Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern American Poetry. 1919.

Vachel Lindsay1879–1931

The Congo

(A Study of the Negro Race)

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 JUNGLE 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 and 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 meter.

Foam-flanked and terrible.

BOOM, steal the pygmies,

BOOM, kill the Arabs,

BOOM, kill the white men,

Like the wind in the chimney.

HOO, HOO, HOO.

Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost

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.”

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 JUNGLE 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 and 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,

Shoes with a patent leather 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 jessamine 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 of the other

Gods of the Congo,

100Beware, beware, walk with care,

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,

105BOOM.”

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,

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

110Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,

Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance.

Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.

His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.

Beat on the Bible till he wore it out,

Starting the jubilee revival shout.

115And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs.

And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,

And they all repented, a thousand strong,

From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong

And slammed their hymn books till they shook the room

120And “Boom, boom, BOOM.”

With “Glory, glory, glory,”

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,

Exactly as in the first section.

CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.

And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil

125In bright white steel they were seated round

And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.

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:—

130Sung to the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”

Never again will he hoo-doo you,

“Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;

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.

135For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,

Pioneer angels cleared the way

For sacred capitals, for temples clean.

Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.

There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed

140With oars of silver, and prows of blue

In a rather high key—as delicately as possible.

A million boats of the angels sailed

And silken pennants that the sun shone through.

’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation.

Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation;

145“Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.

And on through the backwoods clearing flew:—

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,

150By the far, lone mountains of the moon

And only the vulture dared again

To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:—

“Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.

Dying off into a penetrating, terrified whisper.

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,

155Mumbo … Jumbo … will … hoo-doo … you.”

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