OF AFRICA6 Ted Joans to those that live by their enslaving sword Okay, you are afraid of Africa! you with the long dark overcoat ” with the wide trouser cuffs ’’ with the Moscow autumn wind " with the DC cracker grin " with the rag waving pride " with a cougar’s drop of dung " with a thimble's innocence near dawn " with a plaid tablecloth’s obscenities " with a lost mustache of wax " with a column of Louvre trembling ” with a flabby belly of British beer " with the blood of two kings on your boots one living one dead intensifying the fear you fear the guilt you grow from year to year 6from Ted Joans, Afrodisia: New Poems (New York: Hill and Wang, 1970) . n'9 DE ACUERDO, TIENES MIEDO DE AFRICA Ted Joans ...para aquellos que viven por la espada que esclaviza De acuerdo, tienes miedo de Africa tu con el largo abrigo oscuro " con los pantalones anchos doblados " con el viento otonal de Moscu " con tu mueca de fanfarron del DC ” con el guinapo que ondea orgullo " con una gota de mierda de cugar ” con la inocencia de un dedal al amanecer " con las obscenidades de una mantel de cuadros " con un malogrado bigote de cera " con una tambaleante columna del Louvre ” con una blanda barriga de cerveza inglesa " con la sangre de dos reyes en tus botas uno vivo y otro muerto agrandando el miedo que sientes la culpa que te crece de ano en ano. 1 2 0 AFRICA7 Claude McKay The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light, The sciences were sucklings at thy breast; When all the world was young in pregnant night Thy slaves toiled at thy monumental best. Thou ancient treasure-land, thou modern prize, New peoples marvel at thy pyramids! The years roll on, thy sphinx of riddle eyes Watches the mad world with immobile lids. The Hebrews humbled them at- Pharaoh’s name. Cradle of Power! Yet all things were in vain! Honor and Glory, Arrogance and Fame! They went. The darkness swallowed thee again. Thou art the harlot, now they time is done, Of all the mighty nations of the sun. 7 from Claude McKay, Selected Poems of Claude McKay (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1953). 1.2 1 AFRICA Claude McKay El sol busco Las ciencias Cuando en la Tus esclavos tu oscuro lecho y lo ilumino, se amamantaron a tus pechos; noche prenada el mundo era. joven construyeron tus mejores monumentos. Tu antigua tierra de tesoros, galardon moderno, iPueblos nuevos admiran tus pirdmides! Los anos giran, tu esfinge de ojos de enigma Observa al loco mundo con inmdviles parpados. Los Hebreos se postraron al solo nombre del Faraon. iCuna del Poder! ;Y aun todo fuS en vano! iHonor y Gloria, Arrogancia y Fama! Pasaron. La oscuridad.los envolvid de nuevo. De todas las naciones poderosas bajo el sol, Tu eres la ramera, ya todo se desvanecid. THE AFRICA THING8 Adam David Miller What is Africa to thee? Let's shuffle Paint that horn on backwards-- Knock me some skin Blow! 0 They say home is a place in the mind where you can rest when you’re tired not where your great great great grandfather had his farm Africa? Africa is that old man in the pickin field making that strange high sou and all the people following Africa is a sound Africa is the touch of that old woman your mother could not stand but did respect who caught you as you fell and held you and rocked you. 8 from Abraham Chapman, ed., New Black Voices: An Anthology of Contemporary Afro-American Literature (New York: New American Library, 1972). beble be ba bo b ibob blaaba ba ba buddi di oooooo rock a diooooo do oo do o : 1 2 3 Fat black bucks in a wine barrel boom boom What is Africa to thee bam thou thoo thum boom I smell the sweat of an english scum boom boom --Mamma, Mamma, but he does It’s not just his breath He stink Hushsssh, chile, Somebody'll hear you Say smell. Africa is the look of Tweebie Mae Snapping her head around before she took off Caint ketch me in the soft dark You caught her Africa is all them roots and conjurs and spells wails and chants (say blues and hollers) and all them stories about Stackalee and John Henry and Bodidly and the camp meetings where the wrestling and head and head the foot races the jumping the throwing We brought all that down to dance at birth when you’re sick take a wife lose your luck when you die and singing in the woods in the fields when you walk ••124 and singing on the levies on the chain gang in jail singing and dancing when you pray and dancing by the light of the moon until you drop. Africa is the singing of these lines of me of you of love singing. 12 5 v LO AFRICANO Adam David Miller iQue es Africa para ti? Vamos a barajar Pinta esta trompeta al reves-- Golpeame el pellejo ISopla! Oh Dicen que el hogar es un lugar en la mente donde puedes descansar cuando estas cansado no el lugar donde tu ta ta ta ta tarabuelo tuvo su granj a iAfrica? Africa es aquel viejo en el campo de algodon haciendo un extrano sonido agudo y la gente siguiendole Africa es un sonido beble be ba bo bibob blaaba ba ba Africa es la caricia de aquella vieja que tu madre no podia soportar pero respetaba la vieja que te recogio cuando caiste y te sostuvo y te mecio buddi di oooooo rock a diooooo do oo do o Gordos machos negros en un tonel de vino bum bum Qu§ es Africa para ti bam tu tuu tuuum bum huelo el sudor de una escoria inglesa bum bum .126 --Mama, mama, pero huele mal, No es solo su aliento, Apesta Callaa, nifio, Alguien va a oirte Di huele. Africa es la mirada de Tweebie Mae Agarrandose la cabeza antes de escaparse No me alcanzaran en la suave oscuridad La alcanzdsteis Africa son todas sus ralces y sus conjuros y sus hechizos lamentos y cantos (llamales blues y gritos) y todas sus historias sobre Stackalee y John Henry y Bodidly y las reuniones del campamento las lucha libre el golpearse de cabezas las carreras de a pie los saltos el tiro Trajimos todas estas cosas el baile desde que uno nace cuando estes enfermo cdsate pierde tu suerte cuando mueras y cantando en los bosques en los campos cuando caminas y cantando con los reclutas en la cadena de presidiarios en la carcel cantando y bailando cuando rezas y bailando a la luz de la luna hasta caerte. \ W Africa es el canto de estas lineas de yo de tu del amor cantando. 128 THE MEANING OF AFRICA9 Abioseh Nicol Africa, you were once just a name to me But now you lie before me with sombre green challenge To that loud faith for freedom (life more abundant) Which we once professed shouting Into the silent listening microphone Or on an alien platform to a sea Of white perplexed faces troubled With secret Imperial guilt; shouting Of you with a vision euphemistic As you always appear To your lonely sons on distant shores. Then the cold sky and continent would disappear In a grey mental mist. And in its stead the hibiscus blooms in shameless scarlet and the bougainvillea in mauve passion entwines itself around strong branches; the palm trees stand like tall proud moral women shaking their plaited locks against the cool suggestive evening breeze; the short twilight passes; the white full moon turns its round gladness towards the swept open space between the trees; there will be dancing tonight; and in my brimming heart plenty of love and laughter. Oh, I got tired of the cold Northern sun Of white anxious ghost-like faces Of crouching over heatless fires In my lonely bedroom The only thing I never tired of Was the persistent kindness Of you too few unafraid Of my grave dusky strangeness. 9 from Langston Hughes, ed., Poems from Black Africa (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963). ; 12C So I came back Sailing down the Guinea Coast. Loving the sophistication Of your brave new cities: Dakar, Accra, Cotonou, Lagos, Bathurst and Bissau; Liberia, Freetown, Libreville, Freedom is really in the mind. Go up-country, so they said, To see the real Africa. For whomsoever you may be, That is where you come from. Go for bush, inside the bush, You will find your hidden heart. Your mute ancestral spirit. And so I went, dancing on my way. Now you lie before me passive With your unanswering green challenge. Is this all you are? This long uneven red road, this occasional succession Of huddled, heaps of four mud walls And thatched, falling grass roofs Sometimes ennobled by a thin layer Of white plaster, and covered with thin Slanting corrugated zinc. These patient faces on weather-beaten bodies Bowing under heavy market loads. The pedalling cyclist wavers by On the wrong side of the road, As if uncertain of this new emancipation. The squawking chickens, the pregnant she-goats Lumber awkwardly with fear across the road. Across the windscreen view of my four-cylinder kit car An overladen lorry speeds madly towards me Full of produce, passengers, with driver leaning Out into the swirling dust to pilot his Swinging obsessed vehicle along. Besides him on the raised seat his first-class Passenger, clutching and timid; but he drives on At so, so many miles per hour, peering out with Bloodshot eyes, unshaved face and dedicated look; His motto painted on each side: Sunshine Transport, We get you there quick, quick. The Lord is my Sheperd. The red dust settles down on the green leaves. I know you will not make me want, Lord, Though I have reddened your green pastures It is only because I have wanted so much That I have always been found wanting. From South and East, and from my West The sandy desert holds the North. We look across a vast Continent And blindly call it ours. You are not a Country, Africa, You are a concept, Fashioned in our minds, each to each, To hide our separate fears, To dream our separate dreams. Only those within you who know Their circumscribed Plot, And till it well with steady plough Can from that harvest then look up To the vast blue inside Of the enamelled bowl of sky Which covers you and say "This is my Africa" meaning "I am content and happy. I am fulfilled, within, Without and roundabout. 1 have gained the little longings Of my hands, my loins, my heart, And the soul following in my shadow." I know now that is what you are, Africa, And a small bird singing on a mango tree. < 131 EL SIGNIFICADO DE AFRICA Abioseh Nicol Africa, antes eras solo un nombre para mi Pero ahora tu verde sombrio me desafia Ante la libertad (vida mds abundante) Que antes profesamos gritando Por los micrdfonos silenciosos y atentos 0 en una plataforma extranjera ante un mar De caras blancas perplejas y trastornadas Por una secreta culpa imperial; gritando Por ti con una visidn eufemlstica Tal como siempre te apareces Ante tus hijos solitarios en lejanos litorales. Entonces el cielo y el continente frio desaparecian En una grisdcea neblina mental. Y en su lugar el hibisco florece con un rojo descarado y en su malva pasion la bugambilia se enrosca alrededor de las fuertes brancas; las palmeras se yerguen cual altas y nobles mujeres virtuosas que agitan su pelo trenzado en la sugestiva y fresca brisa del atardecer; el crepusculo pasa rapido; la blanca luna llena dirige su redonda alegria al espacio abierto extendido entre los arboles; habra baile esta noche; y mi corazdn rebosara de amor y risas. Oh, me canse del frio sol del norte De las fantasmales e inquietas caras blancas De agacharme ante fuegos sin calor En mi habitacion solitaria. De la dnica cosa que no me cansd Fue la persistente amabilidad De los pocos que no se asustaron Del oscuro y severe extranjero. Asi pues volvi Navegando hacia abajo por las costas de Guinea. Amando la sofisticacidn De sus nuevas ciudades espldndidas: Dakar, Accra, Cotonu, Lagos, Bathurst y Bissau; Liberia, Freetown, Libreville, La verdadera libertad esta en la mente. (13.2 Dirigete hacia adentro, dijeron, Alii estd el Africa de verdad. Pues quienquiera que seas, Procedes de alii. Ve al matorral, mdtete en dl, Encontraras tu corazon oculto. Tu mudo espiritu ancestral. Y asi alii fui, bailando en mi camino. Ahora te extiendes ante mi pasiva Con tu verde desafio sin respuesta. iEs dsto lo que eres? Esta larga y roja carretera irregular, esta serie ocasional De apinados montones de cuatro paredes de barro Y techos de paja y hierba que se cae Ocasionalmente ennoblecidos por una capa delgada De cal blanca, y cubiertos con delgado Inclinado cinc ondulado. Estas caras pacientes sobre cuerpos derrotados por el clima Encorvados bajo pesadas cargas del mercado. Pedaleando el ciclista se tambalea Por el lado impropio del camino, incierto de esta nueva emancipacion. Las gallinas chirriantes, las cabras prenadas Se mueven torpes y con miedo por la carretera. Por el parabrisas de mi coche de cuatro cilindros veo Un camidn sobrecargado acelerando locamente contra mi, Lleno de mercancias, pasajeros, con el conductor Asomandose hacia afuera en el polvo arremolinado, para Llevar a buen tdrmino su oscilante obsesionado vehiculo A su lado en el asiento alto, agarrado y timido, Su pasajero de primera clase; pero el conductor Maneja a muchisimas millas por hora, escudrinando Con ojos rojos de sangre, cara sin afeitar y mirada fija; Su lema esta inscrito a ambos lados: Transportes Sol Brillante, Le llevamos donde quiera, y rdpido. El Senor es mi Pastor. El polvo rojo se posa en las hojas verdes. S6 que no me dejaras en la indigencia, Senor, Pues aunque enrojeci tus verdes pastos Es solo porque de tanto he carecido Que siempre me han hallado falto de todo. De sur a este, y desde mi oeste El desierto de arena sostiene al norte. Miramos a travds del vasto continente _ _ — - 1 / 3 ' - 3 Y ciegamente lo llamamos nuestro. Tu no eres un pais, Africa, Eres un concepto, Moldeado en nuestras mentes, individualmente, Para esconder nuestros miedos separados, Para sonar nuestros suenos separados. Solo aquellos que en tu seno reconocen Su Terreno asignado, Y con un arado sdlido lo cultivan bien Pueden despues de la cosecha mirar hacia arriba Al vasto azul