"ANGRY YOUNG SHAYKHS"

Shaykh Ahmad 'Arif al-Zayn and others in a September 1927 issue of al-Irfan. Photo via Jadaliyya.

Included in the published proceedings of a 1979 conference at the American University of Beirut on "Intellectual Life in the Arab East, 1890-1939: Unexpected Dimension," is an essay by Tarif Khalidi on the Sidon-based early twentieth century journal al-Irfan. "My interest in Jabal 'Amil," Khalidi wrote in his acknowledgments to the essay "owes most to al-Imam al-Sayyid Musa al-Sadr to whom this study is dedicated." And he ends his essay by writing: "The nahda of Jabal 'Amil as reflected in the magazine, is a subject worthy of thorough assessment This ought to be done soon, while the scholar can still interview living members of that fascinating generation." Below, an excerpt about the oppositional litterateurs of early twentieth century Jabal 'Amil.  

***

… attention should be paid to a vigorous literary and religious movement which flourished in Jabal ‘Amil in the mid to late thirties and crystallized around what is called ‘Usbat al-Adab al-’Amili, a literary fraternity that has yet to receive its due recognition in the history of modern Arabic literature and of the Nahda in general. This fraternity was first founded in Najaf, in the late twenties or early thirties, by a group of what one might call “angry young shaykhs” in revolt against the ‘ulama’ establishment…. 

The moving spirit behind it was al-Shaykh ‘Ali al-Zayn from Jibshit, a young Najaf-educated scholar and a noted wit. In May, 1937, Shaykh ‘Ali published a fraternity manifesto in al-'Irfan in which he set forth the basic principles of his group. Characterizing the atmosphere of his times as “feudal”, “reactionary” and “anti-democratic” (an early use of the Arabic word raj’i and a revival of the word dimuqrati), the Shaykh seemed to be declaring war on several fronts simultaneously. A theory of poetry and literary criticism was advanced because literature, in the view of this fraternity, was to become the chief vehicle of the political struggle against the ‘ulama’, the ruling landlords and the Mandate. The poetry of which the fraternity approved was defined as simple in diction and faithful to everyday reality. Thus, a fraternity member, ‘Abd al-Latif Sharara, made a scathing attack on the litterateurs of Jabal ‘Amil, ridiculing them for their descriptions of Europe as seen from “the cafes of Nabatiyyah” and arguing the the “power of passion” is essential for literary perfection. Poets taken to task for paying insufficient attention to the unity of the qasida, and for building their qasidas up, line by independent line. Poets are also criticized for dealing with theoretical subjects that can better be dealt with in essay form, or with antiquated subjects and in imitation of the style of Abu Tamman or al-Sayyid al-Himyari.   

 
The poetry unleashed by Shaykh ‘Ali and his fraternity was cast in certain philosophic mould which might be described as liberal sceptic. This masked a deeper political struggle against foreign domination, sectarianism and religious obscurantism, this last being especially note-worthy for our purposes in this study. The attack on the ‘ulama’, part of general onslaught on all men of religion, is made in the name of the higher principles of that religion. Several shaykh-members of his fraternity, claiming that they remained pious Muslims, “defrocked” themselves one after the other, causing an outcry in the ‘ulama’ establishment. The pride and joy of Shi’ite theology and law, the principle of itjihad itself, was ridiculed for having become an empty, chaotic and antiquated slogan. Genuine Islam must be continuously open to knowledge and to other Islamic sects. 

It has been suggested that the fraternity received some of its notions of literary criticism from the Arab literary clubs in North and South America. The suffocating environment of Najaf, however, must be judged an equally important cause. Moreover, conditions in Jabal ‘Amil inspired a poetic style and diction all their own. The introduction of certain ‘Amili colloquialisms into the poetry lent it great simplicity, beauty and repeatability. The hilarious anticlericalism of one poet drove an enraged ‘alim to issue a fatwa licensing his murder for unbelief (kufr). The fraternity had carried radicalism into the ‘ulama’ class.  

Tarif Khalidi, “Shaykh Ahmad ‘Arif Al-Zayn and al-‘Irfan,” in Intellectual Life in the Arab East, 1890–1939, ed. Marwan R. Buheiry (Beirut: American University of Beirut, Center for Arab and Middle East Studies, 1981), pp. 116-117.  


