3.13 - Envisioning Africa in Harlem Renaissance Poetry
Africa as a Source of Reflection and Reclamation
Harlem Renaissance writers, artists, and scholars spent a lot of creative energy exploring their relationship to Africa, both their connections to it and, at times, their sense of distance from it. This exploration wasn't abstract or purely academic, it was a direct response to the lasting legacies of colonialism and the transatlantic slave trade, both of which had worked to sever African Americans from a clear, continuous connection to their African heritage.
Some Harlem Renaissance poets used vivid imagery specifically to push back against negative stereotypes about Africa's people and landscapes, stereotypes that had long been used to justify colonialism and racial hierarchy. Rather than accepting these distorted portrayals, these poets reimagined Africa through language that restored its beauty, complexity, and dignity.
Other poets took a more personal, introspective approach, using their poetry to explore the relationship between Africa and African American identity through individual reflection, treating the question of heritage as something deeply personal rather than purely political or historical.
Required Sources
"Heritage" by Gwendolyn Bennett, 1922
Gwendolyn Bennett (1902 to 1981), a poet, artist, and magazine columnist, was one of the younger writers of the Harlem Renaissance. Her "Heritage" is built on a series of longings that each begin "I want to": the speaker wants to see slim palm trees and graceful Black girls against the sunset, hear the silent sands singing to the moon before the Sphinx, and breathe in the lotus flowers along the Nile. These images present Africa as beautiful and dignified, pushing back against stereotypes of Africa as wild and backward. At the same time, she imagines chanting around "a heathen fire / Of a strange black race," which shows how distant Africa also felt. In the last stanza the poem turns to Black America: the speaker wants to feel the surging of "my sad people's soul / Hidden by a minstrel-smile," linking African heritage to the pain African Americans hid, much like Dunbar's mask.
I want to see the slim palm-trees, Pulling at the clouds With little pointed fingers. . . .
I want to see lithe Negro girls, Etched dark against the sky While sunset lingers.
I want to hear the silent sands, Singing to the moon Before the Sphinx-still face. . . .
I want to hear the chanting Around a heathen fire Of a strange black race.
I want to breathe the Lotus flow'r, Sighing to the stars With tendrils drinking at the Nile. . . .
I want to feel the surging Of my sad people's soul Hidden by a minstrel-smile.
Gwendolyn Bennett, "Heritage" (1923; the AP framework lists it as 1922). Source: Opportunity, December 1923, p. 371, Internet Archive scan (also in African American Poetry: A Digital Anthology, Lehigh University)
"Heritage" by Countee Cullen, 1925
Countee Cullen (1903 to 1946), one of the most celebrated poets of the Harlem Renaissance, published his "Heritage" in 1925, and it appeared in his first book, Color. The poem opens with the question "What is Africa to me?" and keeps coming back to it. The speaker is "one three centuries removed" from Africa: he imagines its drums, jungles, and rivers pulling at him, but he also admits that Africa is, for him, "a book one thumbs / Listlessly." He is torn between this imagined heritage and his Christian faith, at one point picturing God with dark features like his own. Unlike Bennett's poem of longing, Cullen's is a personal, conflicted reflection on both his connection to Africa and his distance from it. Reading the two poems side by side, both titled "Heritage," shows two different ways Harlem Renaissance poets answered the same question about identity and belonging.
(For Harold Jackman)
What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or 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, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who 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 throbbing through the air. So I lie, whose fount of pride, Dear distress, and joy allied, Is my somber flesh and skin, With the dark blood dammed within Like great pulsing tides of wine That, I fear, must burst the fine Channels of the chafing net Where they surge and foam and fret.
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 flesh 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; What's your nakedness to me? Here no leprous flowers rear Fierce corollas in the air; Here no bodies sleek and wet, Dripping mingled rain and sweat, Tread the savage measures of Jungle boys and girls in love. What is last year's snow to me, Last year's anything? The tree Budding yearly must forget How its past arose or set: Bough and blossom, flower, fruit, Even what shy bird with mute Wonder at her travail there, Meekly labored in its hair. One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who 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: I can never rest at all When the rain begins to fall; Like a soul gone mad with pain I must match its weird refrain; Ever must I twist and squirm, Writhing like a baited worm, While its primal measures drip Through my body, crying, "Strip! Doff this new exuberance. Come and dance the Lover's Dance!" In an old remembered way Rain works on me night and day.
Quaint, outlandish heathen gods Black men fashion out of rods, Clay, and brittle bits of stone, In a likeness like their own, My conversion came high-priced; I belong to Jesus Christ, Preacher of humility; Heathen gods are naught to me.
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, So 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 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 You Dark despairing features where, Crowned with dark rebellious hair, Patience wavers just so much as Mortal grief compels, while touches Quick and hot, of anger, rise To smitten cheek and weary eyes. Lord, forgive me if my need Sometimes shapes a human creed.
All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the 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. Not yet has my heart or head In the least way realized They and I are civilized.
Countee Cullen, "Heritage," Color (1925). Source: Project Gutenberg