dentro Del cuenco esmaltado del cielo Que te cubre y pueden decir "Esta es mi Africa," es decir, "Me siento contento y feliz. Me siento satisfecho, dentro de ella, Fuera y por todas partes. He superado los pequenos anhelos De mis manos, mi cuerpo, mi corazon, Y del alma que seguia en mi sombra." Ahora s6 que es lo que tu eres, Africa, Felicidad, contento y satisfaccion Y un pdjaro pequefio en un arbol de mangos. JE N'AIME PAS L 'AFRIQUE Paul Niger Tpl 1 0 J'aime ce pays, disait-.il, on y trouve nourriture, obdissance, poulets a quatre sous, femmes "a cent, et "bien Missie” pour pas plus cher. Le seul probleme, ajoutait-il, ce sont les anciens tirailleurs et les metis et les lettres qui discutent les ordres et veulent se faire elire chefs de village. " Moi, je n'aime pas cette Afrique-la. L'Afrique des yesmen et des beni-oui-oui L'Afrique des hommes couchds attendant comme une grace le reveil de la botte L ’Afrique des boubous flottant comme des drapeaux de capitulation de la dysenterie, de la peste, de la fievre jaune et des chiques (pour ne pas dire de la chicotte.) L ’Afrique de ”1'Homme du Niger,” l'Afrique des plaines desolees Labourees d'un soleil homicide, l'Afrique des pagnes obscenes et des muscles nouSs par 1'effort du travail forcd. L'Afrique des ndgresses servant 1'alcool d ’oubli sur le plateau de leurs levres... Je n'aime pas cette Afrique-la, Dieu un jour descendu sur la terre fut desole de 1’ attitude des creatures envers la creation. II ordonna le deluge, et germa de la terre ressurgie, une semence nouvelle. L ’arche peupla le monde et lentement Lentement ^ L’humanitd monta des ^ges sans lumiere aux ages sans repos . II avait oublie l'Afrique. Christ racheta 1'homme mauvais et bat it son Eglise a Rome. Sa voix fut entendue dans le desert, 1’Eglise sur la Societe ^Ofrom Lilyan Kesteloot, ed. Antologie ndgro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs du XXieme si^cfe (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967) . ,l;3 5 la Societ6 sur l’Eglise, I'une portant l’autre Fonderent tous les dix ans quelques milliers de victimes. II avait oublie l’Afrique. Mais quand on s'apercut qu’une race (d’hommes?) Devait encore a Dieu son tribut de sang noir on lui fit un rappel Elle solda. Et solde encore, et lorsqu’elle demanda sa place au sein de l’<§cumene on lui d§signa quelques bancs. Elle s’assit. Et s’endormit. Jesus etendit les mains sur ces tetes frisees et les negres furent sauves Pas ici-bas, bien sur... Ecoute le tam-tam s’est tu; le sorcier peut-"etre a livre son secret Le vent chaud des savanes apporte son message, L’hippocampe d§ja m ’a fait un signe de silence L ’Afrique va parler Car c ’est a elle maintenant d’exiger: "J’ai vOulu une terre ou les hommes soient hommes et non loups et non brebis et non serpents et non cameleons J ’ai voulu une terre ou la terre soit terre Ou la semence soit semence Ou la moisson, soit faite avec la faux de l'ame une terre de Redemption et non de Penitence une terre d ’Afrique. Des siecles de souffrance ont aiguise ma langue J ’ai appris a compter en gouttes de mon sang et je reprends les dits des gdndreux prophetes Je veux, que sur mon sol de tiges vertes, l’homme droit porte enfin la gravite du ciel.” Et ne lui reponds pas, il n ’en est plus besoin, ecoute ce pays en verve suppletoire, contemple tout_ce peuple en marche promisoire, l’Afrique se dressant a la face des hommes sans haines, sans reproches, qui ne reclame plus, mais affirme. II est encore des bancs dans l'Eglise de Dieu. II est des pages blanches aux livres des Prophetes. Aimes-tu 11aventure, ami, alors regarde Un continent s'emeut, une race s’^veille Un murmure d'esprit fait frissonner les feuilles Tout un rythme nouveau va t§rebrer le monde ,136 - Une teinte inddite peuplera 1Tarc-en-ciel une tete dressde va provoquer la foudre. L ’Afrique va parler. L'Afrique d'urie seule justice et d ’uh seul crime Le crime contre Dieu, le crime contre les hommes Le crime de lese-Afrique Le crime contre ceux qui portent quelque chose Quoi ? Un rythme _ _ _ _ _ une onde dans la nuit la travers les forets, rien, ou une ame nouvelle un timbre une intonation une vigueur un dilatement une vibration qui par degrds dans la moelle ddflue, rdvulse dans sa marche un vieux coeur endormi, lui prend la taille et vrille et tourne et vibre encore dans les mains, dans les reins,descend plus bas fait claquer les genoux, 1’article des chevil- les, 1’adherence des pieds, ah, cette frenesie qui me suinte au ciel. Mais aussi, o ami, une fierte nouvelle qui ddsigne a nos yeux le peuple du desert, un courage sans prix, une Sme sans demande, un geste sans secousse dans une chair sans fatigue. Tater a sa naissance le muscle ddlivre et refaire les marches des premiers conqudrants Immense verdoiement d’une joie sans dclats Intense remuement d ’une peine sans larmes Initiation subtile d ’un monde paracheve dans 1'explo sion d'or des cases, voila, voila le sort de nos tmes chercheuses... Allons, la nuit deja acheve sa cadence j'entends chanter la seve au coeur du flamboyant... _ 1B7 NO ME GUSTA AFRICA Paul Niger "Me gusta este pais, decia, uno encuentra comida, obediencia, polios por cuatro pesos, mujeres por cien, y "bien Sefio" por no mucho mas. El unico problema, anadia, son los viejos tiradores y los mestizos y los letrados que discuten las drdenes y quieren ser elegidos jefes del pueblo." Este Africa a mi no me gusta. El Africa de los yesmen y los beni-oui-oui El Africa de hombres acostados esperando como una gracia el despertar de la bota El Africa de los bubus flotando como banderas de ren- dicion de la disenteria, la peste, la fiebre amarilla y los insectos (por no decir el chinche) . El Africa del "Hombre del Niger,"11 el Africa de las llanuras desoladas Labradas por un sol homicida, el Africa de obscenos taparrabos y de musculos atados por el esfuerzo del trabajo forzado. El Africa de negras sirviendo el alcohol del. olvido en la bandeja de sus labios... No me gusta este Africa. Dios bajo un dxa sobre la tierra y se afligio por la actitud de las criaturas hacia la creacion. Ordeno el diluvio y germino de la tierra resurgida una nueva semilla. El area poblo al mundo y lentamente Lentamente la humanidad ascendid de la edad sin luz a la edad sin reposo. Se le habia olvidado Africa. Cristo redimid al hombre malo y establecid su Iglesia en Roma. Su voz se escucho en el desierto, la Iglesia en la So- ciedad y la Sociedad en la Iglesia, apoydndose la una a la otra Fundaron la civilizacidn en que los hombres dociles de antigua Sabiduria para apaciguar a los antiguos dioses aun vivos inmolaron cada diez anos a millares de victimas. Se le habia olvidado Africa 1 1 vieja pelicula francesa sobre la vida colonial. 138 Pero cuando se dieron cuenta de que una raza (ide hombres?) Atin debxa a Dios su tributo de sangre negra se le llamo al orden Y la raza de hombres negros se vendio. Y se vende aun, y cuando pidio un lugar en el seno de la ecumene se le designaron unos bancos. Se sento. Y se durmio. Jesus extendio sus manos sobre las riza- das cabezas y los negros se salvaron.. No aqux abajo, por supuesto... Escucha el tam-tam se ha callado; el brujo tal vez haya librado su secreto El viento caliente de las sabanas trae su mensaje, Ya el hipocampo me ha hecho una senal de silencio Africa va a hablar Le toca a ella ahora exigir: "He querido una tierra donde los hombres sean hombres y no lobos ni ovejas ni serpientes ni camaleones He querido una tierra donde la tierra sea tierra donde la semilla sea semilla donde la cosecha sea hecha con la hoz del alma una tierra de Redencion y no de Penitencia una tierra Africana. Siglos de sufrimiento han afilado mi lengua He aprendido a contar con las gotas de mi sangre y digo de nuevo los dichos de los profetas generosos Quiero que en mi suelo de tallos verdes el hombre justo tenga al fin la gravedad del cielo." Y no le respondas, ya no es necesario, escucha a este pais de verba supletoria, contempla a este pais en marcha promisoria, Africa levantdndose frente a hombres sin odios, sin reproches, que ya no reclama, sino afirma. Hay aun bancos en la Iglesia de Dios. Hay aun paginas en bianco en los libros de los Profetas Si te gusta la aventura, amigo, mira entonces Un continente se amotina, una raza se despierta Un murmullo del espxritu hace temblar las hojas Todo un ritmo nuevo va a perforar el mundo Un tinte inddito poblara el arco-iris Una. cabeza levantada provocara el rayo. Africa va a hablar. ,139 Africa de una sola justicia y un solo crimen El crimen contra Dios, el crimen contra los hombres El crimen del Africa violada El crimen contra aqu§llos que poseen algo iQud? Un ritmo una onda en la noche a traves de las selvas, nada, o un alma nueva un timbre una entonacidn un vigor una dilatacion una vibracion que llega gradualmente hasta la medula, y conmueve a un viejo corazon dormido, lo toma por el talle y gira y dd vueltas y vibra aun en las manos, las caderas, y aun mas abajo hace crujir las rodillas, los tobillos, los pies, ah, este frenesi que rezuma del cielo. Pero tambidn, amigo, un orgullo nuevo que a nuestros ojos designa el pueblo del desierto, un valor sin pre- cio, un alma sin demanda, un gesto sin sacudida en una. carne sin fatiga. Palpar el musculo liberado y rehacer la marcha de los conquistadores primeros Inmenso verdor de una alegria sin clamor Intenso transtorno de una pena sin lagrimas Iniciacion sutil de un mundo concluido en la explosion de oro de las chozas, he aqux, he aqui la suerte de nuestras almas inquietas... Vamos, la noche ya termina su cadencia escucho cantar la savia en el corazon del flamante... a 40 from SONG OF OCOL12 Okot p'Bitek What is Africa To me? Blackness, Deep, deep fathomless, Darkness; Africa, Idle giant Basking in the sun, Sleeping, snoring Twitching in dreams; Diseased with a chronic illness, Choking with black ignorance, Chained to the rock Of poverty, And yet laughing, Always laughing and dancing, The chains on his legs Jangling; Displaying his white teeth In bright pink gum, Loose white teeth That cannot bite, Joking, giggling, dancing... Stuck in the stagnant mud Of superstitions, Frightened by the spirits Of the bush, the stream, The rock. Scared of corpses. He hears eerie noises From the lakeside And from the mountain top; Sees snakes In the whirlwind 1 2 from Okot p'Bitek, Song of Ocol (Nairobi, Kenya: Modern African Library, 1970). ,141 And at both ends Of the rainbow; The caves house his gods Or he carries them On his head Or on his shoulder As he roams the wilderness, Led by his cattle, Or following the spoon Of the elephant That he has speared But could not kill; Child, Lover of toys, Look at his toy weapons, His utensils, his hut... Toy garden, toy chickens, Toy cattle, Toy children... T imid, Unadventurous, Scared of the unbeaten track, Unweaned, Clinging to mother's milkless breasts, Clinging to brother, To uncle, to clan, To tribe, To blackness, To Africa, Africa, This rich granary Of taboos, customs, Tradit ions... Mother, mother, Why, Why was I born Black? /14 2 del CANTO DE OCOL Okot p ’Bitek iQue es Africa para mi?13 Negura Profunda, profunda oscuridad Impenetrable; Africa, Gigante haragan Calentandose al sol, Durmiendo, roncando Contray6ndose en suenos; Achacado de enfermedades cronicas, Atragantandose de ignorancia negra, Encadenado a la roca De la pobreza, Y aun ridndose, Siempre riendose y bailando, Con las cadenas de sus piernas Chirriando; Desplegando sus blancos dientes En sus brillantes encias rosas, Blancos dientes sueltos Que no pueden morder, Bromeando, riendo tontamente, bailando. Hundido en el lodo estancado De las supersticiones, Asustado por los espiritus De la maleza, del arroyo, De la roca, Espantado por los cadaveres. Oye ruidos misteriosos Del lado del lago Y desde la cumbre de las montanas; 1 3 Estas son las mismas palabras con las que empieza el famoso poema "Heritage'' del poeta norte- americano Countee Cullen (1 9 0 3 -1 9 4 6 ). a 43 Ve serpientes En la voragine Y a ambos lados Del arcoiris; Las cavernas albergan a sus dioses 0 los tiene el metidos En su cabeza 0 en sus hombros Mientras va errante por el llano Guiado por su ganado, 0 siguiendo las huellas Del elefante Que ha lanceado Mas no alcanzo a matar; Nino, Amante de juguetes, Mira sus armas de juguete, Sus utensilios, su choza... Jardin de juguete, gallinas de juguete, Ganado de juguete, Ninos de juguete... Timido, Temeroso, Espantado de las sendas sin trillar, Nino sin destetar, Colgando de los pechos secos de su madre, Golgandose de su hermano, De su tio, de su clan, De su tribu, De la negura, Del Africa, Africa, Este rico granero De tabus, costumbres, Tradiciones. Madre, madre, iPor que, Por que naci Negro? 144 TOKO-WALY14 Leopold Senghor Toko-Waly ion oncle, te souviens-tu des nuits de jadis quand s’appesantissait ma tete sur ton dor. de patiente? Ou que me tenant par la main, ta main me guidait par t6nebres et signes? Les champs sont fleur des vers luisants; les dtoiles se posent sur les herbes, sur les arbres C’est le silence alentour. Seuls bourdonnent les parfums de brousses, ruches d'abeilles rousses qui dominent la vibration de grele des grillons Et tam-tam voild, la respiration au lion de la nuit. Toi Toko-Waly, tu ecoutes 1*inaudible Et tu m ’expliques les signes que disent les Ancetres dans la s£renitd marine des constellations Le Taureau, le Scorpion, le Ldopard, 1*El§phant, les Poissons familiers Et la pompe lact§e des Esprits par le tann celeste qui ne finit point. Mais voici 1Tintelligence de la deesse Lune et que tombent les voiles des t§nebres. Nuit d'Afrique ma nuit noire, mystique et claire, noire et brillante Tu reposes accordee a la terre, et tu es la Terre et les collines harmonieuses. 