  

THE SORROWS OF LEBANON — EDWARD W. SAID

George Grosz, "The Communists Fall and Foreign Exchange Rises," 1919.
 via the Brooklyn Museum

In 1975 Edward Said wrote a short piece on the breakout of civil war in Lebanon. The essay was originally published in a pamphlet entitled "Lebanon: Two Perspectives" by the Association of Arab-American University Graduates (AAUG) containing just an essay each by Said and Leila Meo. Said's essay has never been collected in any of his many books, so it has been reproduced below for your reading pleasure.

***

Most attempts to describe modern Lebanon have now broken down, as has the country itself since the past spring. A certain amount of necessary disorder in Lebanon has always been assumed, even cherished, by the Lebanese and by experts on Lebanon the unlikely mix of dozens of political, religious, ideological, and social forces with as many theories and techniques for understanding or reconciling them has created a scheme of Lebanon based on its rational irrationality. For after its last civil war in 1958 Lebanon prospered unimaginably, and acquired a reputation for making the impossible work. Yet — and here the recent violence bears me out — there was no particular vision articulated, built upon, institutionalized. Instead the well-organized Phalanges, for instance, took a right-wing abstraction for its stand and drew Moslem Arab Lebanon out of the picture. But the Phalanges was doing no more than what the unwritten national pact of 1943 had hinted each self-proclaimed group do. And when private myths backed by private armies encountered each other in reality, bloodshed and anarchy followed. No coherence of vision, no Lebanese national consciousness, no clear foals or priorities stood in the way.    

There is tremendous waste now in Lebanon; the mood is national suicide. It is a direct consequence of the willed uncertainty Lebanon has cultivated since its independence. Yet every Arab and hordes of parasitic foreigners, have profited from the wanton freedom of its atmosphere. Syria and Israel, one as neighborly Arab and the other as a hostile state, have viewed Lebanon as to be pressured or invaded at will. Compared to the grayness of Israel and the other Arab States, Lebanon has spontaneity and an unframed charm. There were no actively abused minorities, no legislated nonpersons. Nevertheless its prosperity and its energetic hustle had no particular content to them; they could be done with as either a foreign patron or a local talker liked. What Lebanon represented, what nationally it stood for, remained an unasked question. Here and there a sensible vision of a pluralistic Lebanon emerged, but could not prevail. There was mind but no real will or body.  

The present fighting is not between two sides, one Christian, one Muslim, one right, one left, one inside patriot, one outside agitator, one good, one bad. Israeli pieties about Lebanon’s embattled Christians are fatuous hypocrisy since, aside from using Maronite fantasy to support Zionist exclusivity, Israel has shown comparable piety only for destroying the Arab realities of Palestine. There is no simple oppositions in Lebanon and no unitary front, just as there are no simple certainties over which people will fight. The crisis is a crisis of representation. No single group represents either a decisive majority of people and power or a decisive majority of ideas. The street fighter is not represented by the group or leader in whose name he fights, and vice versa. No party speaks for all the Christians, nor for all the partisans of Lebanese (as opposed to Arab) nationalism. Yet people take to the streets fighting, to see what can happen. A vicious way to explore and test, but in Lebanon very few know any better.  

Certainly the ruling class cannot tell the people what will happen; no such class in recent history has been so short-sighted and ignorant as this one. It has not even learned how to preserve itself, much less to conduct the country's affairs. Intellectuals have small credibility in Lebanon, not because they have no good ideas, but because that is all they have. The middle class in impotent, its education notwithstanding; having without even a peep abdicated its right to participate in the country, except for making the easiest money on earth, it is now shelved and frightened. The Palestinians in Lebanon have something to say, but only a handful will listen to them since Lebanon is not Palestine after all. Yet the idea of a pluralistic society advocated for Palestine will be intensified, no shaken by the Lebanese tragedy. The great mass of poor people, put hideously in relief by the vulgar spending within a few yards of them, endure but more and more frequently cross from the bidonville into the militant ranks.  

