Cultural Perspectives
By Tim Hazell, Feb 9, 2007

Tales from a verdant apocalypse

Talking drums in symphonic groupings, characteristic of Africa, employ repetition without the need for variation. Choral works typically consist of stylized themes with refrains. Rituals involving music and dance continue until hypnosis sets in and participants become transcended.

Poems incorporate drones, bourbon notes over which themes are sung and played. Lyrics frequently deal with unrequited love and betrayal. A formal introduction, like a peacock spreading its tail and strutting before a mate, is followed by principal melodic lines. Pieces such as the “Song of Maisuna, wife to the Caliph Mowiah,” accompanied by percussion and perhaps a weeping oud, are redolent with the perfumed language of the Moors: 

“The russet suit of camel’s hair, with spirits light, and eye serene, is dearer to my bosom far, than all the trappings of a queen. The humble tent and murmuring breeze that whistles thro’ its fluttering wall, my unaspiring fancy please, better than towers and splendid halls. Th’ attendant colts that bounding fly and frolic by the litter’s side, are dearer in Maisuna’s eye than gorgeous mules in all their pride. The watch-dog’s voice that bays whene’er a stranger seeks his master’s cot, sounds sweeter in Maisuna’s ear, than yonder trumpet’s long-drawn note. The rustic youth unspoilt by art, son of my kindred, poor but free, will ever to Maisuna’s heart be dearer, pamper'd fool, than thee.” 

In these resource-compromised environs, trade winds move in two belts toward the equator, heating up on the equatorial sides of the Horse latitudes. Dry currents dissipate cloud cover, allowing the sun to bear down on the arid land. Desert siroccos that blow in one direction shape a wilderness of articulating dunes, leviathans that remain poised, expectant, until buildups of sand at the brink exceeded their angles of repose, causing small avalanches to slide down the slipfaces, or leeward sides. Then slowly, majestically, grain by grain, the dunes are on the march—downwind, their undulations bathed in light and shadow. The parched atmosphere is crowded with fragments in suspension, held there indefinitely. Eolian turbidity currents produce dust storms. Compact winds, dust devils, create gyrating funnels a kilometer in height. 

The camps of the Bedou, where reservoirs of brackish water engendered date palms and provided an oasis for weary ships of the desert were places of convergence where groups of nomads intermingled, sharing simple meals and tales from the verdant apocalypse. Here is a parable of retribution, brightened by the offering of a rare gift:

“We were as unmoistened seeds, blown about between rocks and sand, over the arid crusts of earth, seeking rain, finding none, though water abounded. We came to rest in the desert, lying fallow. While we slept as fallen angels might, drunk with dreams wasted through inertia, time was devoured, leaving only the dregs of nostalgia, bitterness and regret. We woke in darkness. 

The sun refused to rise. One among us raised his head to the sky and cried out, speaking through a cracked mouth, saying, ‘Good! I want nothing to do with the sun! The sun and I have nothing in common!’ We took these truths as being sound and spoke them aloud ourselves, echoing his words like mantras in that ochre world, rebounding off red sandstone. Yet we misunderstood. All the while that sea of sand was bathed in light. Our stars appeared too soon and became invisible. Yours ascended at the proper time and shone. No one was to blame. Not all music is pleasing to the ear. All words do not have equal value. You followed your heart and questioned advice from those who had achieved little. 

“Our destinies were fixed upon the razor’s edge, to hesitate as you took your first steps, fell, picked yourself up, forgiven, and moved on. Plunder those dreams we once possessed. Avail yourself, plunder in good faith to make them real. Plunder of your own volition. We are lost, and mingle with clouds of detritus pummelling the arid country, endlessly seeking the oasis. We are deluded, for water is here, but will not torrent in front of us simply because our thirst is greater than others. Yours is the moistened, fertile seed, in a safe haven where rain has already fallen.” 

The lyrical verse of the Moors found its way from the camel trains of the Arab empire to Spain and became part of medieval literary tradition. The galleys of the Spaniards carried this warm breeze from Africa to the pink tropical sands of the New World. There, among native and black cultures, the melting pot became a rich stew of verse that we reinvent each time we read the poems. In a hubris of lush words we can still hear music from the Oriental desert and the African steppe. Works by new poets follow in the footsteps of João de Crus e Sousa and Luis Pales Matos, rich with patois, railing against oppressive imperialism:



Imprisoned by Hate

“Dem whippin’ on us peoples terrabul. Yo don’ go say nothin’ back on dem, yo hearin’ yo mammy?!” From your soul in the tunnel’s deep end, I sometimes feel, as I sometimes descend, that as a fierce, hungry wolf in its pack, your vile hatred spies behind my back. Da tu’alma na funda galeria descendo às vezes, eu às vezes sinto...”

—João de Cruz e Sousa (1861–(N)98)





Mulata-Antilla

En tí ahora, mulata, cruzo el mar de las islas. Eléctricos mininos de huracanes en tus curvas se alargan y se ovillan, mientras sobre mi barca va cayendo la noche de tus ojos, como tinta. En tí ahora, mulata... ¡Oh despertar glorioso en las antillas! Bravo color que el do de pecho alcanza, música al rojo vivo de alegría, y calientes cantaridas de aroma—Limón, tabaco, piña—Zumbando a los sentidos sus embriagadas voces de delicia.

— Luis Pales Matos



Tim Hazell ( www.tim-hazell.com ) is an interdisciplinary artist in the areas of painting, music, theater, education, writing and research. His current project with co-composer Doug Robinson is A Forest of the Americas. For information on how to place advance orders for the live recording of the St. Paul’s concerts, contact him at hazell@cybermatsa.com.mx.