Printer Friendly

DEREK WALCOTT/AUGUST WILSON: Homage to 20th Century Masters of WORD.



On 17 March 2017, the Nobel Prize Laureate poet Derek Walcott made his transition, re-uniting among the ancestors with the Pulitzer Prize playwright, August Wilson, who had transitioned earlier on 02 October 2005.

Though both were poets who found voices as dramatists as well, August may have demonstrated an edge in dramaturgy, while Derek was unrivaled as a poet in the English language. Irrespective of the genre that nurtured their voices in a century that produced much mastery in music, dance, art, and literature throughout the African Diaspora, they brought to the English language an authenticity that was momentous.

These two virtuosos of the English language rarely encountered each other during their lives, yet mutually admired the eminence of the other's literary production from afar. In 2003, Quincy Troupe organized a public "conversation" between Derek and August at Aaron Davis Hall, City College of New York, for the Black Roots Festival sponsored by the Frederick Douglass Creative Arts Center's writing workshops. It seemed appropriate that Quincy would invite me to mediate the conversation, since I had known them both separately, up-close and personal, for 20 years and was now able to bridge the few opportunities they had to engage each other.

The event was published in the Fall 2009/Winter 2010 issue of Black Renaissance Noire, and in this current issue, the occasion is being re-visited with a closer view on their language, which, though wrought in dissimilar cultural modalities--Caribbean colonialism and American racism--shares the common objective to elevate narratives of the Black experience, despite their differences in expressive styles that became apparent at the outset, when Derek, with decorously measured speech and manner, graciously issued his praise of August:
... my admiration for his
    achievement is very profound.
   I don't think we've measured
   sufficiently what that
   achievement is. It's very easy
   to make a judgment about
   Wilson saying, "Well, he
   already has exotica, if you can
   call Pittsburgh exotic. "But
   he has the solidarity of that
   experience. And I am not
   interested in theatre that does
   not have language. I am not
   interested in a theatre that
   does not have the mesmerizing
   power, the hypnotic power of
   great language. And I think
   that August Wilson is perhaps
   the finest American playwright,
   including (Eugene) O'Neill to
   use that language

Later in the conversation, August made a reciprocal gesture of mutual admiration toward Derek, describing their first encounter in 1984 at a Theater Communications Group conference, soon after having read the awe-inspiring texts of Derek's The Star-Apple Kingdom, then Dream on Monkey Mountain, followed by Ti-Jean and His Brothers. Upon being introduced to Derek, he exclaimed unreservedly with the unfiltered, blunt spontaneity of innercity Pittsburgh: "That a baaad MUTHAFUKA here!"

'Nuff said: a crude, yet, powerful epithet, MUTHAFUKA, that can be conjugated and issued with a certain intonation to infer, depending upon the context, praise or condemnation, joy or despair, and instantly alter social intercourse, yet seldom is received in the ear as profane, unless the context is hallowed. It is a game-changer, as in August's King Hedley II, when King returns home from a dyspeptic Drug Store encounter with unrestrained vituperation. Yet the lyricism of his riveting apocalyptic speech plays on the ear like a Coltrane solo:
They ain't got the pictures ...
    Tonya's pictures. They ain't got
   the pictures. Told me they can't
   find them and they ain't got
   no record of them. I showed
   him the receipt and he told me
   that didn't count. I started to
   grab him in the throat. How in
   the hell the receipt not gonna
   count? That's like money. I told
   his dumb ass to get the manager.
   The manager come talking about
   their system. Say it's based on
   phone numbers. I told him
   I didn't care about his system.
   A receipt is a receipt all over the
   world. You can't have no system
   where a receipt don't count.
   You can't just go making up the
   rules. I don't care if you Sears
   and Roebuck, Kmart or
   anybody else. You can't make
   up no rules where a receipt
   don't count. I tried to tell
   him this politely like Mama
   Louise taught me. He wasn't
   listening. He trying to talk
   while L'm talking. I told him
   Motherfucker, shut up and
   listen to me!

Responding to the culturally specific use of vernacular language, Derek noted tentatively:
You can take pride in talking
    your own language, but you've
   got to pronounce it. And you've
   got to pronounce it clearly
   enough so the person next to
   you can hear it ... but if you're
   black American and you really
   get angry, you can use a lot
   of "motherfuckers"... and then
   you've got a poem, right? ... It
   doesn't matter what you say or
   what language you use. You
   still have to use universal rules
   of being understood ... get into
   a dimension that means you
   have to produce something that
   is articulate and elegant, and
   good language no matter what
   the accent is

Paradoxically, however, when enunciated as MOTHER-FUCKER outside the cultural origins of its social negotiation, the word is suddenly embedded in Oedipal nuances of unmitigated subconscious maternal sexual desire that is not only profane, but a cosmic violation, given that MUTHAFUKA mostly signifies the fecundating power of matriarchs.