The crisis of representation is Lebanon’s own, of course, but there are other things involved in it too. Part of the fighting is about who will, and has a right to, speak for the Arab future, the metropolis or the rural village. This is a profound uncertainty reflected everywhere. Does metropolitan Cairo have the right to dictate the future with its Sinai deal, or do the villages, slums, camps have it, where the majority lives and suffers? Do traditional politicians speak or should a party? The older generation or a younger one? A valueless military-economic alliance or an authentic socio-political movement?  

None of these questions are resolved in Lebanon today. For its disorder and weakness this fragment of the Arab East suffers the combined evils of Third World politics, religious bigotry, imperialist design, internal mutilation. To suffer these is bad enough, but not to have a citizenry able to act on its behalf is worse yet for this otherwise marvellous country.

Edward W. Said, "The Sorrows of Lebanon," Arab World Issues: Occasional Papers, Number 1., (Detroit: Association of Arab-American University Graduates, Inc., 1975).  

"TOO AMPLE A DOSE OF PAN-GERMANIC 'HASHEESH'" — HAR DAYAL IN BERLIN

Har Dayal in 1934. Photo via the South Asian American Digital Archive.

Oriental life in Berlin during the war was quite picturesque and many-sided. But it was something of a tragedy, as I shall have occasion to show in the sequel. There were all nations of the East in the streets of Berlin: conceited Young Turks, fussy Egyptians, acute but pessimistic Persians, nondescript Arabs, handsome Georgians and others, who fancied that the triumph of German arms would redress the wrongs of their countries. Berlin was the Mecca of Oriental patriots of all shades of opinion. Their common bond was hatred of England and France. Every one formed plans for the regeneration of his Fatherland after the war. Their optimism was rather premature, as the ruthless logic of events has demonstrated. But during the first two years of the war these Oriental nationalists were elated with high hopes and went about in a state of political intoxication produced by a too ample dose of the Pan-Germanic "hasheesh." Thus a noted middle-aged Egyptian politician said on one occasion: "The liberation of Egypt is certain. I am 100 percent, sure of it." A party of young Egyptian students met in solemn conclave one day to discuss the measures to be taken immediately after the end of the war! It is worth remembering as a joke of the wartime that some Egyptian politicians had even nominated themselves in imagination to the highest offices of state in free Egypt! The Turks were all chauvinistic, and it was their habit to decry other Islamic nations. Thus a young Turkish official said to me: 'You know it is pure Turkish blood, Anatolian blood, that has been shed at Gallipoli. We Turks have thus saved the cause of Islam. Others have done nothing. We pity poor India and the Indian people." The supercilious tone of these remarks well illustrates the spirit of the new Turkish imperialists. Some Algerians also carried on their " propaganda " in bad French. One of them delivered a public lecture, which was insufferably dull, and which really proved that the people of Algeria were not discontented with French rule. But the obtuse patriot could not see the point. Unbounded optimism and sincere faith in the power and professions of Germany were common to all these Oriental " Nationalists." As I contemplated their somewhat sad countenances and heard their plaintive accents, I was touched with pity, as I knew that they sighed for an irrevocable past. They talked of the "Caliphate," of the age of the Crusades, of the Jihad-i-Akbar! I could not tell them all I thought. They were the rearguard of a vanishing host, not the pioneers of a new generation. They fed themselves on words, words, words. And they rejoiced at the German victories, as if they could sustain themselves by vicarious strength. And at last that bubble, too, burst!

Har Dayal, Forty-four months in Germany and Turkey February 1915 to October 1918, a record of personal impressions (1920)

NASSER AND HIS CANAL — EDWARD W. SAID '57

Said lecturing in Paris forty years after writing this article. 11/28/1999.
Photo by Rainer Ganahl.

Below is an article written in the Daily Princetonian by Edward Said when he was a 20 year-old undergraduate at Princeton. In his memoir Out of Place (1999) Said wrote that the "article was published without provoking the kind of response that it might have had if it had appeared after 1967. It was my first piece of political writing, but so quiescent were political passions and so muted were Zionist opinions—this was, after all, when Eisenhower in effect compelled Israel to withdraw from Sinai—that I was able to publish it quite easily." Speaking with Zoe Heller in 1993, Said said that the 1956 Suez War "stirred me to write my first political article — I took some very emotional positions, I seem to remember.”