0 beaute classique! depuis le front bombe sous la foret de senteurs et les yeux larges obliques jusqu*a la baie gracieuse du menton et L'61an fougueux des collines jumelles! 0 courbes de douceur visage melodique! 0 ma lionne, ma Beaut§ noire, ma Nuit noire, ma Noire, ma Nue! Ah! que de fois as-tu fait battre mon coeur comme le leopard indomptS dans sa cage etroite. Nuit qui me dglivre des raisons des salons des sophis- mes, des pirouettes des pretextes, des haines cal- cul^es des carnages humanises, Nuit qui fonds toutes mes contradictions, toutes contradictions dans l’unite premiere de la negritude ^4from Lilyan Kesteloot, ed. Antologie nggro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs du XXieme siecle (Verviers, Belgium: GSrard,1967). ( 3 -4-5 TOKO-WALY Leopold Senghor Toko-Waly tlo mio, £te acuerdas de las noches de anta- fio cuando mi cabeza se apoyaba en tu espalda pacien- te? £0 cuando cogiendome de la rnano, tu tano me guiaba por tinieblas y signos? Los campos son flores de luciernagas; las estrellas se posan en la hierba, en los arboles El silencio nos rodea. Solos zumban los perfumes de los matorrales, los enjam- bres de abejas rojas que dominan la vibracion de granizo de los grillos Y el tam-tam velado, la respiracion de la noche a lo lej os. Tu Toko-Waly, escuchas lo inaudible Y me explicas los signos que nos dicen los Antepasados en la serenidad marina de las constelaciones El Toro, el Escorpion, el Leopardo, el Elefante, los Piscis familiares Y la pompa lactea de los Espiritus por el tan^ celeste que nunca termina. Mas he aqui la inteligencia de la diosa Luna y he aqui que caen los velos de las tinieblas. Noche de Africa mi noche negra, mistica y clara, negra y brillante Descansas conciliada con la tierra, eres la Tierra y las colinas armoniosas. iOh belleza clasicaIiDesde tu frente curvada bajo la selva de perfumes y los largos ojos oblicuos hasta la bahia graciosa del menton y El arrebato fogoso de tus colinas gemelasl iOh curvas de dulzura, rostro melodicoI iOh leona mia, mi Belleza negra, mi Noche negra, mi Negra, mi Nube! iAh! Cuantas veces has hecho latir a mi corazon como a un leopardo indomado en su jaula estrecha. Noche que me libera de las razones de los salones de los sofismas, de las piruetas de los pretextos, de los odios calculados de las carnicerias humanizadas, Noche que funde todas mis contradicciones, todas las contradicciones en la unidad primera de la negritud. 15llanuras que el mar cubre en ciertas epocas del ano. ,146 JAMAICAN FISHERMAN16 Philip M. Sherlock Across the sand I saw a black man stride To fetch his fishing gear and broken things, And silently that splendid body cried Its proud descent from ancient chiefs and kings, Across the sand I saw him naked stride; Sang his black body in the sun's white light The velvet coolness of dark forests wide, The blackness of the jungle's starless night. He stood beside the old canoe which lay Upon the beach; swept up within his arms The broken nets and careless lounged away Towards his hut beneath the ragged palms... Nor know how fiercely spoke his body then Of ancient wealth and freeborn regal men. 16from Paul Bremen, ed., You Better Believe It: Black Verse in English (Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1973). •1.14 7 PESCADOR JAMAICANO Philip M. Sherlock Por la arena vi a un negro andar a trancos Para juntar su aparejo y cosas rotas, Y en silencio aquel cuerpo espldndido pregonaba Su noble linaje de jefes y reyes antiguos, Por la arena le vi desnudo andar a trancos; Su cuerpo negro cantaba en la luz incandescente El fresco terciopelo de anchos bosques oscuros, Lo negro de la noche sin estrellas de la selva. Se par6 junto a la vieja canoa varada En la playa; de repente levantd en sus brazos Las redes rotas e indiferente se alejo Hacia su cabana bajo las palmeras harapientas... Sin saber cuan fieramente se cuerpo hablaba entonces De antiguas riquezas y regios hombres libres. A FAR CRY FROM AFRICA17 Derek Walcott A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies, Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt. Corpses are scattered through a paradise. Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries: "Waste no compassion on these separate dead!" Statistics justify and scholars seize The salients of colonial policy. What is that to the white child hacked in bed? To savages, expendable as Jews?" Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break In a white dust of ibises whose cries Have wheeled since civilization's dawn From the parched river or beast - teeming plain. The violence of beast on beast is read As natural law, but upright man Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain. Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum, While he calls courage still that native dread Of the white peace contracted by the dead. Again brutish necessity wipes its hands Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again A waste of our compassion, as with Spain, The gorilla wrestles with the superman. I who am poisoned with the blood of both, Where shall I turn, divided to the vein? I who have cursed The drunken officer of British rule, how choose Between this Africa and the English tongue I love? Betray them both, or give back what they give? How can I face such slaughter and be cool? How can I turn from Africa and live? 1 7 from James T. Livings.ton, ed. , Caribbean Rhythms: The Emerging English Literature of the West Indies (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1974) . ---------------------------------------------------m UN GRITO LEJANO DE AFRICA Derek Walcott Un viento encrespa la piel leonada De Africa. Kikuyu, veloz como las moscas, Se alimenta en las venas del veldt^ Caddveres se esparcen por un paraiso. Solo el gusano, coronel de la carrona, clama: "iNo malgastdis la compasidn en estos muertos disgre- gadosI" Las estadisticas justifican y los eruditos se aduenan De los salientes de la politica colonial. iQue le importa esto al nino bianco muerto a hachazos en su cama? iNi a los salvajes, exterminables como Judios? Golpeados a mazazos, los largos juncos se desgranan En un bianco polvo de ibices cuyos gritos Se han repetido desde el alba de la civilizacidn Desde el arido rio o la llanura pululante de bestias. La violencia de la bestia contra la bestia se entiende Como una ley natural, pero el hombre justo Busca su divinidad infligiendo dolor. Delirantes como bestias inquietas, las guerras Bailan al son de la piel tensada del tambor, Cuando aun se llama valor al terror nativo De la paz blanca concluida por los muertos. De nuevo la bruta necesidad se seca las manos Con la servilleta de una causa sucia, de nuevo Un malgaste de nuestra compasion, como en Espana, El gorila se esfuerza con el superman. Yo, envenenado con la sangre de ambos Con mis venas divididas, ihacia donde me dirigire? Yo que he maldecido Al borracho oficial britanico, icomo escoger Entre esta Africa y la lengua inglesa que amo? iTraicionarles a los dos, o devolverles lo que dan? iComo puedo enfrentarme indiferente a tal matanza? iComo puedo volver la espalda al Africa y vivir? I 8 - 1 - 1 r llanura africana. T50| CHAPTER IV THE THEME OF RETURN 151 NUMBERS, LETTERS1 Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) If you’re not home, where are you? Where'd you go? What were you doing when gone? When you come back, better make it good. What was you doing down there, freak-in’ off with white women, hangin’ out with Queens, say it straight to be understood straight, put it flat and real in the street where the sun comes and the moon comes- and the cold wind in winter waters your eyes. Say what you mean, dig it out put it down, and be strong about it. I cant say who I am unless you agree I'm real I cant be anything I’m not Except these words pretend to life not yet explained, so here's some feeling for you see how you like it, what it reveals, and that's me. Unless you agree I'm real that I can feel whatever beats hardest at our black souls I am real, and I can't say who I am. Ask me if I know, I'll say yes, I might say no. Still, ask. I'm Everett LeRoi Jones, 30 yrs. old. A black nigger in the universe. A long breath singer, wouldbe dancer, strong from years of fantasy and study. All this time then, for what's happening now. All that spilling of white ether, clocks in ghostheads lips drying and rewet, eyes opening and shut, mouths churning. 1 from Amiri Baraka, Black Magic Poetry: 1961- 1967 (Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merril Co., 1969). .15 2 I am a meditative man. And when I say something it's all of me saying, and all the things that make me, have formed me, colored me this brilliant reddish night. I will,say nothing that I feel is lie, or unproven by the same ghostclocks, by the same riders always move so fast with the word slung over their backs or in saddlebags, charging down Chinese roads. I carry some words, . . • > some feeling, some life in me. My heart is large as my mind this is a messenger calling, over here, over here, open your eyes and your ears and your souls; today is the history we- must learn to desire. There is no guilt in love 153 s./ •• r NUMEROS, LETRAS Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) Si no estas en casa, idonde estas? iDonde fuiste? iQue hiciste fuera? Cuando vuelvas, preparate una buena excusa. iQug hacias alia, jodiendo con blancas, perdiendo el tiempo con marie as-, dime cuatro verdades para que te comprenda claro, se directo en la calle cuando el sol sale y la luna sale y el viento frio del invierno humedece tus ojos. Di lo que piensas, aclaralo, apixntalo y defiendelo. No puedo decir quien soy a menos que digas que soy real No puedo ser nada que no soy Solo estas palabras apuntan a una vida aun no explicada asl que aqui tienes un poco de emocion mira si te gusta, qud te dice, y esto soy yo. A menos que digas que soy real que puedo sentir que palpita mas fuerte en nuestras almas negras Soy real, y no puedo decir quien Soy. Preguntame si lo se, y te dire si, tal vez diga no. Aun asi, pregunta. Soy Everett LeRoi Jones, de treinta anos. Un negro nigger^ en el universo. Un cantante de mucho aliento, 2 Queens tiene en ingles la doble connotacion de homosexual (loca), y es asimismo un conocido barrio bianco de Nueva York. 3 nigger tiene en ingles una fuerte connotacion peyorativa. 0)5 4 u aspirante a bailarin, fuerte por anos de fantasia y estudio. Todo este tiempo para llegar a esto. Todo aquel desperdicio de dter bianco, relojes fantasmas labios secos y rehumedecidos, ojos abiertos y cerrados, bocas rumiantes. Soy un hombre meditativo. Y cuando digo algo todo yo lo digo, y todo lo que me ha hecho, me ha formado, me ha coloreado esta brillante noche rojiza. No dire nada que sienta que es mentira, o no estd probado por los mismos relojes fantasmas, por los mismos jinetes siempre se mueven tan rapido con la palabra colgando de sus espaldas o las alforjas, atacando caminos chinos. Llevo conmigo palabras, sentimientos, un poco de vida. Mi corazon es grande como mi mente, es un mensajero llamandote, aqui, aqui, abre tus ojos y tus oidos y tus almas; hoy es la historia que debemos aprender a desear. No hay culpa en el amor ^5^1 v ' ~ ' - S . / POSTLUDE/HOME4 Edward Brathwaite Where then is the nigger’s home ? In Paris Brixton Kingston Rome? Here? Or in Heaven? What crime his dark dividing skin is hiding? What guilt now drives him on? Will exile never end? Will these spent tears, poor pauper's pence, earn him a little solace here bought if not given? When the release from fear, bent back unhealing his tory? What final peace consumes his 4 from Edward Brathwaite, Rights of Passage (London: Oxford University Press, 1967). 156 ancient fury? So dreams so embers, ashes, smoke. The memories are cold: the old unflamed remains of Tom we sometimes j oke about. What we can't touch will never be enough for us to shout about, who live with God less rock the shock of dis possession . For we who have cre ated nothing, must exist on nothing; cannot see the soil: good earth, God's earth, with out that fixed locked mem- srsy ory of love less toil, strength des troyed, chained to the sun like a snail to its shell and the hatred it dragged in its trail. So late in the evenin’, home fires burnin', lonely hearts pinin’, the diner is winin’, and his driver is jacked on the dark blue tracks of his flat mistress’ flesh; we, winnin’, we dinner, is pick up we tools fuh the hit an’ run raid an’ you better look out for you wallet. An’ watchin’ me brother here sharpen ’e blade, .158 I is find meself wonderin' if Tawia Tutu Anokye or Tom could1a ever have live such a life. (159 EPILOGO/EN CASA Edward Brathwaite iDonde esta pues el hogar del negro? iEn Paris Brixton Kingston Roma? iAqui? £0 en el Cielo? iQue crimen esconde su oscura partida piel? £Que culpa le empuja ahora a seguir? iNunca el exilio terminard? £Le devengaran estas gastadas ldgrimas, peniques de pobre indigente, un poco de consuelo comprado si no otorgado? iPara cuando la absolucion del miedo, de la espada doblada historia irre- conciliada? £Qu6 paz final consume su antigua furia? Y asi sus suenos •160 asi sus chispas sus cenizas, humo. Los recuerdos estan frios: los viejos restos apagados de Tom del que a veces nos re linos. De lo que no podemos alcanzar nunca podremos dejar de gritar, nosotros que vivimos como una roca sin Dios el shock de los des- poseidos. Pues nosotros que nada he- mos creado^ debemos vivir de nada; no podemos ver el suelo: la buena tierra, la tierra de Dios, sin ^Estos versos repiten el tema de Aim6 Cesaire "Ceux qui n'ont invente la poudre ni la boussole” en su poema Cahier d’un retour au pays natal 161 aquel recuerdo fijado, tra- bado de un tra- bajo penoso, de un vigor des- truido, encadenados al sol como un caracol a su