# The Congo (Lindsay)

The New Poetry: An Anthology (1917), Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).
A Study of the Negro Race
I—THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY
Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, A deep rolling bass Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, Pounded on the table, Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, 5 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. 10 I could not turn from their revel in derision. More deliberate. Solemnly chanted Then I saw the congo, creeping through the black, Cutting through the jungle with a golden track. Then along that riverbank A thousand miles 15 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; 20 “Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, Harry the uplands, Steal all the cattle, Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, Bing! 25 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom!” With a philosophic pause A roaring, epic, rag-time tune From the mouth of the Congo To the Mountains of the Moon. Death is an Elephant, 30 Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre Torch-eyed and horrible, Foam-flanked and terrible. Boom, steal the pygmies, Boom, kill the Arabs, Boom, kill the white men, 35 Hoo, Hoo, Hoo. Like the wind in the chimney 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. 40 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:— All the O sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered
“Be careful what you do, 45 Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, 50 Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”
II—THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS
Rather shrill and high Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call Danced the juba in their gambling-hall And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, And guyed the policemen and laughed them down 55 With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom. Read exactly as in first section. Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, Cutting through the jungle with a golden track. A negro fairyland swung into view, A minstrel river 60 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. 65 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. With pomposity
A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came 70 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. 75 With a great deliberation and ghostliness But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”… With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, 80 Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, And tall silk hats that were red as wine. With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, 85 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. (Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.) 90   The cake-walk royalty then began To walk for a cake that was tall as a man To the tune of “Boomlay, boomlay, Boom,” With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, And sang with the scalawags prancing there: 95 “Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. 100 Beware, beware, walk with care, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, 105 Boom.” Slow philosophic calm Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.
III—THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION
Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance A good old negro in the slums of the town Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. 110 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, 115 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,” 120 And “Boom, boom, Boom.” Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, Cutting through the jungle with a golden track. Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. 125 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, Sung to the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices” Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; 130 Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you.”   With growing deliberation and joy Then along that river, a thousand miles The vine-snared trees fell down in files. Pioneer angels cleared the way 135 For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, For sacred capitals, for temples clean. Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. In a rather high key—as delicately as possible There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed, A million boats of the angels sailed 140 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, To the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices”
And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— 145 “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. 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 150 By the far, lone mountains of the moon Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Mumbo … Jumbo … will … hoo-doo … you.” 155