***

Gamal Abdel Nasser's announcement of his country's nationalization of the Suez Canal was the culmination of a series of stalemates between the Arabs and the West. This latest crisis arose ostensibly from the West's refusal to help finance the Aswan High Dam Project. To a large extent this is true. Judging from reliable sources as well as enraged editorial opinion, the West, acting through Mr. Eugene Black, President of the World Bank, had offered a portion of the sum required for the Project only after the Egyptian Government agreed to certain conditions. Among these were: 1.) a clause stating that none of this money was to be spent on the Project without receiving Western approval, 2). agreement to what was called "an outrageous rate of interest," and 3.) that Egypt make peace with Israel. While these conditions might at first seem reasonable, nevertheless they fitted an expected pattern of apparently anti-Arab Western policy when compared with the Soviet counter offer. It consisted of a reported "adequate sum," a pay-when-you-can stipulation with no interest, and no mention of the Egypt-Israel quarrel. In his July 26 speech, Nasser intimated that because subsequent negotiations had resulted in failure Egypt had been forced to seek funds for the Project from Egypt's own resources. Its source of money: the Suez Canal.

Even though the Russian offer evidently concealed some other plan, the West and especially the U.S. suffered a by no means negligible fall in prestige and esteem. Furthermore, Nasser was legally justified in his move—it was not a grab or seizure as Britain and France would have; since the Suez Canal Company was an Egyptian Company of limited liability—and in the eyes of his countrymen and the rest of the Arab world that was sufficient.  

For a fair consideration of the crisis, it is this writer's opinion that Nasser must be considered as a sincere, dedicated, (if inexperienced) man. Because he is such a man. his confidence in the West was shaken, and not as Mr. Dulles once said,the West's confidence in Nasser. The U.S. is viewed as Israel's chief abettor in that state's struggle against the Arabs. And it is the injustices committed against the Arabs, injustices all stemming from the Palestine question, that can be blamed for most Near Eastern problems. For Nasser and the Egyptians, the Suez Canal venture was a great blow struck for the Arabs. While it has been the policy of Western observers to view Nasser as a potential Hitler (Anthony Eden made no bones about this in his speech to the British people) he is considered to be Arabism's chief warrior in the continuing struggle for unity against British and French colonialism.  

In spite of Western retaliation in the form of economic sanctions, Nasser is managing to keep shipping in the Canal as always. There should be no doubt in Western minds that Nasser's promise to maintain passage in the Canal free at all times, is sincere. That he should gradually play into Communist hands and jeopardize freedom of shipping is improbable since Egypt is equally loth to submit to Soviet imperialism. Because he has been forced to opportunism it remains in his best interests to allow all countries use of the Canal. At present, Allied schemes, user's associations etc., seem to have caused more discord amongst Western powers than worry in Nasser's camp. The solution seems to lie in acceptance of the fact that the Canal is Egyptian in all senses of the word, that Nasser's promises will be upheld, and a wholehearted attempt to nurture Arab friendship is a safeguard for both Arab and Western interests.

(Edward W. Said, Daily Princetonian, Volume 80, Number 97, 11 October 1956, p. 2.) 

THEY SHOUTED, NOT "ALLAHU AKBAR!" BUT "DOWN WITH COMMUNISM!"

As soon as the crusade began, the Muslim Brothers took over all the minarets in Gaza, Khan Yunis, Rafah, and Deir al-Balah. And from the minarets they shouted, not "Allahu Akbar!" but "Down with Communism!" 

The Muslim Brothers had not raised the Qur'an against the Baghdad Pact, nor against Israel occupation. They had not raised it for the return of Egyptian administration to Gaza, not to celebrate the United Arab Republic or the July 14 Revolution in Iraq. But now they raised the Qur'an high and shouted: "Your Qur'an is in danger! Down with communism!"' 

The Qur'an is in danger only when it is raised by these, who defile it by bringing it to the chambers of the director of secret police and the director of Intelligence. 

