Léopold
Sédar Senghor (Senegal)
1906-2001
Born
in Joal, a tiny coastal village of Senegal, Léopold Sédar Senghor grew up a
member of Serers tribe, a minority tribe among the Wolofs. In this Islamic and
animist environment, the Senghors were Catholic. After receiving his early
education in Senegal, Senghor moved to Paris, where he attended the Lycée
Louis-le-Grand, meeting fellow classmates Aimé Cesaire, Birago Diop, and Leon-Gontran
Damas, with whom he formulated the principles of négritude.
Raised in Catholicism, Senghor was highly
influenced by the mysticism of Paul Claudel and the writings of Pierre Teilhard
de Chardin. But after reading Maurice Barrès novel, Les Déracinés (The
Uprooted)—a work written to raise French opposition to the Prussian
occupation of the Lorraine—Senghor developed an understanding of a need to
preserved and develop his own cultural identity. The publication of André
Gide's Voyage au Congo (Journey to the Congo) in 1927 and La
Retour dae Tchad (Return to Chad) a year later—the year Senghor arrived in
Paris—further stimulated his interest in his homeland. The Paris Colonial
Exhibition of 1931 aroused still more interest in African and Caribbean culture,
making it a propitious moment for the young poets who would later gather around
Senghor's newspaper, L'Etudiant Noir (The Black Student), founded in
1934.
Senghor received his licence ès lettres
from the University of Paris in 1931, and his diplôme d'études supérieures the
following year. In 1935 he became the first African to receive the agrége de
grammaire, and upon his graduation, was received with full military honors in
Dakar.
After assignment to schools in Tours and
Saint-Maur-des-Fossés, Senghor joined the Colonial Infantry in 1939, and was
taken prisoner by the Germans in 1940. He was interred in various prison camps,
but was released in 1941 for reasons of health. Throughout the rest of the war
he participated in Resistance efforts. In 1942 he resumed his teaching, and two
years later taught African languages and civilizations at the Ecole Nationale
de la France d'Outre-mer. He published Chants d'ombre in 1945, and the
following year was elected Deputy from Senegal to the National Assembly on the
Socialist ticket.
Over the next two years, he served as
Deputy, publishing several important books and essays. In 1948 he founded the
Bloc Démocratique Sénégalais in opposition to the Socialist faction leader
Lamine Gueye. He also wrote poems such as Chants pour Naët.
Senghor continued in politics for the next
several years, serving as the French delegate to the United Nations from
1950-1951, as a member of the French National Assembly (1951), and Secretary
for Scientific Research in the cabinet of Edgar Faure (1955). In 1956 he was
elected the mayor of Thiès, and in 1958 served in the Constitutional Assembly
of Charles de Gaulle. Senghor was elected President of Senegal in 1960 and was
reelected in 1963, retiring in 1981. During these same years he published Noctures
and Elégies des Alizés, the first volume winning the International Grand
Prize for Poetry from the Poets and Artists of France.
Beyond his considerable body of poetry,
Senghor has written prose works on négritude and politics, as well as editing
an important anthology of new black and Malagasy poetry.
BOOKS
OF POETRY
Chants
d'ombre
(Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1945); Hosties noires (Paris: Éditions du
Seuil, 1948); Chants pour Naët (Paris: Éditions Pierre Seghers, 1949); Ethiopiques
(Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1956); Noctures (Paris: Éditions du Seuil,
1961); Elégies des Alizés (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1969); Lettres
d'hivernage (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1973); Elégies majeures
(Génève: Éditions Regard, 1978) [reprinted with "Dialogue sur la poésie
francophone" by Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1979]; Poèmes (Paris:
Éditions du Seuil, 1964, 1973, 1984, with additional works and editoral changes
in each successive volume)
ENGLISH
LANGUAGE TRANSLATIONS
Léopold
Sédar Senghor: Selected Poems, trans. by John Reed and Clive Wake (New
York: Atheneum, 1964); Prose and Poetry, trans. by John Reed and Clive
Wake (New York: Oxford University Press, 1965); Nocturnes, trans. by
John Reed and Clive Wake (New York: The Third Press, 1971); in The Concept
of Negritude in the Poetry of Léopold Sédar Senghor, trans. by Sylvia
Washington Bâ (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1973); in The
Negritude Poets, Edited with an Introduction by Ellen Conroy Kennedy (New
York: Thunder's Mouth Press, 1975); Léopold Sédar Senghor: The Collected
Poetry, trans. by Melvin Dixon (Charlottesville: University Press of
Virginia, 1991)
Letter
to a Poet
to
Aimé Césaire
To
the beloved brother and the friend, my bluff brotherly greeting!