Language, unto itself, is not beautiful or lyrical or divine or compelling. It depends upon the social rituals of culture, be it English, Spanish, French, or Mongolian, to activate the appropriate rhythms that determine what is profane or sacred, vulgate or sensate, and owns the capacity to fuel the imagination to achieve qualities of beauty and profundity. Given the ubiquity of the English language spoken by more than two billion people of the culturally diverse British Commonwealth and other vestiges of colonial rule in the Americas, Derek has declared that "[the] English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination itself."** Hip Hop rhythms, a global phenomenon originating in the cultural matrix of The Bronx, New York, has inspired youth globally to mint from their quarters a rearrangement of languages that, without culturally specific signifiers, would be merely a disjointed collection of words with no place to land in your ear, your heart, your imagination. In a 1985 Paris Review interview, Walcott proclaimed,
I come from a place that likes
    grandeur; it likes large gestures;
   it is not inhibited by flourish;
   it is a rhetorical society; it is a
   society of physical performance;
   it is a society of style ... L grew
   up in a place in which if you
   learned poetry, you shouted it
   out. Boys would scream it out
   and perform it and do it and
   flourish it
. *

William Grimes, writing an obituary in The New York Times, gratuitously observed that Derek had revealed at an early age, "a remarkable ear for the music of English--heard in the poets whose work he absorbed in his Anglocentric education and on the lips of his fellow St. Lucians...." Grimes would have benefitted from a more informed acumen that poetry is a composition in verse characterized by use of heightened language and rhythm to express an imaginative interpretation of a subject, thus music is central to the development of the form.

Since language flows from a particularized cultural sediment that produces its own musicality, Grimes should not be astonished by Derek's "remarkable ear for the music of English," which would be no less remarkable, if he were acculturated in the French language, as evinced in Aime Cesaire's epic tome Return to My Native Land, upon Cesaire's return to Martinique:
At the end of the small hours:
    another house in a very narrow
   street smelling very bad, a tiny
   house which within its entrails
   of rotten shelters rats by the
   dozen and the gale of my six
   brothers and sisters, a cruel
   little house whose implacability
   panics us at the end of every
   month, and my strange
   father nibbled by a single
   misery whose name I've never
   known, my father whom an
   unpredictable witchcraft soothes
   into sad tenderness or exalts
   into fierce flames of anger; and
   my mother whose feet, daily
   and nightly pedal, pedal for our
   never-tiring hunger, I am even
   woken by those never-tiring
   feet pedaling by night and the
   Singer whose teeth rasp into
   the soft flesh of the night, the
   Singer which my mother pedals,
   pedals for hour hunger night
   and day

Or if one listens closely to the Bebop groove of King Pleasure's rendering of Moody's Mood for Love ....
    There I go
   There I go
   There I go
         I go
   Pretty baby you are the
   That snaps my control

one might discern a similar riff in the Chilean Nobel Prize laureate, Pablo Neruda, who, though exiled from his native land, was able to summon the buoyant spirit of a fandango in Sonnet XXVII from his collection of One Hundred Love Sonnets:
Naked, you are simple as one of
    your hands,
   Smooth, earthy, small,
   transparent, round:
   You have moonlines,
   Naked, you are slender as a
   naked grain of wheat

Derek, whose formal education was in French, Latin, and English, was raised on the verdant isle of St. Lucia, where flora bloom in saturated colors, amidst a multi-bilingual cultural environment of Native American, Indian, French, British, and Dutch, even Hindustani and a mixture of creolized French or English that had become a source of conflict since his colonial youth, as described in his essay What the Twilight Says:
In that simple schizophrenic
    boyhood one could lead two
   lives: the interior life of poetry,
   the outward life of action
   and dialect. Yet the writers of
   my generation were natural
   assimilators. We knew the
   literature of empires, Greek,
   Roman, British, through their
   essential classics; and both the
   patois of the street and the
   language of the classroom hid
   the elation of discovery.
   If there was nothing, there was
   everything to be made

Grimes' assessment of Derek's language skills reminds me of a young English writer I had known on the isle of Ibiza in the early Sixties. Though he lived frugally, just short of the hippy fringe, his sense of high status militated against his willingness to speak or attempt to speak a word of Spanish to navigate his social or domestic needs or desires, yet was contemptuously abrasive, his tone of voice hoisting the British flag, whenever his negotiations were not exacted to his satisfaction. When prompted to learn a bit of Spanish, he rejoined arrogantly: "If you speak PERFECT English, EVERYBODY understands you!"

Countering such conceits of prerogative, Derek further notes his resistance to mimicry of language:
After one had survived the
    adolescence of prejudice there
   was nothing to justify. Once the
   New World black had tried to
   prove that he was as good as his
   master, when he should have
   proven not his equality, but his
   difference. It was this distance
   that could command attention
   without pleading for respect....
   It did not matter how rhetorical,
   how dramatically heightened
   the language was, if its tone
   were true, whether its subject
   was the rise and fall of a
   Haitian king or a small-island
   fisherman, and the only way
   to re-create this language was
   to share in the torture of its
. ***

The world inhabited by August, the Hill District of the Pittsburgh inner-city where dust from the steel mills settles over weathered row-houses filled with Black migrants from the South, gives the appearance of being less sanguine than the sea swept and sun drenched verdant isle of St. Lucia, yet is culturally rich with social rituals and vernacular language. In his Decolonizing the Mind, Ngugi wa Thiong'o instructs that "Language, any language, has a dual character. It is both a means of communication and a carrier of culture."