concha y el odio que arrastro en su rastro. Tan tarde por la noche, los fuegos quemando en los hogares, corazones solitarios languideciendo, el comensa1 bebe vino y su chofer se alza en los oscuros y azules vestigios de la carne plana de su amante nosotros ganamos nuestra cena, nos preparamos para el ataque y atacamos y prepdrate y vigila tu cartera 1 62 Y mirame hermano afilando el machete y aqui estoy preguntdndome si Tawia Tutu Anoyke o Tom podrian nunca haber llevado una vida como esta, Cl 6 3 HOMECOMING6 Edward Brathwaite And so without my cloth, shoulders uncovered to this new doubt and desert I return, expecting nothing; my name burnt out, a cinder on my shoulder. No clan or kinsman turns my self respect into a claw, a tooth, a dagger; even my skin now sheds its shame; like a snake the eyes do not wink away; whips do not flinch from what they will destroy: strips, strips of flesh, flash of the black forked tongue licking these scars, this salt red liquor, beaten labour. The jaws of the shackles, clanking bulldog, grapple the starved ankles; walking bone without flesh cannot travel too far. So the stars remain my master's property; moon is a bone 6 from Edward Brathwaite, Islands (London: University Press, 1969). Oxford \164 to howl at; clinks of dew in the grass is the nearest we will get to god. Shackles shackles shackles are my peace, are my home, are my evening song; the hog eats our honour for dinner; the caged cat's fever hides our fears though its slit eyes hate us; for like him we have no name to call us home, no turbulence to bring us soft ly past these bars to miracle, to god, to unexpected lover. .165 VUELTA A CASA Edward Brathwaite Y asi sin ropa con los hombros al descubierto a esta duda nueva y desierto nuevo vuelvo, esperando nada; mi nombre quemado, ceniza en mi hombro. Ningun clan ni parientes transforman mi propia estima en garra, en diente, en punal; hasta mi piel ahora muda su verguenza; como una serpiente los ojos no parpa- dean; los latigos no se desvian de lo que destruiran: tiras, tiras de carne, destello de la negra lengua hendida lamiendo estas cicatrices, este licor salado y rojo, trabajo apaleado. Las bocas de los grilletes, buldog estridente, amarran los ddbiles tobillos; hueso andante sin carne no puede viajar lejos. Asi las estrellas continuan propiedad de mi amo; la luna es un hueso por el que aullamos; tanidos de rocio en la hierba es lo mas que nos acercaremos a Dios. (166 Grilletes grilletes grilletes son mi paz, son mi casa, son mi canto del anochecer; el puerco come nuestro honor para cenar; la fiebre del gato enjaulado esconde nuestros miedos aunque sus ojos rasgados nos odian; pues como el no tenemos nombre por el que puedan llamarnos a casa, ni turbulencia que nos lleve sua- vemente mas alia de estas rejas al milagro, a Dios, al amante inesperado. from CAHIER D'UN RETOUR AU PAYS NATAL7 Aime Cesaire Partir. Mon coeur bruissait de gdndrositds empha- tiques. Partir...j’arriverais lisse et jeune dans ce pays mien et je dirais a ce pays dont le limon entre dans la composition de ma chair: "J'ai longtemps err§ et je reviens vers la hideur desertde de vos plaies." Je viendrais a ce pays mien et je lui dirais: "Embrassez-moi sans crainte...Et si je ne sais que parler, c ’est pour vous que je parlerai." Et je lui dirais encore: "Ma bouche sera la bouche des malheurs qui n'ont point de bouche, mavoix, la libertd de celles qui s’affais- sent au cachot du ddsespoir." Et venant j e me dirais a moi-m'eme: "Et surtout mon corps aussi bien que mon ame, ga.rdez- vous de vous croiser les bras en 1’attitude sterile du spactateur, car la vie n'est pas un spectacle, car une mer de douleurs n ’est pas un proscenium, car un homme qui crie n'est pas un ours qui danse..." Et voici que je suis Venu! 7 from Aime Cesaire, Cahier d ’un retour au pays natal (Paris: Presence Africciine, 1971). ,168 V* ^ de CUADERNO DE UN RETORNO AL PAIS NATAL Aime Cesaire Partir.- Mi corazon se hinchaba de generosidades enfaticas. Partir...llegaria liso y joven a este pais mio y le diria a este pais cuyo limon entra en la composicion de mi carne: "He errado mucho tiempo vuelvo al hedor desierto de vuestras llagas." Vendria a este pais mio y le diria: "Abrazddme sin temor...Y si solo sd hablar, es por vosotros que hablard." Y aun le diria: "Mi boca sera la boca de las desgracias que no tienen boca, mi voz, la libertad de aquellas que se hunden en los calabozos del desespero." Y al venir me dird a mi mismo: "Y sobretodo cuerpo mio asi como alma mia, guardaros de cruzaros de brazos con la actitud estdril del espectador pues la vida no es un espectaculo, pues es un mar de dolores no es un proscenio, pues un hombre que grita no es un oso que baila..." iY he aqui que he venido! 0 DAEDALUS, FLY AWAY HOME8 Robert Hayden Drifting night in the Georgia pines, coonskin drum and jubilee banjo. Pretty Malinda, dance with me. Night is juba, night is conjo. Pretty Malinda, dance with me. Night is an African juju man weaving a wish and a weariness together to make two wings. 0 fly away home fly away Do you remember Africa? 0 cleave the air fly away home My gran, he flew back to Africa, just spread his arms and flew away home. Drifting night in the windy pines; night is a laughing, night is a longing. Pretty Malinda, come to me. Night is a mourning juju man weaving a wish and a weariness together to make two wings. 0 fly away home fly away 8 from Abraham Chapman, ed., Black Voices: An Anthology of Afro-American Literature (New York: New American Library, 1968). ;1 70 0 DEDALO, VUELA A CASA Robert Hayden Noche vagabunda en los pinos de Georgia, tambor de mulata y banjo de jubileo. Linda Malinda, baila conmigo. La noehe es juba, la noche es conjo. Linda Malinda, baila conmigo. La noche es un hombre juju africano tejiendo deseo y cansancio para dos alas. Oh vuela a casa vuela £Te acuerdas de Africa? Oh raja el aire vuela a casa Mi padre volvid al Africa, simplemente abrio sus brazos y void a casa. Noche vagabunda en los pinos al viento; la noche es risa, la noche es anhelo. Linda Malinda, ven hacia mi. La noche es un hombre juju afligido tejiendo deseo y cansancio para dos alas. Oh vuela a casa vuela •1 71 HOME9 Ted Joans back with my tribe again i have returned back home again glad to be back with my tribe BLACK back with my tribe my kin where mother/brother/ sister/and father embody all back where everybody is my friend back with my black tribe again yes it is good to be back with my tribe again 9 from Ted Joans, Afrodisia: New Poems (New York: Hill and Wang, 1970). . v _ 1 7 2 EN CASA Ted Joans de vuelta de nuevo con mi tribu he vuelto otra vez a mi casa contento de volver con mi tribu NEGRA de vuelta con mi tribu mi linaje donde madre/hermano hermana/y padre lo incluyen todo de vuelta donde todo el mundo es mi amigo de vuelta con mi tribu negra de nuevo si es bueno estar de vuelta con mi tribu de nuevo 17.3 BACK AGAIN, HOME10 (confessions of an ex-executive) Don Lee Pains of insecurity surround me; shined shoes, conservative suits, button down shirts with silk ties, bi-weekly payroll. Ostracized, but not knowing why; executive haircut, clean shaved, "yes" instead of "yeah" and "no” instead of "naw", hours, nine to five. (after five he’s alone) "Doing an excellent job, keep it up;" promotion made--semi-monthly payroll, very quiet--never talks, budget balanced--saved the company money, quality work--production tops. He looks sick. (but there is a smile in his eyes) He resigned, we wonder why; let his hair grow--a mustache too, out of a job--broke and hungry, friends are coming back--bring food, not quiet now--trying to speak what did he say? "Back Again, BLACK AGAIN, Home." 10from Don Lee, Think Black (Detroit: Broadside Press, 1969). &7’ 4 DE VUELTA, DE NUEVO, EN CASA (confesiones de un ex-ejecutivo) Don Lee Punzadas de inseguridad me rodean; zapatos lustrosos, trajes clasicos, camisas abotonadas con corbatas de seda paga, dos veces por semana. Excluido, sin saber por que corte de pelo a lo ejecutivo bien afeitado, "si" en vez de "siii" y "no" en vez de "naa," horas, de nueve a cinco. (despues de las cinco esta solo) "Trabajo excelente, continue;" le han promovido--paga, cada medio mes, muy silencioso--nunca habla, presupuesto equilibrado--ahorro el dinero de la compania, trabajo de calidad--produceion al tope. Parece enfeno. (pero hay una sonrisa en sus ojos) Dimitio, nos preguntamos ipor que? dejo crecer su pelo--y su bigote tambien, sin trabajo--hambriento y sin una perra, los amigos vuelven:-traen comida, no es silencioso ahora--trata de hablar, ique dijo? "De vuelta De nuevo, NEGRO DE NUEVO, En casa." 17-5 HOMECOMING11 Lenrie Peters The present reigned supreme Like the shallow floods over the gutters Over the raw paths where we had been, The house with the shutters. Too strange the sudden change Of the times we buried when we left The times before we had properly arranged The memories that we kept. Our sapless roots have fed The wind-swept seedlings of another age. Luxuriant weeds have grown where we led The Virgins to the water's edge. There at the edge of the town Just by the burial ground Stands the house without a shadow Lived in by new skeletons. That is all that is left To greet us on the home-coming After we have paced the world And longed for returning. 11 from Gerald Moore and Ulli Beier, eds. , Modern Poetry from Africa (London: Penguin, 1968). T76I Y , ' ' ' VUELTA A CASA Lenrie Peters El presente reinaba supremo Como las inundaciones en las acequias En las sendas peladas donde estuvimos, La casa con los postigos. Demasiado extrano el subito cambio De los tiempos que enterramos al partir Los tiempos anteriores al arreglo conveniente De los recuerdos que guardamos. Nuestras raices sin savia han alimentado Las semillas de otro tiempo barrido por el viento. Hierbajos lujuriantes crecieron donde llevamos A las Virgenes a la orilla del agua. Alld a la orilla de la ciudad Precisamente junto al cementerio Se alza la casa sin sombra Habitada por esqueletos nuevos. Esto es todo lo que quedo Para darnos la bienvenida Despues de haber errado por el mundo Y anhelado el retorno. 177 ■ ..V ’ ■ from RETOUR DE L TENFANT PRODIGUE12 Leopold Senghor VII Elephant de Mbissel, j'applaudis au vide des magasins autour de la haute demeure. J'eclate en applaudissements! Vive la faillite du commer^ant! J ’applaudis a ce bras de mer deserte des ailes blanches - Chassent les crocodiles dans la brousse des profon- deurs, et joaissent en paix les vaches marines! Je brule le seco, la pyramide d'arachides dominant le pays Et le warf dur, cette volonte implacable sur la mer Mais lors je ressuscite la rumeur des troupeaux dans les hennissements et les mugissements La rumeur que module au soir le clair de lune de la flute et des conques Je ressuscite la theorie des servantes sur la rosee Et les grandes calebasses de lait, calmes, sur le rythme des hanches balancdes Je ressuscite la caravane des anes et dromadaires dans, I'odeur du mil et du riz Dans la scintillation des glaces, dans le tintement des visages et des cloches d ?argent. Je ressuscite mes vertus terrienes! VII I Elephant de Mbissel, entends ma priere pieuse. Donne-moi la science fervente des grands docteurs de Tombouctou Donne-moi la volonte de Soni Ali, le fils de la bave du Lion - c'est un raz de marde a la conquete d ’un continent. Souffle sur moi la sagesse des Keita._ Donne-moi le courage du Guelwar et ceins mes reins de force come d'un tyedo. 12from Leopold Senghor, Poernes (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1 964) . 178 Donne-moi de mourir pour la querelle de mon peuple,et s’il le £aut dansl’odeur de la poudre et du canon. Conserve et enracine dans mon coeur liberd 1’amour premier de ce meme peuple. Fais de moi ton Maitre de Langue; mais non, nomme-moi son ambassadeur. IX Soyez bdnis, mes Peres, qui bdnissez l’Enfant prodigue! Je veux revoir le gynecee de droite; j ?y jouais avec les colombes, et avec mes freres les fils du Lion. Ah! de nouveau dormir dans le lit frais de mon enfance Ah! bordent de nouveau mon sommeil les si cheres mains noires Et de nouveau le blanc sourire de ma mere. Demain, je reprendrai le chemin de 1’Europe, chemin de 1T ambassade Dans le regret du Pays noir. 1-7S de RETORNO DEL HIJO PRODIGO Ldopold Senghor VII Elefante de Mbissel, aplaudo las tiendas vacias en torno a la alta morada. iExploto en aplausos! iViva la quiebra del comerciante! Aplaudo este brazo de mar desierto de alas blancas --iQue cacen los cocodrilos en la maleza de las profun- didades, y pazcan en paz las vacas marinas! Quemo el seco, la piramide de aracos dominando el pais Y el warf duro, esta voluntad implacable sobre el mar Pero entonces resucito el rumor de los rebanos en los relinchos y mugidos El rumor que modula por la noche el claro de luna de la flauta y de las conchas Resucito la teoria de las sirvientes sobre el rocio Y las grandes calabazas de leche, quietas, bajo el ritmo de caderas balanceadas Resucito la caravana de los mulos y dromedarios bajo el olor del mijo y del arroz En el centelleo de los cristales, en el retintin de los rostros y campanas de plata. iResucito mis virtudes terrenales! VIII Elefante de Mbissel, escucha mi piadosa plegaria. Dame la ciencia ferviente de los grandes doctores de Tumbuctu Dame la voluntad de Soni Ali, el hijo de la baba del Leon--es una marejada a la conquista de un continente Sopla sobre mi la sabiduria de los Keita. Dame el valor del Guelwar y cineme con la fuerza de un tyedo. Dejame que muera luchando por mi pueblo, y en caso nece- -sario en el olor de la pblvora y el canon. Conserva y arraiga en mi corazon liberado el amor primero de este mismo pueblo. Hdz de mi tu Maestro de Lenguas; mejor, ndmbrame su embajador. IX jBenditos seais, Padres mios que bendecis al Hijo prodigo! ■18.0 Quiero ver de nuevo el gineceo del lado derecho; alii jugaba con las palomas y mis hermanos los hijos del Leon. iAhl dormir de nuevo en el lecho fresco de mi infancia iAhl de nuevo pueblan mi sueno las manos negras tan queridas Y de nuevo la blanca sonrisa de mi madre. Manana, reemprendere el camino de Europa, carnino de la embajada En la anoranza del Pais negro. 