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Anyone one else in for a long night?
- Thread starter ladymacbeth
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SofaGeorge
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Re: Re: Re: Anyone one else in for a long night?
Langston Hughes wasn't embraced by most of the writers who made up the Harlem Renaissance. Oddly, though, I think he left the strongest impression of them all, and not because of the greatness of his work but because of the "fineness." He was a crafted writer, much more skilled in the "fine" craft of verse. If you reconnect the lines of many of his best poems, you will find sonnets, and other fixed verse where after writing a crafted piece, he broke up the lines to disguise his work. (Gwendolyn Brooks said she sometimes thought it was simply an economic decision. Poetry back then paid by the line. Splitting the lines got you paid twice or three times as much. Sometimes, though, she said she thought it was because he so loved the roots of literature, yet knew he would not be accepted as a "black" writer if he followed in the footsteps of old white writers.)
Sugestion...
Instead of the CANTOS... why not quote from Vachel Linday's THE CONGO... and when your teacher points out that he wasn't part of the Harlem Renaissance... look at your professor wide eyed and innocent and say, "Huh, you mean he wasn't black?"
P.S. Have you heard the Caedmon Albums with Pound reading the Cantos while he was in the nut house? The two girls who recorded the albums (literally all they had was an ancient reel-to-reel tape machine) went to the asylum and bribed him to read his work with a piece of cheese. You can hear the nuts hooting and hollering in the background as he reads.
ladymacbeth said:
Langston Hughes wasn't embraced by most of the writers who made up the Harlem Renaissance. Oddly, though, I think he left the strongest impression of them all, and not because of the greatness of his work but because of the "fineness." He was a crafted writer, much more skilled in the "fine" craft of verse. If you reconnect the lines of many of his best poems, you will find sonnets, and other fixed verse where after writing a crafted piece, he broke up the lines to disguise his work. (Gwendolyn Brooks said she sometimes thought it was simply an economic decision. Poetry back then paid by the line. Splitting the lines got you paid twice or three times as much. Sometimes, though, she said she thought it was because he so loved the roots of literature, yet knew he would not be accepted as a "black" writer if he followed in the footsteps of old white writers.)
Sugestion...
Instead of the CANTOS... why not quote from Vachel Linday's THE CONGO... and when your teacher points out that he wasn't part of the Harlem Renaissance... look at your professor wide eyed and innocent and say, "Huh, you mean he wasn't black?"
P.S. Have you heard the Caedmon Albums with Pound reading the Cantos while he was in the nut house? The two girls who recorded the albums (literally all they had was an ancient reel-to-reel tape machine) went to the asylum and bribed him to read his work with a piece of cheese. You can hear the nuts hooting and hollering in the background as he reads.
SofaGeorge
New member
Not as good as Smalls smut, but...
Congo
Vachel Lindsay
public domain, 1912
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,
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. I could not turn from their revel in derision.
THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
Then along that river-bank
A thousand miles
Tattoed cannibals danced in files;
Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.
And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
"BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
"Whirl ye the deadly voodoo rattle,
Harry the uplands,
Steal all the cattle,
Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
Bing!
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom,"
A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
From the mouth of the Congo
To the Mountains of the Moon.
Death is an Elephant,
Torch-eyed and horrible,
Foam-flanked and terrible.
Boom, ...
Boom, ...
Boom, ...
Like the wind
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,
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
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,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
A Negro fairyland swung into view,
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 casement 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 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 stern cold glare, and a stern old song: -
"Mumbo-jumbo will hoo-doo you." . . .
Just then from the doorway, as fat as shoats,
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,
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,
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,
Mumbo-jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Beware, beware, walk with care,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,
Boom."
Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while
That made those glowering witch-men smile.
III. The Hope of Their Religion
A good old Negro in the slums of the town
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 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,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE 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;
Never again will he hoo-doo you,
Never again will he hoo-doo you."
Then along that river-bank, a thousand miles,
The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
Pioneer angels cleared the way
For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
For sacred capitols, for temples clean.
Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed
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.
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.
Mumbo-jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo ... jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo
. ... you.
Congo
Vachel Lindsay
public domain, 1912
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,
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. I could not turn from their revel in derision.
THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
Then along that river-bank
A thousand miles
Tattoed cannibals danced in files;
Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.
And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
"BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
"Whirl ye the deadly voodoo rattle,
Harry the uplands,
Steal all the cattle,
Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
Bing!
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom,"
A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
From the mouth of the Congo
To the Mountains of the Moon.
Death is an Elephant,
Torch-eyed and horrible,
Foam-flanked and terrible.
Boom, ...
Boom, ...
Boom, ...
Like the wind
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,
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
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,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
A Negro fairyland swung into view,
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 casement 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 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 stern cold glare, and a stern old song: -
"Mumbo-jumbo will hoo-doo you." . . .
Just then from the doorway, as fat as shoats,
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,
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,
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,
Mumbo-jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Beware, beware, walk with care,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,
Boom."
Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while
That made those glowering witch-men smile.
III. The Hope of Their Religion
A good old Negro in the slums of the town
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 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,
CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE 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;
Never again will he hoo-doo you,
Never again will he hoo-doo you."
Then along that river-bank, a thousand miles,
The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
Pioneer angels cleared the way
For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
For sacred capitols, for temples clean.
Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed
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.
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.
Mumbo-jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo ... jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo
. ... you.
smallmovesal
New member
definitely not as good as my smut 
SofaGeorge
New member
smallmovesal said:definitely not as good as my smut
Kind of cool though if you hear how he read it. His vocal style was unique... and only Vachel Lindsay should ever read Vachel Lindsay.
He died by drinking a bottle of Lysol.
smallmovesal
New member
yucky...
did/do you study literature as a major?
did/do you study literature as a major?
SofaGeorge
New member
smallmovesal said:
Yes. And Vachal Lindsay is not yucky. He was a unique and misunderstood voice.
D
dballer
Guest
Listen to BLACK SABBATH
ladymacbeth
New member
dballer said:
Seriously dballer, where else could I get my inspiration?
As for YOU sofa george, maybe I should have checked up on this thread earlier to get inspiration. Don't worry, the stuff from Cantos fit right into my paper, but Congo was nice, and I've never read it. I also used a little bit of Finnegan's Wake, as my concentration is Irish Modern Lit, so that stuff is a little easier to rap my brain around. I always cop out and just start quoting things I've already studied...
Smalls, yes, I'm an English major, and my concentration is Irish Modern, my minor concentration is creative writing. Ohso exciting, I know...plus, I like smut, but they didn't have a smut track or I would have taken it...
And Project, I'm still not entertained. WTF?
ladymacbeth
New member
SofaGeorge said:
Dostoevsky's father died from having vodka poured down his throat by his sailors...
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