As a cultural transmitter over generations, language transfers values that accumulate and shape communities and the identities of its people. August admits that he did not always value or respect the vernacular of Black Americans, until he read a 1979 speech by the poet Sekou Toure declaring that language "describes the idea of the one who speaks it." It was a moment of liberating discernment that had him tune into the voices of the Hill District inhabitants--the riffs, shifting tonalities, non-verbal gestures, space, all the nuanced changes--retooling himself with the language, then "investing it with my meaning" in the process of crafting his personal vision:
My mother came from North
    Carolina ... and I only have one
   Language ... English ... the one
   Language I have. I try to speak
   that language as loudly as I
   can. Since I do, I work in what
   is in essence a European art
   form that can be theater, which
   traces itself back to the Greeks
   and Aristotle's poetics. That is
   the art form I chose to work
   in, but what I do is take my
   African-American sensibilities
   and my sense of language and
   what poetry is ... and then
   invest it ... I claim anything
   and everything that is
   part of the English language
   as mine
. ***

By now, it's almost legendary that August's formal education was interrupted as a teenager, when he quit high school, because his teacher accused him of plagiarizing an excellent paper he had submitted. Rather than drift aimlessly throughout the'hood, the hours he would have spent in class were absorbed in the local library where he informally became self-tutored in the classics of European, American, and African American literature. He credits James Baldwin for bringing to his attention the need "for a profound articulation of the black tradition," which was described as that "field of manners in ritual intercourse that can sustain a man once he's left his father's house." The statements seeded in him awareness that "when you go out into the world that you are fully clothed in manners and a way of life that is uniquely and particularly yours, that there's nothing outside of your experience, that any idea can be contained by black life."

During his forage for knowledge, August became enamored with the gaucho stories of Jorge Luis Borges, the Nobel Prize Argentine poet/fictive essayist who once observed how the authenticity of the Koran, written by Mohammed, was never in doubt, though the Koran, contrary to the expectations of Arab-gazers or Arab-nationalist, did not include a single reference to camels, thereby confirming for him that "what was truly native can and often does dispense with local color" (Fervor of Buenos Aires- 1923)... and urged Argentines to emulate Mohammed and "believe in the possibility of being Argentine without abounding in local color." August gleaned from Borges, whom he referred to as one of his 4Bs, "that you can be specific as to a time and place and culture and still have the work resonate with the universal themes of love, honor, duty, and betrayal."

The other B-influences included Amiri Baraka, a guiding force in the Black Arts Movement from whom "I learned that all art is political, although I don't write political plays" and Romare Bearden, from whom "I learned that the fullness and richness of everyday life can be rendered without compromise or sentimentality."*** And though he later extended his list of Bs to include James Baldwin and Ed Bullins, whom he valued for their forthright representations of everyday Black life (notwithstanding the conspicuous absence from the Bs list of the Forties, distinguished Howard University scholar, critic, and poet, Sterling Brown, who disdained local color caricatures), his most formidable influence was the Blues, an uncompromising archival vessel that carried culturally specific narratives of the African American experience in an environment of trauma that he viewed as "a flag-barer of self-definition ... a spiritual conduit that gave spontaneous expression to the spirit that was locked in combat and devising new strategies for engaging life and enlarging life and itself." ***

In his effort to quarry the narratives generated by the traumas and celebrations of migratory dislocation of Blacks from the fields of the South, where they were embattled with the forces of nature that wreaked havoc on crops, the inequities of sharecropping and Jim Crow laws, and later disillusioned by the lack of opportunity promised by the Industrial Revolution, when resettling in the industrial North, where they were faced with the inequitable social forces of low wages, poor housing, industrial discrimination, and self-fragmentation, August set himself to the task of discovering universal themes of love, honor, duty, and betrayal embedded in the Blues. In the Preface for his first published collection of plays in 1991, August stated the mission:
I turned my ear, my heart,
    and whatever analytical tools I
   possessed to embrace this world.
   I elevated it, rightly or wrongly,
   to biblical status. I rooted
   out the ideas and attitudes
   expressed in the music, charted
   them and bent and twisted
   and stretched them. I tested
   them on the common ground
   of experience and evidence and
   gave my whole being, muscle
   and bone and sinew and
   flesh and spirit, over to the
   emotional reference provided
   by the music. I learned to read
   between the lines and tried
   to fill in the blank spaces.
   This was life being lived in
   all its timbre and horrifies,
   with zest and purpose and the
   affirmation of the self as worthy
   of the highest possibilities and
   the highest celebration. What
   more fertile ground could any
   artist want?

