WHAT is Africa to me: Copper sun, a scarlet sea, Jungle star and jungle track, Strong bronzed men and regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved Spicy grove and banyan tree, What is Africa to me?

Africa? A book one thumbs Listlessly, till slumber comes. Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night, her cats Crouching in the river reeds Stalking gentle flesh that feeds By the river brink; no more Does the bugle-throated roar Cry that monarch claws have leapt From the scabbards where they slept. Silver snakes that once a year Doff the lovely coats you wear Seek no covert in your fear Lest a mortal eye should see: What’s your nakedness to me?

All day long and all night through One thing only I must do Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in their flood, Lest a hidden ember set Timber that I thought was wet Burning like the dryest flax, Melting like the merest wax, Lest the grave restore its dead. Stubborn heart and rebel head. Have you not yet realized You and I are civilized?

So I lie and all day long Want no sound except the song Sung by wild barbaric birds Goading massive jungle herds, Juggernauts of flesh that pass Trampling tall defiant grass Where young forest lovers lie Plighting troth beneath the sky.

So I lie, who always hear Though I cram against my ear Both my thumbs, and keep them there, Great drums beating through the air. So I lie, whose fount of pride, Dear distress, and joy allied, Is my somber flesh and skin With the dark blood dammed within. Thus I lie, and find no peace Night or day, no slight release From the unremittent beat Made by cruel padded feet, Walking through my body’s street. Up and down they go, and back Treading out a jungle track. So I lie, who never quite Safely sleep from rain at night While its primal measures drip Through my body, crying, “Strip! Doff this new exuberance, Come and dance the Lover’s Dance.” In an old remembered way Rain works on me night and day. Though three centuries removed From the scenes my fathers loved.

My conversion came high-priced. I belong to Jesus Christ, Preacher of humility: Heathen gods are naught to me— Quaint, outlandish heathen gods Black men fashion out of rods, Clay and brittle bits of stone, In a likeness like their own.

“Father, Son and Holy Ghost” Do I make an idle boast, Jesus of the twice turned cheek, Lamb of God, although I speak With my mouth thus, in my heart Do I not play a double part? Ever at thy glowing altar Must my heart grow sick and falter Wishing He I served were black. Thinking then it would not lack Precedent of pain to guide it Let who would or might deride it; Surely then this flesh would know Yours had borne a kindred woe. Lord, I fashion dark gods, too, Daring even to give to You Dark, despairing features where Crowned with dark rebellious hair, Patience wavers just so much as Mortal grief compels, while touches Faint and slow, of anger, rise To smitten cheek and weary eyes.

Lord, forgive me if my need Sometimes shapes a human creed.