The
black sea gulls, the fishermen of the high seas, gave me to taste of your
tidings
Mingled
with spices, with fragrant sounds of the Rivers of the South, and of the Isles.
They
told me of your worth, of the eminence of your brow and the flower of your
subtle lips.
Told
me that your disciples, a hive of silence, are your peacock's tail
That
until the moon rises, you keep their zeal thirsting and panting.
Is
it your fragrance of fabulous fruits or your wake of light in the full light of
day?
Oh!
the many women with sapodilla skin in the harem of your mind!
It
charms me beyond the years, under the ash of your eyelids
The
burning embers, your music toward which we stretched our hands and hearts of
yesteryear.
Have
you forgotten your nobility, which is to sing
The
Ancestors the Princes and the Gods, who are neither flowers nor dew drops?
You
were to give the Spirits the white fruits of your garden
—You
ate only the flower of the fine millet grain, gathered the same year
And
not steal a singer petal to sweeten your mouth.
In
the depths of the well of my memory, I touch
Your
face whence I draw the water that cools my long longing.
Regally
you recline, leaning against the cushion of a cloudless hill,
Your
couch presses the earth that gently bears its weight
The
tom-tons, in the flooded plains, beat out the rhythm of your song,
and
your poem is the breathing of the night and the distant sea.
You
used to sing the Ancestors and the rightful princes
You
used to pluck a star from the firmament for rhyme
In
off-beat rhythm; and the poor would thrown at your bare feet the mats
made
from a year's work
And
the women their heart of amber and the dance of the rended souls.
My
friend my friend—oh! you will return you will return!
I
shall wait for you—that was the message entrusted to the cutter-boss—
under
the cailcedra.
You
will return for the feast of the first fruits. When the softness of the evening
in
the sloping sun smolders on the roofs
And
the athletes parade their youth, adorned like fiancés, it is fitting that you
come.
—Translated
from the French by Sylva Washington Bâ
(from
Chants d'ombre, 1945)
Black
Mask
to
Pablo Picasso
She
sleeps and reclines on the whitest of sand.
Koumba
Tam sleeps. A green palm leaf veils the fever
Of
her hear, copper the curved brow
Eyelids
closed, double basins, sealed springs,
The
delicate crescent of lips, one darker and slightly heavy
—where
is the smile of the knowing woman?
The
paten of cheeks, the line of chin
Sing
in silent harmony.
Facelike
Mask closed to the ephemeral, without eyes,
Without
substance,
Perfect
head of bronze with its patina of time,
Unsullied
by rouge or blushing or wrinkles
No
traces of tears or kisses
O
face such as God created you before even the memory of time
Face
of the world's dawn, do not open like a tender mountain pass
To
stir my flesh,
O
Beauty, I adore you with my one-stringed eye.
—Translated
from the French by Melvin Dixon
(from
Chants d'ombre, 1945)
Beyond
Eros
I
shall recite them, these hands shielding my heart's gaze,
The
slow gesture of your hands, the sweet curve of your still caress
Egyptian
Woman! How could she not be my guide, your long breath,
Your
scent of sun brushfires! You came down from this wall
Where
the Ancients' ruse had perched you.
Received
in the circle closed to every weakness
You
are the fruit hanging from the tree of my desire—
The
eternal thirst of my blood in its desert of desires!
I
know, my Fathers, you have tossed this net over my vigilant absence
To
catch the Prodigal Son, this lion's den.
I
know that the arrogance of these hills calls to my pride.