181 ✓ REDECOUVERTE1 3 Guy Tirolien Je reconnals mon lie pl'Ste et qui n ’a pas bouge. Voici les trois llets, et voici la grande Anse. Voici derriere le Fort les bombardes rouillSes. Je suis come l ’anguille flairant les vents sales et qui tate le pouls des courants. Salut, lie I C'est moi. Voici ton enfant qui revient. Par-dela la ligne blanche des brisants, et plus loin que les vagues aux paupieres de feu, je reconnals ton corps brule par les embruns. J'ai souvent §voqud la douceur de tes plages tandis que sous mes pas crissait le sable du dessert. Et tous les fleuves du Sahel ne me sont rien aupres de 1'etang frais ou je lave ma peine. Salut terre matese, terre dematee! Ce n ’est pas le limon que 1' on cultive ici, ni les fecondes alluvions. C ’est un sol sec, que mon sang meme n ’a pas su attendrir, et qui geint sous le soc comme femme eventrde. Le salaire de l’homme ici, ce n ’est pas cet argent qui tinte clair, un soir de paye, c'est le soir qui flotte incertain au sommet des cannes saoules de sucre. Car rien n'a changes. Les mouches sont toujours lourdes de vesou, et l’air charge de sueur. 13from Lilyan Kesteloot, ed., Antologie negro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs du XXierne siecle (Verviers, Belgium: Gdrard, 1967). ,18 2 REDESCUBRIMIENTO Guy Tirolien Reconozco mi isla liana y que no se ha movido. Aqui estdn los tres islotes y aqui estd la Gran Ansa. Y aqui detras del Fuerte las bombardas oicidadas. Soy como la anguila que olfatea los vientos salados y toma el pulso de las corrientes. iSalud, isla! Soy yo. Soy tu hijo que vuelve. Mds alld de la linea blanca de los escollos, y mas lejos de las olas de parpados de fuego, reconozco tu cuerpo quemado por los vientos. A menudo evoque la dulzura de tus playas mientras bajo mis pasos rechinaba la arena del desierto. Y todos los rios del Sahel no son nada al lado del estanque fresco dondo lavo mi pena. ISalud tierra arbolada, tierra desarbolada! No es-el limon que se cultiva aqui, ni los fecundos aluviones. Es un suelo seco que mi misma sangre no ha podido enternecer, y que gime bajo el arado como una mujer abierta. El salario del hombre aqui, no es el dinero que tintinea, una noche de paga, sino la noche que flota incierta en la cumbre de las canas ebrias de azdcar. Pues nada ha cambiado. 1 4 Los moscas continuan hinchadas de guarapo, y el aire cargado de sudor. 14 guarapo: jugo del azticar de cana. •183 SONG OF THE SON15 Jean Toomer Pour 0 pour that parting soul in song, 0 pour it in the sawdust glow of night, Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night, And let the valley carry it along. And let the valley carry it along. 0 land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree, So scant of grass, so profligate of pines, Now just before an epoch’s sun declines Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee, Thy son, I have in time returned to thee. In time, for though the sun is setting on A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set; Though late, 0 soil, it is not too late yet To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone, Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone. 0 Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums, Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air, Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes An everlasting song, a singing tree, Caroling softly souls of slavery, What they were, and what they are to me, Caroling softly souls of slavery. 1 5 from Jean Toomer, Cane (New York: Harper 8 Row, 1 969) . •■18 4 CANCION DEL HIJO Jean Toomer Vacia en la cancion el alma que se va, Vaciala en la luz lisa de la noche, En la aterciopelada brisa de los pinos esta noche, Y deja que el valle se lleve la cancidn. Y deja que el valle se lleve la cancidn. Oh tierra y suelo, suelo rojo y drbol de olorosa goma, Tan escaso en cdsped, tan disipado en pinos, Antes de que el sol de una era decline A tiempo, hijo tuyo, he vuelto a ti, A tiempo, hijo tuyo, he vuelto a ti. A tiempo, pues aunque el sol esti. declinando en Una raza de esclavos que canta, aun no declind; Aunque tarde, oh suelo, no es tan tarde aun Para atrapar tu alma doliente que se va, Para atrapar tu alma doliente que se va. Oh esclavos negros, oscuras ciruelas maduras, Comprimidas, reventando en el aroma de los pinos, A su paso, antes de despojar al viejo arbol Me reservaron una ciruela y su semilla se vuelve Cancion perdurable, arbol que canta, Almas de esclavos celebrando lentamente, Lo que fueron y lo que para mi son, Almas de esclavos celebrando lentamente. HOMECOMING: ANSE LA RAYE16 (for Garth St Omer) Derek Walcott Whatever else we learned at school, like solemn Afro-Greeks eager for grades, of Helen and the shades of borrowed ancestors, there are no rites for those who have returned, only, when her looms fade, drilled in our skulls, the doom- surge-haunted nights, only this well-known passage under the coconuts’ salt-rusted swords, these rotted leathery sea-grape leaves, the seacrabs1 brittle helmets, and this barbecue of branches, like the ribs of sacrificial oxen on scorched sand; only this fish-gut reeking beach whose spindly, sugar-headed children race whose starved, pot-bellied children race pelting up from the shallows because your clothes, your posture seem a tourist’s. They swarm like flies round your heart’s sore. Suffer them to come, entering your needle's eye, knowing whether they live or die, what others make of life will pass them by like that far silvery freighter threading the horizon like a toy; for once, like them, you wanted no career but this sheer light, this clear, infinite, boring, paradisal sea, but hoped it would mean something to declare today, I am your poet, yours, all this you knew, 1 f \ from Derek Walcott, The Gulf: Poems by Derek Walcott (New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1970). &8G but never guessed you'd come to know there are homecomings without home. You give them nothing. Their curses melt in air. The black cliffs scowl, the ocean sucks its teeth, like that dugout canoe a drifting petal fallen in a cup, with nothing but its image, you sway, reflecting nothing. The freighter’s silvery ghost is gone, the children gone. Dazed by the sun you trudge back to the village past the white, salty esplanade under whose palms, dead fishermen move their draughts in shade, crossing, eating their islands, and one, with a politician's ignorant, sweet smile, nods, as if all fate swayed in his lifted hand. \ 1$ 7 . VUELTA A CASA: ANSE LA RAYE Cpara Garth St Omer) Derek Walcott A pesar de lo que aprendimos en la escuela, como solemnes a£ro-griegos avidos de buenas notas, sobre Helena y las sombras de los antepasados prestados, no hay ritos para aqudllos que hemos vuelto, solo, cuando la presencia de Helena se desvanece, taladrado en nuestros craneos, las noches atormentadas por olas de perdicion, solo este famoso pasaje bajo los sables de los cocoteros enmohecidos de sal, estas podridas y curtidas hojas de uva de mar, los fragiles yelmos de los cangrejos de mar y esta barbacoa de ramas, como las costillas del buey sacrificado sobre la arena chamuscada; s61o esta playa apestando a tripas de pescado con larguiruchos ninos de cabeza de azucar que corren con hambrientos ninos de barriga hinchada que corren agolpdndose desde el bajlo porque tu ropa, tu postura parece la de un turista. Pululan como moscas alrededor de la llaga de tu corazon. Sufrelos que vengan, entrando por la aguja de tus ojos, pues sabes que tanto si viven como si mueren, ignoraran lo que los demas hacen de su vida como no saben de aquel lejano carguero plateado enfilando el horizonte como un juguete; pues hace tiempo tu, como ellos, no quisiste carrera ninguna sino esta luz transparente, este claro mar infinito, aburrido, paradisiaco, esperaste que tendria algun sentido declarar hoy, soy vuestro poeta, vuestro, todo esto lo sabias, pero nunca sospechaste que vendrias a aprender que hay vueltas a casa sin hogar. .18 8 No les das nada. Sus maldiciones se deshacen en el aire. Los negros acantilados se enfurrunan, el oceano sorbe sus dientes y como aquella piragua-canoa, petalo a la deriva caido en una copa con nada sino su imagen, te tambaleas sin reflejar nada. El fantasma del carguero plateado se ha ido, los ninos se han ido. Aturdido por el sol, caminas fatigado de vuelta al pue blo mas alld de la blanca esplanada de sal bajo cuyas palmeras, Pescadores marchitos juegan a las damas en la sombra, cruzando, comiendo sus islas y uno, con la sonrisa ignorante y dulce del politico, me saluda como si el destino todo se tambaleara en su brazo levantado. 189^ CHAPTER V POETRY OP AFIRMATION 19 0 BLACK ART1 Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) Poems are bullshit unless they are teeth or trees or lemons piled on a step. Or black ladies dying of men leaving nickel hearts beating them down. Fuck poems and they are useful, wd they shoot come at you, love what you are, breathe like wrestlers, or shudder strangely after pissing. We want live words of the hip world live flesh § coursing blood. Hearts Brains Souls splintering fire. We want poems like fists beating niggers out of Jocks or dagger poems in the slimy bellies of the owner-jews. Black poems to smear on girdlemamma mulatto bitches , whose brains are red jelly stuck between 'lizabeth taylor's toes. Stinking Whores! We want "poems that kill." Assassin poems, Poems that shoot guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys and take their weapons leaving them dead with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland. Knockoff poems for dope selling wops or slick halfwhite politicians Airplane poems, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh . . .rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr;..Setting fire and death to whities ass. Look at the Liberal Spokesman for the jews clutch his throat § puke himself into eternity...rrrrrrrr There's a negroleader pinned to a bar stool in Sardi's eyeballs melting in hot flame Another negroleader on the steps of the white house one kneeling between the sheriff's thighs negotiating cooly for his people. Agggh... stumbles across the room... Put it on him, poem. Strip him naked to the world! Another bad poem cracking steel knuckles in a jewlady's mouth Poem scream poison gas on beasts in green berets i from Amiri Baraka, Black Magic Poetry: 1961- 1967 (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merril, 1969). a 91 Clean out the world for virtue and love, Let there be no love poems written until love can exist freely and cleanly. Let Black People understand that they are the lovers and the sons of lovers and warriors and sons of warriors Are poems poets § all the loveliness here in the world We want a black poem. And a Black World. Let the world be a Black Poem. And Let All Black People Speak This Poem Silently or LOUD vl.9 2 ARTE NEGRO Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) Los poemas son mierda si no son dientes o drboles o limones amontonados en un peldano. 0 damas muriendo por hombres dejdndoles corazones de nikel apaledndolas. Jodepoemas y se hacen dtiles, si se descargan se corren sobre ti, aman lo que eres, jadean como luchadores, o se estremecen extranamente despues de mear. Queremos palabras vivas del mundo hip carne viva £ sangre ardiente. Corazones Sesos Almas astillando fuego. Queremos poemas como punos sacando a negros a palos de Jocks o poemas puhales en las viscosas barrigas de los comerciantes judios. Poemas negros para tiznar a gordas mamas perras mulatas cuyos sesos son mermelada roja pegada entre los dedos de los pies de 'lizabet taylor. [Putas malolie.ntesl Queremos "poemas que maten." Poemas asesinos, Poemas que descarguen tiros. Poemas que jadeen con policias en los calle- jones y cojan sus armas dejandoles muertos con la lengua sacada y mandada a Irlanda. Liquida- poemas para traficantes mafiosos o poemas Aeroplanos para astutos politicos medio-blancos, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh ...rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...echandole fuego y muerte alculo del blanquito. Mira al Liberal Portavoz de los judios agarrarse el cuello y vomitarse en la eternidad...rrrrrrrr Hay un lidernegro clavado en el bar de Sardi con ojos derritidndose en llama ardiente Otro lidernegro en los peldanos de la casa blanca uno de rodillas entre las piernas del sheriff friamente negociando por su gente. Agggh...da traspids por el cuarto... Dale, poema. Dejalo en cueros ante el mundoI Otro poema malo machacando con nudillos de acero la boca de una judia Poema grita envenena asfixia a los bestias boinas ver- des Limpia el mundo en busca de virtud y amor, Que no se escriban poemas de amor £193 hasta que el amor pueda existir libre y limpio. Que el Pueblo Negro comprenda que son amantes e hijos de amantes y guerreros e hijos de guerreros Son poemas § poetas § toda la hermosura aqui en el mundo Queremos un poema negro. Y un Mundo Negro. Dejemos que el mundo sea un Poema Negro. Y Dejemos que Todo el Pueblo Negro Hable Este Poema En silencio o A GRITOS a 94 THE BLACK MAN IS MAKING NEW GODS2 Amiri Baraka CLeRoi Jones) Atheist jews double crossers stole our secrets crossed the white desert white to spill them and turn into wops and Bulgarians, The Fag’s Death they give us on a cross. To worship. Our dead selves in disguise. They give us to worship a dead j ew and not ourselves chained to the bounties of inhuman mad chains of dead jews and their wishes and their escape with our power with our secrets and knowledge they turn into loud signs advertising empty factories the empty jew betrays us, as he does hanging stupidly from a cross, in an oven, the pantomime of our torture, so clearly, cinemascope the jews do it big, hail the whiteness of their waking up unhip no ties with the black holy ghost who created them from the dirt on a bum hunch the shit would be useful. These robots drag a robot in the image of themselves, to be ourselves, serving their dirty image. Selling fried potatoes and people, the arty little bastards talking arithmetic they sucked from the arab1s 2 from Amiri Baraka, Black Magic Poetry: 1961- 1967.(Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merril, 1969). 195 head. Suck you pricks. The best is yet to come. On how we beat you and killed you and tied you up. And marked this specimen "Dangerous Germ Culture.r' And put you back in a cold box. : 19 6 EL HOMBRE NEGRO ESTA HACIENDO NUEVOS DIOSES Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) Los judios ateos traidores robaron nuestros secretos cruzaron el bianco desierto bianco para verterlos y convertirlos en wops^ y bdlgaros. La Muerte del Marica nos la dan en una cruz. Para adorar. Nuestros yoes muertos disfrazados. Nos la dan para adorar a un judio muerto y no a nosotros encadenados a la merced de inhumanas y locas cadenas de judios muertos y sus deseos y su huida con nuestro poder nuestros secretos y saber se vuelven senales ruidosas anunciando fabricas vacias el judio vacio nos traiciona, como cuando cuelga estdpido de una cruz, en un horno, la pantomina de nuestra tortura, muy claro, en cinemascope los judios lo hacen a lo grande, aclaman la blancura de su torpe despertar sin vinculos con el esplritu santo negro que los creo del fango de un empuj6n la mierda seria util. 3 wop: termino derogativo que se utiliza para designar a los emigrantes italianos. 7T37 Estos robots arrastran un robot a su propia imagen, para ser nosotros, sirviendo su sucia imagen. Vendiendo patatas fritas y gente, estos necios bastardos artistas hablan de la aritm§tica chupada de la cabeza del arabe. Chuparos la polla. Lo mejor estd aun por llegar. Sobre como os apaleamos y matamos y amarramos. Y marcamos la muestra "Cultura de Gdrmenes Peligrosos". Y os devolvemos en una caja fria. .19 8 THE AWAKENING4 Edward Brathwaite Asase Yaa, Earth, if I am going away now, you must help me. Divine Drummer, ’Kyerema, if time sends me walking that dark path again, you must help me. If I sleep, you must knock me awake... and as the cock now cries in the early dawn so slowly slowly ever so slowly I will rise and stand on my feet slowly slowly ever so slowly I will rise and stand on my feet like akoko the cock like akoko the cock who cries who cries in the morning akoko bon1opa akoko tua bon 4from Edward Brathwaite,' Masks (London: Oxford University Press, 1968). 19S I am learning let me succeed I am learning let me succeed... <2 O'O EL DESPERTAR Edward Brathwaite Asase Yaa, Tierra, si me voy ahora, debes ayudarme. Tambor Divino, ’Kyerema, si el tiempo me manda a andar de nuevo aquel camino oscuro, tu debes ayudarme. Si me duermo, debes despertarme de un golpe... y mientras el gallo ahora grita en la madrugada tan despacio despacio siempre tan despacio me levantare y estare de pie despacio despacio siempre tan despacio me levantare y estar§ de pid como akoko el gallo como akoko el gallo que grita que grita por la manana akoko bon'opa akoko tua bon estoy aprendiendo ddjame triumfar 2 01 estoy aprendiendo dejame triumfar.. . { 2 0 2 TOM5 Edward Brathwaite So many seeds the cotton breeds so many seeds our fathers need. Grow on, cotton lands go on to the bottom lands where the quick cassava grows where the sick back dries, where no one knows if he lives or dies. Blow on cotton blues sun dries the dews on the green on the grass on the pasture and something seen on the wet grass the cool pasture recalls the salt dream the yellow waves awash on our shore. Drown the screams, shore cool the lashed sore, keep the dream pure 5from Edward Brathwaite, Rights of Passage (London: Oxford University Press, 1967). 2 03 V - ' ' ■ for we who have achieved nothing work who have not built dream who have forgotten all dance and dare to remember the paths we shall never remember again: Atumpan talking and the harvest branch es, all the tribes of Ashanti dreaming the dream of Tutu, Anokye and the Golden Stool, built in Heaven for our nation by the work of lightning and the brilliant adze: and now nothing nothing nothing so let me sing nothing now let me remember nothing now let me suffer nothing to remind me now of my lost children but let them rise 0 man 0 god 0 dawning let my children rise in the path of the morning up and go forth on the road of the morning run through the fields in the sun of the morning, see the rainbow of Heaven: ,2 04 God's curved mourning calling. But help less my children are caught leader- less are taught fool ishness and use lessness and sorrow. 0 weak the flame bitter the flower- blossoms blown in the blind path And I timid Tom father founder flounderer speak their shame their lack of power But weak 0 weak no crack in the chain starts no bitter flame marks my wrath. So I who have created nothing but these worthless weeds, these need less seeds, work; who have built but on silt, but on sand, but on luckless salt, dream; who have forgotten all 205 mouth "Massa, yes Massa, yes Boss, yes Baas” and hold my hat in hand to hide my heart hoping my children’s eyes will learn not green alone not Africa alone not dark alone not fear alone but Cortez and Drake Magellan and that Ferdinand the sailor who pierced the salt seas to this land. .2.06 TOM Edward Brathwaite Tantas semillas produce el algoddn tantas semillas necesitan nuestros padres. Crecdd, tierras algodoneras iros a las tierras baj as donde la casava crece rapida donde el cerro enfermo se seca, donde nadie sabe si vive o muere. Florecgd blues de algodon el sol seca el rocxo del cesped de la hierba de los pastes y algo visto en la tierra humeda en el pasto fresco recuerda el sueno de sal las olas amarillas en nuestra costa. Ahoga los gritos, la costa refresca la llaga del latigo, conserva pura la ilusidn pues los que nada hemos obtenido trabaj amos los que nada hemos construido sonamos los que todo hemos olvidado bailado y osamos rememorar las sendas que nunca jamas reme- moraremos: Atumpan hablando y las ramas de la cose- cha, todas las tribus de Ashanti sonando el sueno de Tutu, Anoyke y el Banquillo Dorado, hecho en el Cielo por el rayo y la brillante azuela para nuestra nacion: y ahora nada nada nada asi que dejadme cantar nada ahora dejadme rememorar nada ahora dejadme sufrir nada para recordarme ahora de mis hijos perdidos pero dejddles levantarse Oh hombre Oh dios Oh aurora dejad a mis hijos levantarse en la senda de la manana arriba y adelante en el camino de la manana correr por los campos bajo el sol de la manana, contemplar el arcoiris del Cielo: ''2 08 W'- la encorvada llamada de luto de Dios. Pero mis hijos estan desva- lidos, atrapa- dos , sin guia, solo saben neceda- des , inutili- dades y penas Oh llama deb il amargos capullos en £lor soplados en el ciego sendero Y yo timido Tom padre fundador vacildn hablo de su verguenza su carencia de poder Pero debil Oh debil no hay raja en las cade- nas ninguna llama amarga marca mi ira. Asi que yo que nada he creado sino estos rastrojos inutiles, estas semillas innecesarias, trabajo; yo que he construido sobre aluviones, sobre arena, sobre sal sin fortuna, sueho; yo que todo he olvidado '20,9 declamo "Si, Patron si, Patron s1 , Amo,s 1 , Amo" y estrecho mi sombrero en la mano para esconder mi coraz6n esperando que los ojos de mis hijos aprenderan no solo el verde no solo el Africa no solo lo oscuro no solo el miedo pero a Cortes y Drake Magallanes y a aquel Fernando el marinero que atraveso los mares salados hasta esta tierra. -210 STRONG MEN6 Sterling A. Brown The strong men keep coming-- Sandburg They dragged you from homeland, They chained you in coffles, They huddled you spoon-fashion in filthy hatches, They sold you to give a few gentlemen ease. They broke you in like oxen, They scourged you, They branded you, They made your women breeders, They swelled your numbers with bastards... They taught you the religion they disgraced. You sang: Keep a-inchin' along Lak a po'inch worm... You sang: Bye and bye I'm gonna lay down dis heaby load... You sang: Walk togedder, chillen, Donteha git weary... The strong men keep a-comjn' on The strong men git stronger They point with pride to the roads you built for them, They ride in comfort over the rails you laid for them. They put hammers in your hands And said--Drive so much before sundown. You sang: Ain't no hammah In dis lan', Strikes lak mine, bebby, Strikes lak mine. from Abraham Chapman, ed., Black Voices: An Anthology of Afro-American Literature (New York: New American Library, 1968). <211 They cooped you in their kitchens, They penned you in their factories, They gave you the jobs that they were too good for, They tried to guarantee happiness to themselves By shunting dirt and misery to you. You sang: Me an' muh baby gonna shine, shine Me an’ muh baby gonna shine. The strong men keep a-cornin' on The strong men git stronger.." They bought off some of your leaders You stumbled, as blind men will... They coaxed you, unwontedly soft-voiced... You followed a way. Then laughed as usual. They heard the laugh and wondered; Uncomfortable; Unadraitting a deeper terror... The strong men keep a cornin' on Gittin' stronger. . . What, from the slums Where they have hemmed you, What, from the tiny huts They could not keep from you-- What reaches them Making them ill at ease, fearful? Today they shout prohibition at you "Thou shalt not this" "Thou shalt not that" "Reserved for whites only” You laugh. One thing they cannot prohibit-- The strong men...coming on, The strong men gittin' stronger Strong men... STRONGER... ',212 ^_ HOMBRES FUERTES Sterling A, Brown Hombres fuertes cont : i nfian viniendo - -Sandburg Os arrancaron de vuestra tierra, Os encadenaron en caravanas, Os amontonaron como cucharas en compuertas inmundas, Os vendieron para enriquecer a unos pocos senores. Os forzaron como a bueyes, Os azotaron, Os marcaron, Impregnaron a vuestras mujeres, Os dieron bastardos... Os ensenaron la religidn que deshonraban. Vosotros cantdsteis: Poco a poco, poco a poco Como un pobre gusanito... Vosotros cantdsteis: Ahora Voy a deshacerme de este fardo... Vosotros cantdsteis: Caminad juntos, hijos, No os rindais... Hombres fuertes continuan Viniendo Hombres fuertes que se hacen mas~Tucrtes. Senalan con orgullo los caminos que les hicisteis, Ruedan confortables por las rias que les tendisteis. Pusieron martillos en vuestras manos Y dijeron--Empuja hasta la puesta de sol. Vosotros cantasteis: No hay martillo En esta tierra, Que golpee como el mlo, companero, Que golpee como el mio. Os enjaularon en sus cocinas, Os acorralaron en sus fdbricas, Os dieron los trabajos que ellos desechaban, Trataron de asegurarse su propia felicidad Mandandoos a vosotros la mugre y la miseria. 213 Vosotros cantasteis: Mi nina y yo nos luciremos, nos luciremos Mi nifia y yo vamos a lucirnos. Hombres fuertes continuan viniendo Hombres fuertes que se hacen mis fuertes... Compraron a algunos de vuestros lideres Tropezasteis, como lo harian los ciegos... Os adularon, raramente suaves.,. Os reisteis como de costnmbre. Oyeron vuestra risa y se asombraron; Inconfortables; Sin admitir un terror mas profundo... Hombres fuertes continuan viniendo Haciendose mas fuertes..T iQue, desde los barrios bajos Donde os han reducido, iQue, desde las minusculas chozas Que no pudieron denegaros-- iQue llega hasta ellos iQue los vuelve tan incdmodos, temerosos? Hoy os gritan prohibiciones "No hagais esto" "No hagdis aquello" "Reservado para blancos solo" Os reis. Una cosa hay que no pueden prohibir-- Hombres fuertes...e st an Viniendo Hombres fuertes hacidndose mas fuertes. Hombres fuertes.., MAS FUERTES... v ^ from CAHI-ER D ' UN RETOUR AU PAYS NATAL7 Aim§ Cesaire Je dis hurrah! La vieille nigritude progressivement se cadavirise 1'horizon se defait, recule et s'ilargit et voici parmi des dichirements de nuages la fulgurance d'un signe le negrier craque de toute part... Son ventre se convulse et resonne...L'affreux tenia de sa cargaison ronge les boyaux fit ides de l’itrange nourrisson des mers! Et ni l'alligresse des voiles gonflies come une poche de doublons rebondie, ni les tours joues a la sottise dangereuse des frigates policieres ne 1'empechent d'entendre la menace de ses grondements intestins En vain pour s1en distraire le capitaine pend a sa ^ grand'vergue le negre le plus braillard ou le jette a la mer, ou le livre "h l’appetit de ses molosses La negraille aux senteurs d'oignon frit retrouve dans son sang repandu le gout amer de la liberti Et elle est debout la nigraille la negraille assise inattendument debout debout dans la cale debout dans les cabines debout sur le pont debout dans le vent debout sous le soleil debout dans le sang debout et libre debout et non point pauvre folle dans sa liberti et son denuement maritimes girant en la dirive parfaite et la voici: plus inattendument debout debout dans les cordages debout a la barre debout a la boussole 7from Aime Cesaire, Cahier d'un retour au pays natal (Paris: Presence Africaine, 1971). [ 2 1 5 debout a la carte debout sous les etoiles debout et libre et le navire lustral s1avancer impavide sur les eaux dcrouldes. 