— Mu'in Basisu, Descent Into the Water: Palestinian Notes from Arab Exile (1980) 

STAGGERLEE WONDERS — JAMES BALDWIN

1

I always wonder
what they think the niggers are doing
while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists, 
are containing 
Russia  
and defining and re-defining and re-aligning 
China, 
nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile,
from blowing up that earth
which they have already 
blasphemed into dung: 
the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful
ladies, and their men,
nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam,
nostalgic for noble causes,
aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages—
ah—!
Uncas shall never leave the reservation, 
except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store.
The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked: 
there is a way around every treaty.
We will turn the tides of the restless
Caribbean, 
the sun will rise, and set
on our hotel balconies as we see fit.
The natives will have nothing to complain about,
indeed, they will begin to be grateful, will be better off than ever before. 
They will learn to defer gratification
and save up for things, like we do. 

Oh, yes. They will.
We have only to make an offer
they cannot refuse.

This flag has been planted on the moon:
it will be interesting to see 
what steps the moon will take to be revenged 
for this quite breathtaking presumption
This people
masturbate in winding sheets. 
They have hacked their children to pieces. 
They have never honoured a single treaty 
made with anyone, anywhere.
The walls of their cities
are as foul as their children.
No wonder their children come at them with knives.
Mad Charlie man's son was one of their children, 
had got his shit together
by the time he left kindergarten,
and, as for Patty, heiress of all the ages,
she had the greatest vacation of any heiress, anywhere:

Golly-gee, whillikens, Mom, real guns!
and they come with a real bug, black funky stud, too: 
oh, Ma! he's making eyes at me!

Oh, noble Duke Wayne, 
be careful in them happy hunting grounds.
They say the only good Indian 
is a dead Indian,
by what I say is, 
you can't be too careful, you hear?
Oh, towering Ronnie Reagan,
wise and resigned lover of redwoods, 
deeply beloved, winning man-child of the yearning

Republic

from diaper to football field to Warner Brothers

sound-stages,

be thou our grinning, gently phallic, Big Boy of all the ages!

Salt peanuts, salt peanuts,

for dear hearts and gentle people, 

and cheerful, shining, simple Uncle Sam!

Nigger, read this and run!

Now, if you can't read, 

run anyhow!

From Manifest Destiny

(Cortez, and all his men

silent upon a peak in Darien)

to A Decent Interval,

and the chopper rises above Saigon,

abandoning the noble cause

and the people we have made ignoble

and whom we leave there, now, to die, 

one moves, With All Deliberate Speed,

to the South China Sea, and beyond, 

where millions of new niggers

await glad tidings!

No, said the Great Man's Lady,

I'm against abortion,

I always feel that's killing somebody.

Well, what about capital punishment?

I think the death penalty helps.

That's right.

Up to your ass in niggers

on Death Row.

Oh, Susanna,

don't you cry for me!

2

Well, I guess what the niggers 

is supposed to be doing

is putting themselves in the path 

of that old sweet chariot

and have it swing down and carry us home.

That would help, as they say,

and they got ways

of sort of nudging the chariot.

They still got influence

with Wind and Water,

though they in for some surprises

with Cloud and Fire.

My days are not their days.

My ways are not their ways.

I would not think of them,

one way or the other,

Did not they so grotesquely

block the view

between me and my brother.

And, so, I always wonder:

can blindness be desired?

Then, what must the blinded eyes have seen

to wish to see no more!

For I have seen, 

in the eyes regarding me, 

or regarding my brother, 

have seen deep in the farthest valley

of the eye, have seen

a flame leap up, then flicker and go out,

have seen a veil come down,

leaving myself, and the other,

alone in that cave

which every soul remembers, and

out of which, desperately afraid, 

I turn, turn, stagger, stumble out, 

into the healing air,

fall flat on the healing ground, 

singing praises, counseling

my heart, my soul, to praise.

What is it that this people

cannot forget?

Surely, they cannot be deluded

as to imagine that their crimes

are original?

There is nothing in the least original

about the fiery tongs to the eyeballs,

the sex torn from the socket,

the infant ripped from the womb, 

the brains dashed out against rock,

nothing original about Judas,

or Peter, or you or me: nothing:

we are liars and cowards all,

or nearly all, or nearly all the time:

for we also ride the lightning,

answer the thunder, penetrate whirlwinds,

curl up on the floor of the sun,

and pick our teeth with thunderbolts.

