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Vachel Lindsay - The Congo: A Study Of The Negro Race
Work rating: Medium

I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY

   Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,
   Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,
   Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,  
         A deep rolling bass.
   Pounded on the table,
   Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,
   Hard as they were able,
   Boom, boom, BOOM,
   With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom,
   Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
  THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision.
  I could not turn from their revel in derision.
  THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
         More deliberate. Solemnly chanted.
  CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
  Then along that riverbank
  A thousand miles
  Tattooed cannibals danced in files;
  Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
  And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.
        A rapidly piling climax of speed & racket.
  And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
  "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
  "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,
  Harry the uplands,
  Steal all the cattle,
  Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
  Bing.
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,"
  A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
         With a philosophic pause.
  From the mouth of the Congo 
  To the Mountains of the Moon.
  Death is an Elephant,
  Torch-eyed and horrible,
         Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre.
  Foam-flanked and terrible.
  BOOM, steal the pygmies,
  BOOM, kill the Arabs, 
  BOOM, kill the white men,
  HOO, HOO, HOO.
  Listen to the yell of Leopold`s ghost
         Like the wind in the chimney.
  Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.
  Hear how the demons chuckle and yell
  Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.
  Listen to the creepy proclamation,
  Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,
  Blown past the white-ants` hill of clay,
  Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play: —
  "Be careful what you do,
  Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
         All the "O" sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered.
  And all of the other
  Gods of the Congo,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."

II. THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS

  Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call
         Rather shrill and high.
  Danced the juba in their gambling-hall
  And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town,
  And guyed the policemen and laughed them down
  With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
  THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
         Read exactly as in first section.
  CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
  A negro fairyland swung into view,
         Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible.
  A minstrel river
  Where dreams come true.
  The ebony palace soared on high
  Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky.
  The inlaid porches and casements shone
  With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.
  And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore
  At the baboon butler in the agate door,
  And the well-known tunes of the parrot band
  That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.

  A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came
         With pomposity.
  Through the agate doorway in suits of flame,
  Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust
  And hats that were covered with diamond-dust.
  And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call
  And danced the juba from wall to wall.
  But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng
         With a great deliberation & ghostliness.
  With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: —
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."…
  Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes,
         With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp.
  Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats,
  Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine,
  And tall silk hats that were red as wine.
  And they pranced with their butterfly partners there,
         With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm
  Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair,
  Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet,
  And bells on their ankles and little black-feet.
  And the couples railed at the chant and the frown
  Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down.
  (O rare was the revel, and well worth while
  That made those glowering witch-men smile.)

  The cake-walk royalty then began
  To walk for a cake that was tall as a man
  To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,"
  While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air,
         With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end.
  And sang with the scalawags prancing there: —
  "Walk with care, walk with care,
  Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
  And all the other 
  Gods of the Congo,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
  Beware, beware, walk with care,
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. 
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. 
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. 
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, 
  BOOM."
  Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while
         Slow philosophic calm.
  That made those glowering witch-men smile.

III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION


  A good old negro in the slums of the town
         Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance.
  Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
  Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,
  His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
  Beat on the Bible till he wore it out
  Starting the jubilee revival shout.
  And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,
  And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,
  And they all repented, a thousand strong
  From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong
  And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room
  With "glory, glory, glory,"
  And "Boom, boom, BOOM."
  THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
         Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy.
  CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
  And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
  And showed the Apostles with their coats of mail.
  In bright white steel they were seated round
  And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
  And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high
  Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: —
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;
         Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."
  Never again will he hoo-doo you,
  Never again will he hoo-doo you."


  Then along that river, a thousand miles
         With growing deliberation and joy.
  The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
  Pioneer angels cleared the way
  For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
  For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
  Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
  There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed
         In a rather high key — as delicately as possible.
  A million boats of the angels sailed
  With oars of silver, and prows of blue
  And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
  `Twas a land transfigured, `twas a new creation.
  Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation
  And on through the backwoods clearing flew: —
  "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.
         To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."
  Never again will he hoo-doo you.
  Never again will he hoo-doo you.


  Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,
  And only the vulture dared again
  By the far, lone mountains of the moon
  To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: —
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
         Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper.
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
  Mumbo… Jumbo… will… hoo-doo… you."
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