A Blues narrative is not simply a plaintive cry for sympathy, but rather a heroic attempt by the balladeer to reconstruct a dismembered self by identifying the problem, firstly, then constructing a vision of self that permits survival in chaos. It is akin to the mythic paradigm of the dreadful journey of Ogun, the mythic protagonist of Yoruba tragedy who, as described by Nobel Prize laureate, Wole Soyinka in his essay, "The Fourth Stage," stared down into the vast abyss of transitional essence where the chthonic forces threatened to destroy him, yet "plunges straight into the chthonic realm, the seething cauldron of the dark world will and psyche, the transitional yet inchoate matrix of death and becoming."

Analogously, while the Great Migration was psychically and spiritually disruptive and not nearly as brutal and dehumanizing as the Middle Passage, the protagonist in the Blues experiences a sense of self-disintegration and great suffering during his confrontation with the antagonistic forces of the dark journey, requiring an act of will to become reassembled, much like Ogun who overcomes disintegration by spiritually "channeling the dark torrent into the light of poetry and dance" to emerge reassembled, as if born again.

Closer inspection below the surface of what appears to be the Western dramaturgical tradition of realism in August's work, one discovers many tacit symbolic insinuations of African mythologies, as is the case in his 1910 drama, Joe Turner's Come and Gone, the title appropriated from an old Blues song, but inspired by Bearden's Mill Hand's Lunch Bucket. Upon viewing the Bearden collage, Wilson recalled asking himself, "Who was this figure of the abject man sitting in a posture of defeat, people leaving him alone ... just when he most needed human contact." He then decided to write a boarding-house play where the protagonist, Loomis, at the end of years of searching for his wife who had been separated from him, relocates her in the end, then re-assembles himself with a blood-letting gesture of ritual suicide that signifies the Osiris/Isis myth.

The literary scholar William Cook views Joe Turner's Come and Gone as the work that clearly replicates the notion of re-ordering and fragmentation by looking back at Africa. In the boarding house that collects the "souls of black folk" drifting through the South is the conjure man, Bynam, who represents Africa and the return to the cultural cohesion that Black Americans sought after the Great Migration. It is Bynam's belief that the only way Black Americans can retrieve their souls that had been lost to the White man was to rediscover and recover their individual song. In singing the Binding Song, Bynam observes, "Just like glue I sticks people together," signifying the collage effect of reconstruction of self-fragmentation caused by the Great Migration. It is a process not dissimilar to a Bearden collage, which, albeit non-verbal, visually resonates deep layers of African American experience.

The collage, as visual medium for telling a story, is constructed much like the Blues, layered textures assembled on a canvas with disparate materials that seem incongruous, creating a visual rhythm with asymmetrical images that are disjunctive, yet heighten the tension of visual narrative. Like the Blues, it provides a dynamic that reaches deep beyond the surfaces of mundane experience for spiritual significance, illuminating cosmic relations in everyday life, so that the depiction of experience becomes WORD, rather than "hearsay," nor otherwise a photographic replication of the mundane. Both the Blues and the collage are performances of WORD force, each revealing a vernacular enunciation of the mythic sediments of experience with an incantatory power that aspires toward spiritual enlightenment and transformation from emotional despair to spiritual clarity.

The improvisatory layering of images in the collages of Bearden and the narratives of August's dramaturgy are not lost on those who bear witness. It is akin to the layered improvisation that can be witnessed in the oratory of the traditional Black preacher whose desire to promote moral healing and the reassembling of psychic fragmentation by purging the social toxins of oppression with the tonic of spiritual remedies, reaffirming the pulpit as the expressive center of African American performance. As the most potent and reliable mediator of cosmic and mundane forces, the spiritual leader must demonstrate in the homiletic narrative or sermon a command of the widest range of expressive strategies salvaged from the African oral tradition, so that familiar stories of the text are spiritually infused with fresh social meaning. Still, at the very foundation of both Bearden and August s creative projects to reassemble Black life, fragmented by uncharitable forces of oppression and repression, is the Blues.

Since August was ensconced in the Blues, he did not have much of an ear for listening to Jazz, where instrumental solos had more centrality than words ... until one October night in the mid*Sixties, he came across a crowd of about 200 Black men outside the Crawford Grill, a popular Hill District club. At first, he thought the men were gathered around a recent killing. Drawn to the gathering, he discovered that they were the overflow audience of a packed Crawford Grill, outside listening with intense reverence to the improvisational inventions of John Coltrane, "stunned into silence by the artful power of Coltrane's exploration into man's relation to divinity." It was at that point of bearing witness to the collective spirit induced by Coltrane's musical voicing that August began to listen to Jazz and discern that the "core of black aesthetics was the ability to improvise," and the same could be said about Black survival.