216 de CUADERNO DE UN RETORNO AL PAIS NATAL Aim§ Cesaire iDigo hurrah! la vieja negrit.ud progresivamente se vuelve cadaver el horizonte se deshace, retrocede y se ensancha y he aqui entre los desgarramientos de las nubes el fulgor de un signo el negrero cruje por todas partes...su vientre se con- vulsiona y resuena...I La horrenda tenia de su carga- mento roe las £6tidas tripas del extrano nino de pecho de los mares! Y ni la alegria de las velas hinchadas como un abultado bolso de doblones, ni las bromas gastadas a la tonteria peligrosa de las fregatas de la policia no le impiden oir la amenaza de sus grunidos intestinos En vano para distraerse el capitdn cuelga en su palo mayor al negro mds gritdn o lo echa al mar o lo libra al apetito de sus molosos La negreria que huele a cebolla frita reencuentra en su sangre derramada el gusto amargo de la libertad Estd de pi6, la negreria la negreria sentada inesperadamente de pi§ de pie en la cala de pi6 en las cabinas de pie sobre el puente de pie en el viento de pie bajo el sol de pie en la sangre de pie y libre de pi<§ y no como una pobre loca en su libertad y su indigencia maritima girando en la deriva perfecta y he-la aqui: mas inesperadamente de pi6 de pi6 en los cordajes de pi£ ante el timon de pie ante la brujula de pie ante el mapa .-•21 7 de pi§ bajo las estrellas de pie y 1 ibre y el navio lustral avanza inpdvido sobre las aguas derrumbadas. from CAHIER D'UN RETOUR AU PAYS NATAL8 218 Aime Cesaire Et nous sommes debout maintenant, mon pays et moi, les cheveux dans le vent, ma main petite maintenant dans son poing dnorme et la force n ’est pas en nous, mais au-dessus de nous, dans une voix qui vrille la nuit et 1'audience comme la pdndtrance d'une guepe apocalyptique. Et la voix prononce que 1*Europe nous a pendant des siecles gavds de mensonges et gonfles de pesti lences , car il n'est point vrai que l'oeuvre de l’homme est f inie que nous n ’avons rien a faire au monde que nous parasitons le monde qu’il suffit que nous nous mettions au pas du monde mais l’oeuvre de l’homme vient seulement de commencer et il reste a l'homme li conqudrir toute interdiction immobilisee aux coins de sa ferveur et aucune race ne possede le monopole de la beaute, de 1'intelligence, de la force ^ et il est place pour tous au rendez-vous de la conquete et nous savons maintenant que le soleil tourne autour de notre terre eclairant la parcelle qu'a fixee notre volontd seule et que toute dtoile chute de ciel en terre a notre commandement sans limite. ^frorn Aime Cesaire, Cahier d ’un retour au pays natal (Paris: Presence Africaine, 1971). .219 de CUADERNO DE UN RETORNO AL PAIS NATAL Aimd Cesaire Y estamos de pid ahora, mi pais y yo, los cabellos al viento, mi mano pequena ahora en su puno enorme, y la fuerza no estd en nosotros, sino sobre nosotros, en una voz que penetra la noche y la audiencia como la picada de una avispa apocaliptica. Y la voz pronuncia que Europa durante siglos nos ha cebado de menti- ras e hinchado de pestilencias. pues no es verdad que la obra del hombre estd terminada que no tengamos nada que hacer en el mundo que parasitemos el mundo que basta que nos acoplemos al paso del mundo sino que la obra del hombre acaba solo de comenzar y le queda al hombre conquistar toda prohibicidn inmobilizada en los rincones de su fervor y ninguna raza posee el monopolio de la belleza, inteligencia y fuerza y hay lugar para todos en la cita de la conquista y sabemos ahora que el sol da vueltas alrededor de nuestra tierra iluminando la parcela que nuestra voluntad sola ha fijado y que toda estrella cae del cielo a la tierra segun nuestro mandato sin limite. BIENTOT9 Leon Damas Bientot je n'aurai bientot pas que dans6 je n ’aurai bientot pas que frotte je n'aurai bient'ot pas que tremp§ je n ’aurai chante pas que danse frotte trempS frotte chante danse bientot ^from Lilyan Kesteloot, ed. , Antologie ndgro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs du XXieme siecle (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967). PRONTO L£on Daraas Pronto no habre s61o bailado pronto no habr£ solo frotado pronto no habrS s6lo moj ado pronto no habre solo bailado cantado frotado mojado frotado cantado bailado pronto C 22 2 SEUL DANS LA NUIT10 Rene Depestre L'ombre s’etend sur la citd ou le ddsir apprete d ’etranges festins voici venir la nuit, mysteres innombrables voici venir la nuit aux solitudes trop vastes et, moi, je m'en vais sur un banc risquer ma petitesse parmi tant d’immensitSs 1’etoile sur ma t^te couve un douloureux secret que n ’ose pdnetrer mon triste regard d’homme la lune escortee d ’infirmieres poursuit sa course maladive de fantome au loin la montagne dnivrante d’altitude s’offre comme une femme "a la volupte des nues les arbres "a mes cotgs prennent des airs d ’obdlisques j * ai peur j’ai peur de regarder la mer les flancs azures charrient une multitude etourdissante de vie j’ai peur de n ’avoir point de place dans cette ronde cosmique d’infinis mais voila que se leve le vent bouillonnant de ma conscience et ma barque legere, fr§missante emerge du neant des choses immobiles et mouvantes gigantesques et puissantes pour tracer sur quelque page blanche un sillage d ’esperance un sillage d’amour un long sillage de pens6e vivante et claire... ^Ofrom Lilyan Kesteloot, ed. Antologie negro- africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, podtes et dramaturgues noirs du XXi&me siecle (Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967). 2 2 3: SOLO EN LA NOCHE Rend Depestre La sombra se extiende sobre la ciudad donde el deseo prepara festines extranos la noche llega con innumerables misterios la noche llega con soledades vastas y, yo, voy a sentarme en un banco a arriesgar mi pequenez en medio de tantas inmensidades la estrella encima de mi cabeza abriga un doloroso secreto que mi triste mirada de hombre no osa penetrar la luna escoltada por enfermeras prosigue su curso de fantasma enfermizo a lo lejos la montana ebria de altitud se ofrece como una mujer a la voluptuosidad de las nubes a mi lado los drboles adoptan aires de obeliscos tengo miedo tengo miedo de mirar al mar los flancos azulados acarrean una multitud de vida que me aturde tengo miedo de no tener lugar en esta ronda cosmica de infinitos pero ya se levanta el viento burbujeante de mi conciencia y mi barca, ligera, vacilante emerge del vacio de las cosas inmoviles que se mueven gigantescas y poderosas para trazar en alguna pdgina blanca un surco de esperanza un surco de amor un largo surco de pensamiento vivo y claro... VIVE NOIR!11 Mari Evans i am going to rise en masse from Inner City s ick of newyork ghettos Chicago tenements 1 a's slums weary of exhausted lands sagging privies saying yessuh yessah yesSIR in an assortment of geographical dialects i have seen my last broken down plantation even from a distance i will load all my goods in '50 Chevy pickups '53 Fords fly United and '66 caddys i have packed in the old man and the old lady and wiped the children's noses I'm tired of hand me downs shut me ups pin me ins keep me outs messing me over have just had it baby from you... i ’ m gonna spread out over America intrude 11 from Abraham Chapman, ed., New Black Voices: An Anthology of Contemporary Afro-American Literature (New York: New American Library, 1972). ' v; 2 2 5 my proud blackness all over the place i have wrested wheat fields from the forests turned rivers from their courses leveled mountains at a word festooned the land with bridges gemlike on filaments of steel moved glistening towers of Babel in place like blocks sweated a whole c ivilization ...for you now i ’m gonna breathe fire through flaming nostrils BURN a place for me in the skyscrapers and the schoolrooms on the green lawns and the white beaches i 'm gonna wear the robes and sit on the benches make the rules and make the arrests say who can and who can’t baby you don’t stand a chance i ’ m gonna put black angels in all the books and a black Christchild in Mary’s arms i’m gonna make black bunnies black fairies black santas black nursery rhymes and black ice cream ■22 6 i Tm gonna make it a crime to be anything BUT black pass the coppertone gonna make white a twentyfourhour 1 ifet ime J.O.B. an' when all the coppertone’s gone....? ; 227 VIVE NOIR! Mari Evans voy a levantarme en masa desde el Barrio harta de los ghetos de nuevayork barrios bajos de Chicago casas baratas de l.a. hastiada de tierras exhaustas retretes descoyuntados de decir siseno sisena siSENOR en gran variedad de acentos dialectales he visto mi ultima desvencijada plantacion aun desde lej os voy a cargar mis cosas en camionetas Chevys de los '50, o Fords del 53 volare con la United^ y en Cadillacs del 66 apretuj e a mi viejo y a mi vieja y limpie los mocos a los ninos estoy cansada de ropa usada de callarme de sujetarme de quedarme fuera de ser usada estoy ya harta bribon de 11 . . . voy a desparramarme por America a forzar mi orgullo negro 1 2 Se refiere a la compania aerea americana United Airlines. £2 28 por todas partes he arrancado campos de trigo de los bosques desviado rios de. sus cursos nivelado montanas al son de una palabra he afestonado la tierra con puentes coiio gemas sobre filamentos de acero he movido relumbrantes torres de Babel como cantos he sudado una civilizacion entera ...para ti ahora voy a respirar fuego y por mi nariz en llama voy a QUEMAR un lugar para mi en los rascacielos y las salas de clase en el c§sped verde y playas blancas voy a vestir una tunica y sentarme en los bancos hacer la ley y decidir arrestos y decir quien puede y quien no bribon no te queda ni una oportunidad voy a poner angeles negros en todos los libros y un nino Jesus negro en los brazos de Marla voy a hacer enanitos negros hadas negras santa klaus negros canciones de cuna negras y helados negros voy a (229 hacer que sea un crimen ser cualquier cosa que no sea negra tolerare el tono cobrizo voy a hacer que bianco sea un empleo permanente para toda la vida y icuando el tono cobrizo se acabe.,..? ;" 2 30 THE EMANCIPATION OF GEORGE-HECTOR13 (a colored turtle) Mari Evans George-Hector ... is spoiled. formerly he stayed well up in his shell...but now he hangs arms and legs sprawlingly in a most languorous fashion... head reared back to be admired. he didn’t use to talk... but he does now. i 3 from Abraham Chapman, ed., New Black Voices: An Anthology of Contemporary Afro- American Literature (New York: New American Library, 197 2). a 3i LA EMANCIPACION DE JORGE-HECTOR (una tortuga de color) Mari Evans Jorge-Hector . . .esta consent ido. antes se quedaba bien metido en su coraza...pero ahora balancea sus brazos y piernas dejdndolos caer muy languidamente.,. cabeza atras para ser admirado. no acostumbraba a hablar... pero ahora si habla. T 3 2 1 MY POEM14 Nikki Giovanni i am 2 5 years old black female poet wrote a poem asking nigger can you kill if they kill me it won't stop the revolution i have been robbed it looked like they knew that i was to be hit they took my tv my two rings my piece of african print and my two guns if they take my life it won’t stop the revolution my phone is tapped my mail is opened they've caused me to turn on all my old friends and all my new lovers if i hate all black people and all negroes it won't stop the revolution i’m afraid to tell my roommate where i’m going and scared to tell people if i'm coming if i sit here for the rest o f my life it won't stop the revolution 1 4- from Abraham Chapman, ed., New Black Voices: An Anthology of Contemporary Afro-American Literature (New York: New American Library, 1972). 233 if i never write another poem or short story if i flunk out of grad school if my car is reclaimed and my record player won't play and if i never see a peaceful day or do a meaningful black thing it won't stop the revolution the revolution is in the streets and if i stay on the 5th floor it will go on if i never do anything it will go on ( 2 34 MI POEMA Nikki Giovanni tengo 25 anos muj er negra poeta escribi un poema preguntando negro, puedes matar si me matan la revolucion no se parara me robaron parecia que supieran que tenia que tocarme a mi me quitaron mi tv mis dos anillos mi grabado africano y mis dos pistolas si me quitan mi vida la revolucion no se parara me teldfono estd interceptado mi correo abierto han hecho que me vuelva contra mis viejos amigos y todos mis nuevos amantes si odio a toda la gente negra a todos los negros la revolucion no se parara tengo miedo de decir a mi companero donde voy y estoy asustada de decir a la gente que voy a visitarles si me siento aqui por el resto de mi vida la revolucion no se parara si nunca escribo otro poema o cuento si suspendo en la escuela graduada si me embargan el coche y mi tocadiscos : 2 35 se estropea y si nunca veo un dia apacible o nunca bago nada significante negro la revolucion no se parara la revolucion esta en la calle y si me quedo en el quinto piso continuara y si nunca hago nada continuara ,.236 HARLEM15 Langston Hughes What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? 1 5 from Langston Hughes, Selected Poems (New York: Knopf, 1965). ,2 3 7 HARLEM Langston Hughes iQue le pasa a un sueno sin porvenir? iEs que se seca como una pasa al sol? 10 se inflama como llaga-- Y luego cicatriza? iEs que apesta como carne podrida? iO se encostra y azucara-- como un dulce de jarabe? Tal vez solo se tambalea como un pesado fardo. 20 es que explota? 7238! 