Then, perhaps they imagine

that their crimes are not crimes? 

Perhaps.

Perhaps that is why they cannot repent, 

why there is no possibility of repentance.

Manifest destiny is a hymn to madness, 

feeding on itself, ending

(when it ends) in madness: 

the action is blindness and pain,

pain bringing a torpor so deep 

that every act is willed,

is desperately forced,

is willed to be a blow: 

the hand becomes a fist,

the prick becomes a club, 

the womb a dangerous swamp,

the hope, and fear, of love

is acid in the marrow of the bone. 

No, their fire is not quenched, 

nor can be: the oil feeding the flames

being the unadmitted terror of the wrath of God. 

Yes. But let us put it in another, 

less theological way: 

though theology has absolutely nothing to do 

with what I am trying to say.

But the moment God is mentioned

theology is summoned

to buttress or demolish belief:

an exercise which renders belief irrelevant

and adds to the despair of Fifth Avenue 

on any afternoon, 

the people moving, homeless, through the city,

praying to find sanctuary before the sky 

and the towers come tumbling down, 

before the earth opens, as it does in Superman.

They know that no one will appear

to turn back time, 

they know it, just as they know

that the earth has opened before 

and will open again, just as they know

that their empire is falling, is doomed,

nothing can hold it up, nothing.

We are not talking about belief. 

3

I wonder how they think

the niggers, make it, 

how come the niggers are still here. 

But, then, again, I don't think they dare

to think of that: no: 

I'm fairly certain they don't think of that at all.

Lord, 

I with the alabaster lady of the house, 

with Beulah.

Beulah about sixty, built in four-square, 

biceps like Mohammed Ali,

she at the stove, fixing biscuits, 

scrambling eggs and bacon, fixing coffee, 

pouring juice, and the lady of the house,

she say, she don't know how

she'd get along without Beulah

and Beulah just silently grunts,

I reckon you don't,

and keeps on keeping on

and the lady of the house say

She's just like one of the family,

and Beulah turns, gives me a look, 

sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes

in the direction of the lady's back, and

keeps on keeping on. 

While they are containing 

Russia

and entering tonto the quicksand of 

China

and patronizing

Africa, 

and calculating

the Caribbean plunder, and

the South China Sea booty, 

the niggers are aware that no one has discussed 

anything at all with the niggers. 

Well. Niggers don't own nothing,

got no flag, even out names 

are hand-me-downs

and you don't change that 

by calling yourself X:

sometimes that just makes it worse, 

like obliterating the path that leads back

to whence you came, and 

to where you can begin. 

and, anyway, none of this changes the reality, 

which is, for example, that I do not want my son 

to dies in Guantanamo, 

or anywhere else, for that matter, 

serving the Stars and Stripes. 

(I've seen some stars.

I got some stripes.) 

Neither (incidentally)

has anyone discussed the Bomb with the niggers:

the incoherent feeling is, the less

the nigger knows about the Bomb, the better: 

the lady of the house

smiles nervously in your direction

as though she had just been overheard

discussing family, or sexual secrets, 

and changes the subject to Education, 

or Full Employment, or the Welfare rolls, 

the smile saying, Don't be dismayed.

We know how you feel. You can trust us.

Yeah. I would like to believe you.

But we are not talking about belief.

4

The sons of greed, the heirs of plunder,

are approaching the end of their journey: 

it is amazing that they approach without wonder, 

as though they have, themselves, become

that scorched and blasphemed earth, 

the stricken buffalo, the slaughtered tribes, 

the endless, virgin, bloodsoaked plain,

the famine, the silence, the children's eyes, 

murder masquerading as salvation, seducing

every democratic eye,

the mouths of truth and anguish choked with cotton, 

rape delirious with the fragrance of magnolia,

the hacking of the fruit of their loins to pieces, 

hey! the tar-baby sons and nephews, the high-yaller

nieces,

and Tom's black prick hacked off

to rustle in crinoline, 

to hang, heaviest of heirlooms,

between the pink and alabaster breasts

of the Great Man's Lady,

or worked into the sash at the waist

of the high-yaller Creole bitch, or niece,

a chunk of shining brown-black satin,

staring, staring, like the single eye of God:

creation yearns to re-create a time

when we were able to recognize a crime. 