Standing
on the jagged summits crowned with fragrant gum trees,
I
seize the navel's echo beating the rhythm of their song
—A
lake of deep waters sleeps in its watchful crater.
I
know that only this rich black-skinned plain
Is
worthy of the plowshare and the deep flow of my virility.
But
what use is the body without ahead? Or arms without a soul?
The
poem's song fully dominates the passion of talmbatts,
Mbalakhs,
and tamas.
At
least let my fingers dance on the strings of koras.
But
this body in my hands, like a fine ship of steel!...
Don't
be jealous of the gods, my Fathers
Let
thunderous Zeus roar, let Jehovah set fire to the best
White
cities. Don't dissipate my youth in household games
My
panther claws on my sisters' inviting pages.
My
soul wants to conquer the infinite world and spread its wings,
Black
and red, black and red, the colors of your flags!
My
duty is to reconquer distant lands bordering the Empire of Blood
Where
night never stifles life with its embers, its song of silence,
My
duty is to reconquer the farthest-flung drops of your blood
From
the depths of icy oceans and of souls.
Hear
the song of her soul under its roof of Saracen eyelids.
Eyes
as innocent as the koba antelope's, open in wonder
At
the world's beauty. Ah! let me tear out her soul
In
an embrace as destructive as the East Wind
To
lay it at your feet,
With
the great riches of the spirit and of new lands.
—Translated
from the French by Melvin Dixon
(from
Chants d'ombre, 1945)
New
York
for
a jazz orchestra; trumpet solo
New
York! At first I was staggered by your beauty, those tall golden
[long-legged
girls.
So
shy at first before your blue metal eyes, your frosty smile
So
shy. And the despair in the depths of the skyscraper streets
Lifting
owl-like eyes in the eclipse of the sun.
Your
sulphurous light and the livid shafts whose heads strike
[lightning
into the sky
The
skyscrapers defying cyclones on their muscles of steel and their
[weatherworn
skin of stone
But
two weeks on the bald sidewalks of Manhattan
—It's
at the end of the third week that the fever strikes with
[a
jaguar leap
Two
weeks with no well no pasture-land, all the birds of the air
Falling
suddenly dead under the high cinders of the flat rooftops.
Not
one bloom of child's laughter, his hand in my cool hand
Not
one mother's breast, only nylon legs. Legs and breasts
[with
neither sweat nor smell.
Not
one tender word, there are no lips, only artificial hearts paid for in hard
cash
And
not one book where wisdom can be read. The painter's palette
[blooms
with coral crystals.
Insomnious
night oh nights of Manhattan! bursting with
[will-o'-the-wisps,
while the horns howl the empty hours
And
the murky waters float down hygienic loves, like rivers flooded
[with
infant cadavers.
II
Now
is the time of signs and reckonings
New
York! Now is the time of manna and hyssop.
You
have only to listen to God's trombones, to your heart beating to
[the
rhythm of the blood your blood.
I
saw in Harlem humming with sounds and ceremonial colors and
[[flamboyant
smells
—It
is tea-time at the house of the fellow who delivers pharmaceutical supplies
I
saw the night festival being prepared at the day's end.
[I
proclaim Night more truthful than day.
It
is the pure hour when God makes like immemorial spring up in the streets
All
the amphibious elements shining like suns.
Harlem
Harlem! Now I have seen Harlem Harlem! A green breeze of corn
[rising
from the pavements plowed by the bare feet of the Dan dancers
Hips
like waves of silk and spearhead breasts, ballets of water
[lilies
and of fabulous masks
The
mangoes of love rolling from the low houses to the police horses' feet.
And
along the sidewalks I saw streams of white rum streams of black
[milk
in the blue mist of cigars
At
night I saw flowers of cotton snowing down from the sky and seraphim's
[wings
and sorcerer's plumes.
Listen
New York! oh listen to your male brass voice your vibrant oboe voice,
[the
muted anguish of your tears falling like great clots of blood
Listen
to your night heart beating in the distance, beat and blood of the
[toom-tom,
tom-tom blood and tom-tom.
III
New
York! I say New York, let the black blood flow into your blood
Let
it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life
Let
it give your bridges the curves of hips and the pliancy of vines.