1 6 DREAM BOOGIE Langston Hughes Good morning, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely: You'll hear their feet Beating out and beating out a-- You think It's a happy beat? Listen to it closely: Ain't you heard something underneath like a- - What did I say? Sure, I'm happy! Take it away! HeY> P°P; Re-bop! Mop! Y - e - a - h I 1 f \ from Langston Hughes, Selected Poems (New York: Knopf, 1965). (2 39 SUENO BOOGIE Langston Hughes iBuenos dias, papacito! iNo has oido El boogie-woogie, el alboroto De un sueno sin porvenir? Escucha atento: Oixds sus pies Golpeando y golpeando-- ^Piensas Que es un ritmo alegre? Escucha atento: No has oido por lo bajo como un-- 2.Qu§ dije? Seguro, iSoy feliz! iMusica! iHey, pop! iRe-bop! jMop ! I Y - e - a - h ! TTWO NEW YORK17 (pour un orchestre de jazz: solo de trompete) Ldopold Senghor New York! d'abord j ’ai etd confondu par ta beautd, ces grandes filles d'or aux jambes longues. Si timide d ’abord devant tes yeux de mdtal bleu, ton sourire de givre Si timide. Et l’angoisse au fond' des rues a gratte- ciel Levant des yeux de chouette parmi 1'eclipse du soleil. Sulfureuse ta lumiere et les fGts livides, dont les t'etes foudroient le ciel Les gratte-ciel qui ddfient les cyclones sur leurs muscles d ’acier et leur peau patinee de pierres. Mais quinze jours sur les trottoirs chauves de Manhattan --C'est au bout de la troisieme semaine que vous saisit la fievre en un bond de jaguar Quinze jours sans un puits ni paturage, tous les oiseaux de l'air Tombant soudain et morts sous les hautes cendres des terrases. Pas un rire d'enfant en fleur, sa main dans ma main fraiche Pas un sein maternel, des jambes de nylon. Des jambes et des seins sans sueur ni odeur. Pas un mot tendre en 1'absence de levres, rien que des coeurs artificiels payes en monnaie forte Et pas un livre ou lire la sagesse. La palette du peintre fleurit des cristaux de corail. Nuits d'insomnie o nuits de Manhattan! si agitdes de feux follets, tandis que les klaxons hurlent les heures vides Et que les eaux obscures charrient des amours hygid- niques, tels que des fleuves en crue des cadavres d ’enfants. ^from Ldopold Senghor, Poernes (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1964). (2 41 II Voici le temps des signes et des comptes New York! Or voici le temps de la manne et de l'hysope II n'est que d'ecouter les trombonnes de Dieu, ton coeur battre au rythme du sang ton sang. J'ai vu dans Harlem bourdonnant de bruits de couleurs solennelles et d'odeurs flamboyantes --C'est l'heure du thd chez le livreur-en-produits- pharmaceutiques J ’ai vu se preparer la fete de la Nuit a la fuite du jour. Je proclame la Nuit plus veridique que le jour. C'est l’heure pure ou dans les rues, Dieu fait germer la vie d'avant memoir.e Tous les Elements rayonnants comme des soleils. Harlem Harlem! voici ce que j'ai vu Harlem Harlem! Une brise verte de bles sourdre des paves laboures par les pieds nus de danseurs dans Croupes ondes de soie et seins de fer de lance, ballets de nenuphars et de masques fabuleux Aux pieds des chevaux de police, les mangues de 1'amour rouler des maisons basses. Et j’ai vu le long des trottoirs, des ruisseaux de rhum blanc des ruisseaux de lait noir dans le brou'llard bleu des cigares. J ’ai vu le ciel neiger au soir des fleurs de coton et des ailes de seraphins et des panaches de sorciers. Ecoute New York! o §coute ta voix male de cuivre ta voix vibrante de hautbois, l'angoisse bouchee de tes larmes tomber en gros caillots de sang Ecoute au loin battre ton coeur nocturne, rythme et sang du tam-tam, tam-tam sang et tam-tam. Ill New York! je dis New York, laisse affluer le sang noir dans ton sang Qu'il derouille tes articulations d ’acier, comme une huile de vie Qu'il donne a tes ponts les courbes des croupes et la souplesse des lianes. Voici venir les temps tres anciens, 1'unite retrouv§e la reconciliation du Lion du Taureau et de l’Arbre L ’idee liie a l'acte 1’oreille au coeur le signe au sens Voici les fleuves bruissants de caimans musques et de larmantins aux yeux de mirage. Et pas besoin d’inventer les Sirenes. _ Mais il suffit d’ouvrir les yeux a 1'arc-en-ciel . 2 , 4 2 d’Avr i1 Et les oreilles, surtout les rire de saxophone crea le jours Et le septieme jour, il dormit oreilles a ciel et la Dieu qui terre en d * un six du grand sommeil negre >2 NUEVA YORK (Para orquesta de jazz: solo de trompeta) Ldopold Senghor I iNueva York! primero me confundid la belleza de tus muchachas rubias y altas. Tan timido primero delante de tus ojos de metal azul, tu sonrisa frlgida Tan timido. Y la angustia al fondo de las calles de rascacielos Levantando sus ojos de lechuza entre el eclipse de sol Tu luz de sulfuro y los armazones lividos con sus pun- tas que fulminan el cielo Los rascacielos que desafian los ciclones con sus mus* culos de acero y su piel pdtrea. Mas quince dias en las aceras calvas de Manhattan --Es al fin de la tercera semana que la fiebre os asal ta con un brinco de jaguar Quince dias sin un pozo ni pasto, todos los pajaros del aire Cayendo de repente y muriendo bajo las altas cenizas de las terrazas Ni una risa de nino en flor, con su mano en mi mano fresca Ni un seno maternal, sino piernas de nilon. Piernas y senos sin sudor ni olor. Ni una palabra tierna en esta ausencia de labios, sino solo corazones artificiales pagados con dura moneda Y ni un libro donde leer cosas sabias. La paleta del pintor florece con los cristales de coral iNoches de insomnio o noches de Manhattan! tan agita- das de fuegos fatuos mientras los claxones aullan las horas vacias Y las aguas oscuras acarrean amores higienicos, como rios crecidos con cadaveres de ninos. II He aqui el tiempo de los signos y las cuentas [Nueva York! He aqui el tiempo del man! y del hisopo. Con solo escuchar los trombones de Dios, tu corazdn la te al ritmo de sangre tu sangre. He visto en Harlem zumbando con ruidos de colores so- lemnes y olores flamantes --Es la hora del te en casa del vendedor de productos <2 44 farmaceuticos He visto prepararse la fiesta de la Noche a la huida del dia. Proclamo la Noche mds veridica que el dia. Es la hora pura en que Dios en las calles hace germinar la vida de antes de la memoria Todos los elementos relucen como soles. iHarlem Harlem! idsto es lo que vi Harlem Harlem! Una brisa verde de trigo que surgia de las calzadas labradas por los pids desnudos de los bailarines en Grupas ondas de seda y senos de hierro de lanza, ballets de nendfares y mascaras fabulosas A los pies de los caballos de la policia, he yisto rodar los mangos del amor desde las casas bajas. Y he visto a lo largo de las aceras rios de ron bianco y rios de leche negra en la niebla azul de los cigarros. He visto por la noche el cielo nevar flores de algodon y alas de serafines y penachos de brujos. IEscucha Nueva York! oh escucha tu voz masculina de cobre tu voz vibrante de oboes, la angustia atragan- tada de tus ldgrimas caer en grandes codgulos de sangre Escucha a lo lejos como bate tu corazon nocturno, ritmo y sangre del tam-tam, tam-tam sangre y tam-tam. Ill iNueva York! digo Nueva York, deja afluir la sangre negra en tu sangre Que quite el moho a tus articulaciones de acero, como un aceite de vida Que dd a tus puentes las curbas de las grupas y la agi- lidad de las lianas. He aqui que vuelven tiempos muy antiguos, la unidad re-encontrada, la reconciliacion del Leon del Toro y del Arbol La idea ligada. al acto el oido al corazon el signo al sentido He aqui tus rios zumbantes de caimanes almizclados y de manaties de ojos de espejismo. Y no es necesario inventar las Sirenas. Es suficiente abrir los ojos al arco-iris de Abril Y escuchar, sobretodo escuchar a Dios que con su risa de saxofdn creo el cielo y la tierra en seis dias. Y el septimo dia durmid con su gran sueno negro. ‘245 from ANOTHER LIFE18 Derek Walcott iii I looked from old verandahs at verandahs, sails, the eternal summer sea like a book left open by an absent master. And what if it’s all gone, the hill's cut away for more tarmac, the groves all sawn, and bungalows proliferate on the scarred, hacked hillside, the magical lagoon drained for the Higher Purchase plan, and they’ve bulldozed and bowdlerised our Vigie, our ocelle insularum, our Sirmio for a pink and pastel New Town where the shacks and huts stood teetering and tough in unabashed unhope, as twilight like amnesia blues the slope, when over the untroubled ocean, the moon will always swing its lantern and evening fold the pages of the sea, and peer like my lost reader silently between the turning leaves for the lost names of Caribs, slaves and fishermen? Forgive me, you folk- who exercise a patience subtler, stronger than the muscles in the wave's wrist, and you, sea, with the mouth of that old gravekeeper white-headed, lantern-jawed, forgive our desertions, you islands whose names dissolve like sugar in a child's mouth. And you, Gregorias. And you, Anna. Rest. 1 8 from Derek Walcott, Another Life (New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 1973). ,2~4 6 iv But, ah Gregorias, I christened you with that Greek name because it echoes the blest thunders of the surf, because you painted our first, primitive frescoes, because it sounds explosive, a black Greek’s! A sun that stands back from the fire of itself, not shamed, prizing its shadow, watching it blaze! You sometimes dance with that destructive frenzy that made our years one fire. Gregorias listen, lit, we were the light of the world! We were blest with a virginal, unpainted world with Adam’s task of giving things their names, with the smooth white walls of clouds and villages where you devised your inexhaustible, impossible Renaissance, brown cherubs of Giotto and Masaccio, with the salt wind coming through the window, smelling of turpentine, with nothing so old that it could not be invented, and set above it your crude Wooden star, its light compounded in that mortal glow: Gregorias, Apilo! ~ZT7 de OTRA VIDA Derek Walcott iii Desde las viejas verandas contempld las verandas, veleros, el mar eterno del verano como un libro dejado abierto por un maestro ausente. iY que si todo ha pasado, la colina cortada por el tarmac, las arboledas aserradas, y los bungalows proliferan en la acuchillada ladera cicatrizada, la magica laguna secada por el plan Compre Mejor, y han amenazado y expurgado a nuestro Vigie, nuestro o cell'e' in su 1 arum, nuestro Sirmio por un barrio nuevo rosa y pastel donde las chozas y cabanas se sostienen tambaleantes y duras con desesperanza desvergonzada, mientras como amnesia el crepdsculo ensombrece el declive, cuando la luna sobre el ocdano apacible balanceara siempre su linterna y el atardecer dobla. las paginas del mar, y el igual a mi confuso lector busca en silencio entre las hoj as los nombres perdidos de Caribes, esclavos y pescadores? Perddname, pueblo mio, que practicas una paciencia mas sutil y fuerte que los m&sculos de la muheca de la ola, y tti, mar, con la boca de aquel viejo sepulturero de cabeza blanca y mejillas hundidas, perdondd nuestro abandono, islas cuyos nombres se disuelven como az&car en la boca de un nino. Y tti, Gregorias. Y tu, Ana. Descansad. iv Pero, ah Gregorias, te bautice con aquel nombre griego porque recuerda los exaltados truenos de las olas, porque pintaste nuestros primeros frescos primitivos, ,2# porque suena explosivo, iun griego negro! iUn sol que se aparta de su mismo fuego, sin verguenza, estimando su sombra, vigilando su llama! A veces bailas con aquel frenesi destructivo que hizo un fuego de nuestros anos. IGregorias, escucha, iluminados, fuimos la luz del mundo! Fuimos bendecidos con un mundo intocado y virginal - j g con la tarea adamica de dar a las cosas sus nombres, con las blancas y lisas murallas de nubes y pueblos donde planeaste tu inagotable, imposible Renacimiento, oscuros querubines de Giotto y Massaccio, con el viento salado colandose por la ventana, oliendo a trementina, con nada tan viejo que no pudiera inventarse, y colocarse en tu estrella de tosca madera, con su luz combinada en aquel brillo mortal: iGregorias, Apilo! 1 9 Walcott hace aqui referencia al tema que el novelista Alejo Carpentier desarrolla en su novela Los 'Paso's Perdidos: el descubridor, el escritor del Nuevo Mundo, esta encargado de "dar a las cosas su nombre." 2T9 BIBLIOGRAPHY 2 50 Primary Sources Anthologies Bremen, Paul. You Better Believe It: Black Verse in English. Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1973. Chapman, Abraham. Black Voices: An Anthology of Afro- American Literature. New York: New American Library, 1 968 . New Black Voices: An Anthology of Contemporary Afro-American Literature. New York: New American Library, 1972. Hughes, Langston. Poems from Black Africa. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963. Kesteloot, Lilyan. Antologie negro-africaine: panorama critique des prosateurs, poetes et dramaturgues noirs du XXieme siecle. Verviers, Belgium: Gerard, 1967. Livingston, James T. Caribbean Rhythms: The Emerging English Literature of the West Indies. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1974. Moore, Gerald and Beier, Ulli. Modern Poetry from Africa. London: Penguin, 1968. Shapiro, Norman R. Negritude: Black Poetry from Africa and the Caribbean. New York: October House, 1970. Works by Individual Authors Baraka, Amiri (LeRoi Jones). Black Magic Poetry: 1961- 1967. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merril, 1969. The Dead Lecturer. New York: Grove Press, 1964 Brathwaite, Edward. Islands. London: Oxford University Press, 1969. __________. Masks. London: Oxford University Press, 1 968. Rights of Passage. 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Creator Obiols, Maria Rosa (author)

Core Title Pan-African poetry in translation

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Comparative Literature

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag comparative literature,Literature, African,OAI-PMH Harvest

Language English

Contributor Digitized by ProQuest (provenance)

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c17-735666

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