Upon receiving the Nobel Prize in 1992, Derek was queried in an interview about the African influence on his work, to which he replied:
I think the African influence is
    in the melody of my voice.
   I think it's there in the music
   that I like, certainly in the
   plays. It's very strong because
   it's a society (St. Lucia) of
   percussion. It's rhythmic in
   its essence and in the theatre,
   particularly, I try to capture
   that kind of quality that's there
   in the pulse of the country

The pulse of St. Lucia, as it is throughout the Caribbean, can be felt in Calypso, a rhythmic vocalization initiated by plantation workers on the island who were African griots--initially known as chantuelle and later calpysonians--that employed satire to tell the collective history and social concerns of the community. Though mimicry and irony were featured in these vocalized tales, they were often subversive and highly esteemed, as the repository for poetic language that Derek recognized as owning, a "personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island."** At times with Calypso, as a poetic call to the carnival, it is difficult to distinguish between a poetic narrative or merely the verbal dexterity of a raconteur or songster like the Trinidadian master of Calypso, Mighty Sparrow, who wryly projects potentially obscene messages in his risque ballad, Saltfish, cloaking sexual insinuations in double-entendres with poetic beauty:
    Saltfish stew is what I like
   So doo-doo, give me day and
   I like you food, so don't find
   me rude
   My favorite, I sure every man
   in here already eat it
   Nothing in the world sweeter
   English cod or the hard
   Very well, I like the taste
   Though the smell, sometimes
   out of place
   It hard to take, but make no
   I want you to know, it's
   because it extra sweet it
   smelling so, boy, it's
   It's sweeter than meat
   When you want to eat
   All saltfish sweet

Derek attributes the playful inventiveness of the Calypso, which characterizes the spirit of Carnival, to the stability of the island communities:
It's not searching so much
    for its stability as seen in the
   Blues, to find the channel and
   identity of a place of harbor.
   It does have the confidence of
   emanating, as satire does, from
   a steady source of mockery....
   It's very Brechtian in terms of
   carnival.... the great thing
   about Trinidad Calypso is the
   selfless songs of the singer. He
   takes on the role of criticizing
   the entire society

It is precisely the rhythm of Calypso, buoyant and sprightly, that distinguishes it from the Blues with its tormented pathos to reflect the suffering of deprivation and dislocation. Rather than a Blues lament, Calypso was used by plantation workers to mock owners with coded messages and communicate with each other about the social disruption and harsh labor on colonized plantations with celebratory satire to ameliorate a sense of fragmentation. As Derek has astutely discerned, "Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole."

Carnival, then, is the unrestrained dance response to Calypso, its tradition a slave mimicry of 18th century masquerades of French plantation owners prior to Lent, known as Canboulay (burnt sugar). Nurtured and developed in Trinidad, it has become in recent times a near Dionysian bacchanal known as Mas, with revelers wearing elaborately seductive costumes and iconic masks and driven by dances that have largely abandoned the measured cadences of Calypso in favor of the high octane Soca. While its inventiveness as a folk-inspired form cannot be ignored, its mimicry and surrender to revelry, in the estimation of Derek, does not allow it to be a useful format for stage.

Since the "essential law of Carnival is movement," a theater would have to reign-in the purely hedonistic impulse of the tradition to accommodate a stage performance, imposing "Japanese rigor or discipline" so that choruses have "precise measure" and the narration own "precise mime," while dance patterns compress "popular language into metaphor," and music did more "underlining" than "accompanying." *

Despite Derek's reservations about the practical usefulness of the Carnival tradition on the stage, his ear remained tuned to the verbal and physical rhythms of the vernacular tradition that erected cautionary tales and excavated mythologies that became infused in works such as Dream on Monkey Mountain, where the distinction between poet and raconteur is clearly indelible:
This morning, early, the moon
    still up, I went to pack the coals
   in the pit down the mountain.
   I will tell you. Make a white
   mist in the mind; make that
   mist hang like cloth from the
   dress of a woman, on prickles,
   on branches; make it rise from
   the earth, like the breath of the
   dead on resurrection morning,
   and I walking through it on
   my way to my charcoal pit on
   the mountain.... I remember
   in my mind, the cigale sawing,
   sawing, sawing wood before
   the woodcutter, the drum of
   the bull-frog, the blackbird
   flute, and this old man walking,
   ugly as sin, in a confusion of
   vapour, till I feel I was God
   self, walking through cloud, in
   the heaven of my mind. Then I
   hear this song. Not the bull-frog
   drum, not the whistling parrots.
   As I brush through the branches,
   shaking the dew, a man
   swimming through smoke, and
   the bandage of fog unpeeling
   my eyes, as I reach to this spot,
   I see this woman singing, and
   my feet grow roots! I could
   move no more

In poetry, there is that point where distilled manipulation of WORD becomes the heightened expression of language that lifts the subject from a mundane receptivity and elevates the experience to a larger illumination of mortal existence. Though its objective is often storytelling, its trajectory is toward allegory, elegy, metaphor, metaphysics, to frame mythologies, cosmologies, and symbolic iconologies constructed with a musicality that arrests the ears of the listener. Even the plethora of prose that often burdens the novel or the prosaic rhyming verses of poesy aspire toward the distillation of language that has the capacity to awaken the senses to new enlightenment in the spontaneous manner of poetry.

