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• 1 2025-01-11T13:19:49+00:00 Countee Cullen, "Heritage" (Survey Graphic Version) (1925) 4 First version of Countee Cullen's "Heritage," as printed in "Survey Graphic" in March 1925 plain 2025-01-11T16:00:16+00:00 Heritage By COUNTEE CULLEN 
  
  Sculpture reproduced by courtesy of the Barnes Foundation 
  
  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 bats 
  Circling through the night, her cats 
  Crouching in the river reeds 
  Stalking gentle food 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: 
  Whats 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 sombre flesh and skin 
  With the dark blood dammed within. 
  Thus I lie, and find no peace 
  Night or day, no slight release 
  From the unremittant 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 Lovers 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.
  
  
  
  
  Published in Survey Graphic, March 1925
  Revised version published in The New Negro, 1925