Now
the ancient age returns, unity is restored and the reconciliation
[of
the Lion the Bull and the Tree
The
idea is likened to the act, the ear to the heart, the sign to meaning.
See
your rivers rustling with musk-alligators and manatees with mirage-like
[eyes.
And there is no need to invent the Sirens.
But
just open your eyes to the April rainbow
And
your ears, especially your ears to God who created heaven and earth
[in
six days in a burst of saxophone laughter.
And
the seventh day he slept in a long black slumber.
—Translated
from the French by Sylva Washington Bâ
(from
Éthoipiques, 1956)
Elegy
of Midnight
Summer,
splendid Summer, nourishing the Poet on the milk of your light
I
who grew up like the wheat of spring, which made me drunk
From
green water, from the green steaming in the gold of Time
Ah!
no longer can I tolerate the midnight light.
The
splendor of such honors resembles a Sahara,
An
immense void, with neither erg nor rocky plateau,
With
no grass, no twinkling eye, no beating heart.
Twenty-four
hours a day like this, and my eyes are wide open
Like
Father Cloarec's, crucified on a boulder by the Joal pagans
Who
worshipped snakes. In my eyes the Portuguese lighthouse
Turns
round and round, twenty-four hours a day,
A
precise and restless mechanism, until the end of time.
I
jumped out of bed, a leopard about to be snared,
A
sudden gust of Simoom filling my throat with sand.
Ah!
if I could just collapse in the dung and blood, in the void.
I
turn around among my books watching me with their deep eyes
Six
thousand lamps burning twenty-four hours a day.
I
stand up lucid, strangely lucid. And I am handsome,
Like
the one-hundred-runner, like the rutting black stallion
From
Mauritania. I carry in my blood a river of seeds
That
can fertilize all the plains of Byzantium
And
the hills, the austere hills.
I
am the Lover and the locomotive with a well-oiled piston.
Her
sweet strawberry lips, her thick stone body,
Her
secret softness ripe for the catch, her body
A
deep field open to the black sower.
The
Spirit germinates under the groin, in the matrix of desire
The
sex is one antenna among many where flashing messages are exchanged.
Love
music no longer can cool me down, nor the holy rhythm of poetry.
Against
this despair, Lord, I need all my strength
—A
soft dagger in the heart as deep as remorse.
I
am not sure of dying. If that was Hell: the lack of sleep
This
desert of the Poet, this pain of living, this dying
From
not being able to die, the agony of shadows, this passion
For
death and light like moths on hurricane lamps at night,
In
the horrible rotting of virgin forests.
Lord
of light and shadows,
You,
Lord of the Cosmos, let me rest in Joal-of-the-Shades,
Let
me be born again in the Childhood Kingdom full of dreams,
Let
me be the shepherd of my shepherdess on the Dyilôr tanns
Where
dead men flower, let me burst out applauding
When
Téning-Ndyaré and Tyagoum-Ndyaré enter the circle
And
let me dance like the Athlete to the drum of this year's Dead.
This
is only a prayer. You know my peasant's patience.
Peace
will come, the Angel of dawn will come, the singing of birds
Never
heard before will come, the light of dawn will come.
I
will sleep at dawn, my pink doll in my arms,
My
green- and gold-eyed doll with a voice so marvelous,
It
is the very tongue of poetry.
—Translated
from the French by Melvin Dixon
(from
Nocturnes, 1961)
PERMISSIONS
"Letter
to a Poet" and "New York"
Reprinted
from The Concept of Negritude in the Poetry of Léopold Sédar Senghor,
with translations by Sylvia Washington Bâ (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton
University Press, 1973). Copyright ©1973 by Princeton University Press.
Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
"Black
Mask," "Beyond Eros," and "Elegy of Midnight,"
Reprinted
from The Collected Poetry, Léopold Sédar Senghor, trans. by Melvin Dixon
(Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia). Copyright ©1991 by the Rector
and Visitors of the University of Virginia. Reprinted by permission of the
University Press of Virginia.
No comments:
Post a Comment