We discover, then, in Wole Soyinka's classic drama,Death and the King's Horseman, the richness of the poet's musical voice in the spare call n response exchange between the protagonist, Elesin, and his griot, Praise Singer, that is scintillating in its exposition of the metaphysical depths of the plot, lhe King has died, and Elesin, who had enjoyed all the worldly benefits of being the King's horseman, has come to the marketplace to pursue a woman, on the eve of his commission to sacrifice his life for the benefits he had received and to travel with the King into afterlife. As he slips into a state of reverie while dancing, the Praise Singer, suspecting the breach of faith to his moral commitment, engages Elesin in the ritual persona of the King:

PRAISE-SINGER: Elesin Alafin, can you hear my voice?

ELESIN: Faintly, my friend, faintly.

PRAISE-SINGER: Elesin Alafin, can you hear my call?

ELESIN: Faintly, my king, faintly.

PRAISE-SINGER: Is your memory sound, Elesin? Shall my voice be a blade of grass and Tickle the armpit of the past?

ELESIN: My memory needs no prodding, but What do you wish to say to me?

PRAISE-SINGER: Only what has been spoken. Only what concerns The dying wish of the father of all.

ELESIN: It is buried like seed-yam in my mind This is the season of quick rains, the harvest Is this moment due for gathering.

PRAISE-SINGER: If you cannot come, I said, swear You'll tell my favorite horse. I shall Ride on through the gates alone.

ELESIN: Elesin's message will be read Only when his loyal heart no longer beats.

PRAISE-SINGER: If you cannot come, Elesin, tell my dog.

I cannot stay the keeper too long At the gate.

ELESIN: A dog does not outrun the hand That feeds it meat. A horse that throws its rider Slows down to a stop. Elesin Alafin Trusts no beasts with messages between A king and his companion.

PRAISE-SINGER: If you get lost my dog will track The hidden path to me.

ELESIN: The seven-way crossroads confuses Only the stranger, lhe Horseman of the King Was born in the recesses of the house.

As Elesin drifts into a trance while dancing, the Praise-singer becomes alarmed by his inclination to remain in the corporeal world to pursue a courtly marriage with a young woman rather than fulfill his cosmic commitment:

PRAISE-SINGER: Elesin Alafin, I no longer sense your flesh. The drums are Are changing now but you have gone far ahead of the World. It is not yet noon in heaven; let those who claim it begin their own journey home. So why must you rush like an impatient bride: why do you race to desert your Olohun-iyo?

And in the brave New World across the Middle Passage, a child dies, a child is born at the drug-abuse center in Lexington, Kentucky, where a mournful dirge filters the lugubrious night in a poem, The Wedding, vocalized by the saxophonist, Archie Shepp--qua composer, dramatist, poet--wrought from the cadences of rural Blues and the rhythm of urban Jazz, his recitation mindful of the measured, lilting intonation popularized by Dylan Thomas, but more so, the incantatory shout of a Field Holla and the sonorous timbre of a wilting growl resonant of a Ben Webster solo, which has become a signature tonality in Shepp's instrumental performances:
We sat
         ten abreast
         on logs that stretched
         the entire length
         of the room
   I knelt and kissed the ring
        on the Baptist's hand
        Sista Beatrice said,
   Praise him
        this from the steely black men
        whose corned haunches
        from the cold
   Pearly Mae
        got down
        on her knees
        so that the weight
        of the baby
        would shift to her thighs
   While outside
        Black Junior vounced
        on Panamanian Red
        and Hector
        stuck a spike straight
        into the ball
        of his eye
   The butter knife cold
        on Lexingtons floors
        laid cleft between
        Heckerts breast
        And men's buttocks shivered
        with a peculiar rhythm
        of bullocks to flies
   They had been born
        in a Christian climate
        and Capitalism
        had picked them clean
   They wore the intense gaze
        of Deacons
        and strapped 12 foot razors
        over bloody Croaker-sacks
   They sniffed Scagfrom spoons
        or good Coke
        when they could get it
   The seats of their pants were shiny
        and stank like their feet
   So they were ashamed to undress
        In front of women
   And when they went back
        into the church
   Black Junior seemed to soar
        past the Preacher
        in his metal casket
        straight through the
   gleaming eyes
        of God
        Sista Beatrice said
   Pearly Mae screamed
        and clutched here groin
   In that instant of death
        she had given life
   And I
        had become a man
        with the slippery future
        of a fish
   I had bellowed Harlem
        Inside her
   And she swelled
        into loaves
        of yeasty cities
        like bread
        on a poisoned river
        she said
   Then retrieved me
        with the songs of
        and Engels on her lips

The similarities of music and poetry have always been apparent; the poets in the days of the bard were frequently referred to assongsters. The relationship became even more abutted at the turn of the 20th century with the rise of Ragtime music from the Black precincts of the United States, which introduced a vernacular idiom with a pastiche of rhythmic syncopation, aural angularity, and improvisation that gave poets and Cubist painters permission to break with the conventional symmetry that shaped art and poetry of the time, inspiring the freshly minted riff in the opening of T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:
Let us go then, you and I
   When the evening is spread out
   against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon
   a table;

Enthralled with the asymmetricial syncopation of Ragtime to rupture naturalistic imagery, Eliot and Ezra Pound, who contributed vastly to the stylization ofT.S. Eliot's masterwork, The Waste Land, led modern poets in the retreat away from the conservative stylizations of Victorian poetry, and invested in innovations that would transform modern poetic language in agreement with Pound's motto to "make it new."