Alas, 

my stricken kinsmen, 

the party is over: 

there have never been any white people, 

anywhere: the trick was accomplished with mirrors—

look: where is your image now? 

where your inheritance, 

on what rock stands this pride?

Oh, 

I counsel you, 

leave history alone.

She is exhausted, 

sitting, staring into her dressing-room mirror,

and wondering what rabbit, now, 

to pull out what hat, 

and seriously considering retirement, 

even though she knows her public

dare not let her go.

She must change. 

Yes. History must change. 

A slow, syncopated

relentless music begins

suggesting her re-entry,

transformed, virginal as she was,

in the Beginning, untouched, 

as the Word was spoken, 

before the rape which debased her

to be the whore of multitudes, or, 

as one might say, before she became the Star, 

whose name, above our title, 

carries the Show, making History the patsy,

responsible for every flubbed line, 

every missed cue, responsible for the life

and death, of all bright illusions

and dark delusions,

Lord, History is weary

of her unspeakable liaison with Time, 

for Time and History

have never seen eye to eye: 

Time laughs at History

and time and time and time again

Time traps History in a lie.

But we always, somehow, managed

to roar History back onstage

to take another bow,

to justify, to sanctify

the journey until now. 

Time warned us to ask for out money back, 

and disagreed with History

as concerns colours white and black.

Not only do we come from further back,

but the light of the Sun

marries all colours as one. 

Kinsmen, 

I have seen you betray your Saviour

(it is you who call Him Saviour) 

so many times, and

I have spoken to Him about you, 

behind your back. 

Quite a lot has been going on 

behind your back, and, 

if your phone has not yet been disconnected, 

it will soon begin to ring: 

informing you, for example, that whole generation, 

in Africa, is about to die, 

and a new generation is about to rise,

and will not need your bribes, 

or your persuasions, any more: 

not your morality. No plundered gold—

Ah! Kinsmen, if I could make you see

the crime is not what you have done to me!

It is you who are blind, 

you, bowed down with chains, 

you, whose children mock you, and seek another 

master,

you, who cannot look man or woman or child in the 

eye,

whose sleep is blank with terror, 

for whom love died long ago,

somewhere between the airport and the safe-deposit

box,

the buying and selling of rising or falling stocks, 

you, who miss Zanzibar and Madagascar and Kilimanjaro

and lions and tigers and elephants and zebras 

and flying fish and crocodiles and alligators and

leopards

and crashing waterfalls and endless rivers, 

flowers fresher than Eden, silence sweeter than the 

grace of God,

passion at every turning, throbbing in the bush, 

thicker, oh, than honey in the hive, 

dripping

dripping

opening, welcoming, aching from toe to bottom

to spine, 

sweet heaven on the line

to last forever, yes, 

but, now, 

rejoicing ends, man, a price remains to pay, 

your innocence costs too much

and we can't carry you on our books

or our backs, any longer: baby,

find another Eden, another apple tree,

somewhere, if you can, 

and find some other natives, somewhere else,

to listen to you bellow

till you come, just like a man, 

but we don't need you,

are sick of being a fantasy to feed you, 

and of being the principal accomplice to your

crime: 

for, it is your crime, now, the cross to which you

cling, 

your Alpha and Omega for everything. 

Well (others have told you)

your clown's grown weary, the puppet master

is bored speechless with this monotonous disaster, 

and is long gone, does not belong to you, 

any more than my woman, or my child, 

ever belonged to you. 

During this long travail

our ancestors spoke to us, and we listened, 

and we tried to make you hear life in out song

but ow it matters not at all to me 

whether you know what I am talking about—or not:

I know why are we are no blinded

by your brightness, are able to see you, 

who cannot see us. I know 

why we are still here. 

Godspeed. 

The niggers are calculating, 

from day to day, life everlasting, 

and wish you well: 

but decline to imitate the Son of the Morning, 

and rule in Hell. 

   

James Baldwin, Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems, ed. Nikky Finney (Boston: Beacon Press, 2014)