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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359105" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Heritage</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">What is Africa to me:<br>Copper sun or scarlet sea,<br>Jungle star or jungle track,<br>Strong bronzed men, or regal black<br>Women from whose loins I sprang<br>When the birds of Eden sang?<br>One three centuries removed<br>From the scenes his fathers loved,<br>Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,<br>What is Africa to me?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I lie, who all day long<br>Want no sound except the song<br>Sung by wild barbaric birds<br>Goading massive jungle herds,<br>Juggernauts of flesh that pass<br>Trampling tall defiant grass<br>Where young forest lovers lie,<br>Plighting troth beneath the sky.<br>So I lie, who always hear,<br>Though I cram against my ear<br>Both my thumbs, and keep them there,<br>Great drums throbbing through the air.<br>So I lie, whose fount of pride,<br>Dear distress, and joy allied,<br>Is my somber flesh and skin,<br>With the dark blood dammed within<br>Like great pulsing tides of wine<br>That, I fear, must burst the fine<br>Channels of the chafing net<br>Where they surge and foam and fret.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Africa?A book one thumbs<br>Listlessly, till slumber comes.<br>Unremembered are her bats<br>Circling through the night, her cats<br>Crouching in the river reeds,<br>Stalking gentle flesh that feeds<br>By the river brink; no more<br>Does the bugle-throated roar<br>Cry that monarch claws have leapt<br>From the scabbards where they slept.<br>Silver snakes that once a year<br>Doff the lovely coats you wear,<br>Seek no covert in your fear<br>Lest a mortal eye should see;<br>What's your nakedness to me?<br>Here no leprous flowers rear<br>Fierce corollas in the air;<br>Here no bodies sleek and wet,<br>Dripping mingled rain and sweat,<br>Tread the savage measures of <br>Jungle boys and girls in love.<br>What is last year's snow to me,<br>Last year's anything?The tree<br>Budding yearly must forget<br>How its past arose or set&shy;&shy;<br>Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,<br>Even what shy bird with mute<br>Wonder at her travail there,<br>Meekly labored in its hair.<br>One three centuries removed<br>From the scenes his fathers loved,<br>Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,<br>What is Africa to me?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I lie, who find no peace<br>Night or day, no slight release<br>From the unremittent beat<br>Made by cruel padded feet<br>Walking through my body's street.<br>Up and down they go, and back,<br>Treading out a jungle track.<br>So I lie, who never quite<br>Safely sleep from rain at night--<br>I can never rest at all<br>When the rain begins to fall;<br>Like a soul gone mad with pain<br>I must match its weird refrain;<br>Ever must I twist and squirm,<br>Writhing like a baited worm,<br>While its primal measures drip<br>Through my body, crying, &quot;Strip!<br>Doff this new exuberance.<br>Come and dance the Lover's Dance!&quot;<br>In an old remembered way<br>Rain works on me night and day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quaint, outlandish heathen gods<br>Black men fashion out of rods,<br>Clay, and brittle bits of stone,<br>In a likeness like their own,<br>My conversion came high-priced;<br>I belong to Jesus Christ,<br>Preacher of humility;<br>Heathen gods are naught to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,<br>So I make an idle boast;<br>Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,<br>Lamb of God, although I speak<br>With my mouth thus, in my heart<br>Do I play a double part.<br>Ever at Thy glowing altar<br>Must my heart grow sick and falter,<br>Wishing He I served were black,<br>Thinking then it would not lack<br>Precedent of pain to guide it,<br>Let who would or might deride it;<br>Surely then this flesh would know<br>Yours had borne a kindred woe.<br>Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,<br>Daring even to give You<br>Dark despairing features where,<br>Crowned with dark rebellious hair,<br>Patience wavers just so much as<br>Mortal grief compels, while touches<br>Quick and hot, of anger, rise<br>To smitten cheek and weary eyes.<br>Lord, forgive me if my need<br>Sometimes shapes a human creed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day long and all night through,<br>One thing only must I do:<br>Quench my pride and cool my blood,<br>Lest I perish in the flood.<br>Lest a hidden ember set<br>Timber that I thought was wet<br>Burning like the dryest flax,<br>Melting like the merest wax,<br>Lest the grave restore its dead.<br>Not yet has my heart or head<br>In the least way realized<br>They and I are civilized.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Countee+Cullen">Countee Cullen</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359105" data-title="Heritage de Countee Cullen" data-description="What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal black
Women from whose loins I sprang
When the birds of Eden sang?
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grov..."></div>
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