In Harlem, "new" was on its way, arriving in the form of Langston Hughes' publication of The Weary Blues in 1926 that signaled a departure from the measured stanzas and rhymes of his peers in the Harlem Renaissance--Countee Cullen, Claude McKay, and James Weldon Johnson being most notable-revealing a commitment by Hughes to engage the innovations of Jazz and riff on the language of popular Black culture:
Droning a drowsy syncopated
   Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
   I heard a Negro play.
   Down on Lenox Avenue the
   other night
   By the pale dullpallor of an old
   gas light
   He did a lazy sway....
   He did a lazy sway....
   To the tune o' those Weary Blues

As Duke Ellington reminds us, "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing," which is echoed by the Black Arts Movement poet, Larry Neal, "words must sing," if they're in the service of poetry.

In the Fifties, Amiri Baraka (aka LeRoi Jones) infiltrated the HEP scene of the Beat Generation poets and made it HIP, constructing poems in a Bebop lexicon that were uncompromisingly driven by Jazz. As the Beat poets soon discovered, one had to be DLAMF (DownLikeAMuthafuka) to rhythmically voice a poem like Baraka. In his later years--the Nineties till his final breath--Baraka's texts were syntaxial altered with signifying punctuations that disrupted standard lexiconic agreements--the placement WORD, at times, elusive and enigmatic-and the poems performed with animated physical gestures, as if he were a DLAMF Charlie Parker gettin down on an alto-sax solo, as evinced in Wise I:
WHYS (Nobody Knows
    The Trouble I Seen)
   If you ever find
   yourself, some where
   lost and surrounded
   by enemies
   who won't let you
   speak in your own language
   who destroy your statues
   & instruments, who ban
   your omm bomm ba boom
   then you are in trouble
   deep trouble
   they ban your
   own boom ba boom
   you in deep deep
probably take you several hundred years
   to get

In the Seventies, Ntozake Shange came into prominence with the staging of her "choreopoem," for colored girls who commit suicide/when the rainbow is enuf, an ensemble dance/text construction of her poems that revealed, in addition to a wrenching confrontation with female abuse, a syntax that continued Baraka's assault on standard language, defying all the rules of conventional punctuation. Shange, who is constantly at war with her computer, because "spell-check" continually corrects the language of her character-voices to conform with standard English, refers to her pen as a "machete," which she uses to "attack deform n maim the language that I was taught to hate myself/in the language that perpetuates the notions that cause pain to every black child as s/he learns to speak of the world." As revealed in her most recently published essays staged as a choreoessay, lost in language and sound, the deconstruction of English was part of her journey through the minefields of suppressed language, misogyny, domestic violence, and emotional upheaval, until she found voice, emulating Ogun, by "channeling the dark torrent into the light of poetry and dance" in a language that was liberating, assuring her spiritual re-birth.

The passage through creative cycles of Life and Death to discover Form and Transformation is not uncommon to Derek and August on their journeys toward achieving immortality through their prodigious accomplishments, albeit through different lens; August viewing the specter of the Blues within his Pittsburgh Cycle--ten plays, one for each decade of the 20th century that unearths the mythic residue of the Hill District--to affirm and reconstruct the fragmentation of Black life that existed on the margins of American history. August reflects on his passage toward enlightenment in the Preface to his Three Plays (1991):
Writing a play is for me like
    walking down the landscape of
   the self unattended, unadorned,
   exploring what D.H. Lawrence
   called "the dark forest of the
   soul. "It is a place rife with
   shadows, a place of suspect
   quality and occasional dazzling
   brightness. What you encounter
   there are your demons, which
   you have occasionally fed,
   trying, as Hansel, to make
   your way back home. You find
   false trails, roads closed for
   repairs, impregnable fortresses,
   scouts, armies of memory, and
   impossible cartography. It is a
   place where the cartographers
   labor night and day remaking
   the maps. The road is sometimes
   welcoming and its wide passages
   offer endearment with each step
   only to narrow to a footpath
   that has led you, boatless, to the
   edge of a vast and encompassing
   ocean. Occasionally, if you are
   willing to negotiate the perils,
   you arrive strong, brighter of
   spirit, to a place that sprouts
   yams and bolls of cotton at your

Derek, on the other hand, fixed his sights on revivifying the language of his native land in the process of re-imaging an Odysseus-mode journey that resulted in his epic poem, Omeros, a freshly authenticated articulation--as opposed to mimicry--that alchemically transforms the familiar Homeric plot into a Caribbean point of view that elicits new illumination on the aspirations and realities of the islanders, prompting Hilton Als, writing in a 2004 issue of The New Yorker, to recognize the achievement as a "masterpiece" that is "the perfect marriage of Walcott s classicism and his nativism."

