On Wilfredo Lam’s La jungla (The Jungle), 1942-3
(I)
Come all, come down
Little children, colonizer’s son,
leave the young brown.
Europeans, Americans, they stare, eyes glazed over,
lucky they are there. Just like Irish clovers,
They get to witness this masterpiece—
La Jungla!
Sir Batista, how careful he was
summoning foreigners to the island of cash and guns.
And these foreigners, in their rhythmless eyes,
stare at this very sugar cane.
Lush and alive, tall like the neck of a crane.
Each stroke of oil, done with no pain.
Scenery captured — that is all there is to say.
& crowds would scurry off,
run just as soon as they came.
Quick-paced fame for Wilfredo Lam.
This is a shame, Westerners didn’t understand —
Missed the paintings secrets,
He had a face.
(II)
Young boy! Young boy! Look, it’s a young boy, he came!
Related to this island’s slaves!
Farmer kid he be, for life in Cuba, life as a farmer was all there be.
Sneekin’ off down to the artist home I see.
All… alone—
At least this is what he believes.
Crouch, crouchin’ down to his knees
Observe the art more carefully
He found something. Something other passers did not see.
Sugar cane had faces.
Faces of family & kin.
Masks of dark skin, fettered in green entrapment.
Eaten by the sugar cane,
Ha! Never would I believe people be eaten by the cane they farm.
The boy sighs, Master will want me back, as he preps to leave.
But the art’s eyes
keep a gaze.
His own, trapped within it…
Culture… life… love
The life of a Cuban was to farm sugar.
To Batista, all Cubans were just cane.
Young boy… young boy… young boy now gone.
Lore of his life is far drawn,
Background of night gold tawn.
(III)
Canvas, capturer of men’s fate.
King of dancing & love & rhythm & coming home late.
Master of the Cuban hate,
what is it you gain, what is it you try to feign?
Speak your truth for me, what is it you see?
What I see is not the mean.
I exist for your eyes to lean
into shadows & shades.
The beaten, broken, slaves, cattle,
give ‘em their abuser, the green reed.