| Gottschalk and The Grande
Tarantellle
By Gwendolyn Brooks
My Black brothers and sisters.
Nimble slaves in New Orleans,
Dancing to your own music,
Loving your wild art, your art,
vertical, winnowy, willful—
You did not know that Gottschalk
was watching, was hearing.
Slouched in the offing, he was.
Crouching most shamefully, he was.
Stealthy. Heavily breathing.
He fell in love with your music.
Died at forty.
But before that he Created
Le Banjo (An American sketch.)
He created
Piano pieces based on slave
dances.
He created
Piano pieces based on “tunes he
heard in the Congo.”
Early he stole
The wealth of your art.
Wrongfully
He bore it away to the white side
of town—
You never knowing—
And there he doctored the dear
purity.
He whitened your art,
And named it his own.
He traded it for money
In Great Halls of whiteness.
He sold it to thronging white
company.
The patrons went MAD.
Loving odd music (embroidered
savagery),
Women wept and wilted.
They cut off and wore his hair.
He became the Lapel-piece
Composer.
His concerts and conquests
multiplied, he handled many a money
And he died at forty, an over-musicked
man.
He rose across you, Black
Beauties.
He stole your art.
He never passed you a penny.
Nor painted your name on a page.
But hark!
He inherited slaves from his
father and freed them.
All
hail the Debt-payer.
* * * *
*
Source:
In
Montgomery and Other Poems
|