Omeros--the Greek name of Homer---dissimilar from linear construction of the Greek classics, is a circular, non-linear narrative in five books that magically cuts across time and space, bringing to mind for one critic the nth century Bayeux Tapestry, an embroidered mural-scale cloth that illustrates the Norman conquest of England, to chart the agonies of displacement suffered by the Native Indians, the despair of African enslavement on the isle of St. Lucia, and strains on English colonials adrift in exile. It is a narrative propelled by the journey of two local island fishermen, Achille and Hector--echoes, perhaps, but not character templates from The Iliad--who are rivals for the affection of the beautiful housemaid, Helen ...(a libidinal Helen of Troy). At a certain moment, Achille makes a spiritual journey to his ancestors located in the African settlement where he discovers his family's original language, learns his true name, and lives their traditional life, before walking back to St. Lucia on the bottom of the ocean. It is a cleansing passage much like the journey Citizen must take in August's Gem of the Ocean, where for redemption, he must ritualistically traverse the City of Bones at the bottom of the ocean.

Derek, too, was cognizant of the perils on paths traveled, when searching for self in a creative process without a sense of origin, and the need to ritually experience the past to resurrect oneself in the present. It came to him as an epiphany, while directing a small theatre troupe without benefit of a formal theater site to perform Greek, Roman, and British classics they had studied. Yet, they were not discouraged, since "darkness still preserves the awe of self-enactment, as the sect gathers for its self-extinguishing, self-discovering rites." Actors must do more than mimic history, when history has no place in memory, limiting access to emotions of servitude that must be purged, thereby requiring an exercise that allows them to "return through the darkness whose terminus is amnesia" to activate "the imagination and body to move with original instincts," * a re-encounter with the bush with all its dread, a journey not easy to reconcile, as Derek recalls vividly in What the Twilight Says:
 Every actor should make this
    journey to articulate his origins,
   but for those who have been
   called not men but mimics, the
   darkness must be total, and the
   cave should not contain a single
   man-made, mnemonic object.
   Its noises should be elemental,
   the roar of rain, ocean, wind,
   and fire. Their first sound
   should be like the last, the cry.
   The voice must grovel in search
   of itself, until gesture and sound
   fuse and the blaze of their flesh
   astonishes them. The children of
   slaves must sear their memory
   with a torch. The actor must
   break up his body and feel it as
   ruminatively as ancestral
   story-tellers with twigs to the
   fire. Those who look from their
   darkness into the tribal fire
   must be bold enough to cross it
. *

Emerging into the twilight, one is born again, transformed.

It is not mere hyperbole, then, to rank Derek and August among the pantheon of 20th century masters of English WORD that would include, Pound, Eliot, Shaw, Soyinka, James, Pinter, Beckett, Joyce, Baldwin, Morrison, O'Casey, Thomas, Toomer, among others who have distinguished themselves with masterful constructions in the English language. While their sense of ethnic urgency may have differed, both Derek and August responded to the rhythms that had fueled their particularized apprehension of the world and pursued the deep structures of African and diasporic mythology in the rituals of ordinary life to erect a revitalized language, which owned an authenticity that enriched and amplified the narratives of Black lives in United States and Caribbean within a context of cultural traditions, as opposed to personal narratives that merely record experience.

In the final WORD, excavated from the shared memory of Liver 'n Onions at a Hill District eatery, August responds deferentially, yet with characteristic candor, to Romare Bearden's assignation to "explore in terms of the life I know best those things, which are common to all culture," noting that his plays are affirmation of the "commonalities of all culture within the life I know best ... which is black life, that's who I am ... I'm gonna express that! That's what I want my art to be about. This is the way we do things. We all bury our dead, we all have parties, we all decorate our houses, but we do it different. And it ain't nothin' wrong with it."

(1) Unless otherwise indicated, ALL quotes by August Wilson and Derek Walcott are from the Aaron Davis Hall public conversation recorded and transcribed by Dr. Donald Morales, Professor of Theatre, Mercy College, CUNY who also took the photos of August, Derek and myself.

(2) The symbol * refers to Walcott quotes from What the Twilight Says: an Overture, his introduction to his play, DREAM ON MONKEY MOUNTAIN, Farrar,Straus, and Giroux, 1970.

(3) The symbol ** refers to Walcott quotes in Google's BrainyQuotes.

(4) The symbol *** refers to Wilson quotes from his Preface to August Wilson, Three Plays, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991.

Caption: Derek Walcott, Paul Carter Harrison and August Wilson.

Caption: Derek Walcott and Wole Soyinka.
COPYRIGHT 2017 Institute of African-American Affairs (IAAA)
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2017 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Harrison, Paul Carter
Publication:Black Renaissance/Renaissance Noire
Article Type:Critical essay
Date:Sep 22, 2017
Previous Article:Carnival Portraits.
Next Article:What Caribbean See!

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2019 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters