Coups de pilon by David Diop, or the Word Made Flesh and Fury

Trans­lated from French

The work of David Diop (1927-1960)1Re­jected forms:
David Man­dessi Diop.
David Léon Man­dessi Diop.
David Diop Mendessi.
David Mambessi Diop.
Not to be con­fused with:
David Diop (1966-…), writer and aca­demic, win­ner of the Goncourt des ly­céens prize in 2018 for his novel Frère d’âme (Soul Brother).
, as brief as it was bril­liant, re­mains one of the most grip­ping tes­ti­monies of mil­i­tant negri­tude po­et­ry. His sole col­lec­tion, Coups de pi­lon (Ham­mer Blows, 1956), res­onates with undi­min­ished force, ham­mer­ing con­sciences and cel­e­brat­ing the in­de­fati­ga­ble hope of an Africa stand­ing tall. Born in Bor­deaux to a Sene­galese fa­ther and a Cameroo­nian moth­er, Diop ex­pe­ri­enced Africa less through pro­longed res­i­dence than through dream and her­itage, which takes noth­ing away from the power of a voice that knew how to echo the suf­fer­ings and re­volts of an en­tire con­ti­nent.

A Poetry of Revolt

Diop’s po­etry is above all a cry. A cry of re­fusal in the face of colo­nial in­iq­ui­ty, a cry of pain in the face of his peo­ple’s hu­mil­i­a­tion. In a di­rect style, stripped of all su­per­flu­ous or­na­ment, the poet de­liv­ers his truths like so many “ham­mer blows” in­tend­ed, in his own words, to “burst the eardrums of those who do not want to hear and crack like whip strokes on the ego­isms and con­formisms of or­der”. Each poem is an in­dict­ment draw­ing up the bloody bal­ance sheet of the tute­lary era. Thus, in “The Vul­tures,” he de­nounces the hypocrisy of the civ­i­liz­ing mis­sion:

In those days
With shouts of civ­i­liza­tion
With holy wa­ter on do­mes­ti­cated brows
The vul­tures built in the shadow of their talons
The bloody mon­u­ment of the tute­lary era.

Diop, David, Coups de pi­lon (Ham­mer Blows), Paris: Présence africaine, 1973.

Vi­o­lence is om­nipresent, not only in the the­me, but in the very rhythm of the phrase, sober and sharp as a blade. The fa­mous and la­conic poem “The Time of Mar­tyr­dom” is the most poignant il­lus­tra­tion, a ver­i­ta­ble litany of dis­pos­ses­sion and colo­nial crime: “The White killed my fa­ther / For my fa­ther was proud / The White raped my mother / For my mother was beau­ti­ful”. These un­adorned vers­es, giv­ing the text its strik­ing force, have dis­con­certed some crit­ics. Sana Ca­mara sees in them, for ex­am­ple, a “sim­plic­ity of style that bor­ders on pover­ty, even if the poet at­tempts to cap­ti­vate us with the irony of events”. Yet it is un­doubt­edly in this econ­omy of means, this re­fusal of ar­ti­fice, that the bru­tal­ity of the sub­ject reaches its parox­ysm.

Africa at the Heart of the Word

If re­volt is the en­gine of his writ­ing, Africa is its soul. She is that ide­al­ized moth­er­land, glimpsed through the prism of nos­tal­gia and dream. The open­ing apos­tro­phe of the poem “Africa” — “Africa, my Africa” — is a dec­la­ra­tion of be­long­ing and fil­i­a­tion. This Africa, he ad­mits to hav­ing “never known”, but his gaze is “full of your blood”. She is by turns the lov­ing and scorned moth­er, the dancer with a body of “black pep­per”, and the beloved wom­an, Rama Kam, whose sen­sual beauty is a cel­e­bra­tion of the en­tire race.

It is in this dreamed Africa that the poet draws the strength of hope. To the de­spair in­spired by the “back that bends / And lies down un­der the weight of hu­mil­ity”, a voice re­sponds, prophet­ic:

Im­petu­ous son, that ro­bust and young tree
That tree over there
Splen­didly alone in the midst of white and with­ered flow­ers
Is Africa, your Africa that grows again
That grows again pa­tiently ob­sti­nately
And whose fruits grad­u­ally have
The bit­ter taste of free­dom.

Diop, David, Coups de pi­lon (Ham­mer Blows), Paris: Présence africaine, 1973.

A Militant Humanism

To re­duce Diop’s work to an “an­ti-racist racism2Sartre, Jean-Paul, “Or­phée noir” (“Black Or­pheus”), pref­ace to l’An­tholo­gie de la nou­velle poésie nè­gre et mal­gache de langue française (An­thol­ogy of New Ne­gro and Mala­gasy Po­etry in French) by L. S. Sen­ghor, Paris: Presses uni­ver­si­taires de France, 1948., to bor­row Sartre’s for­mu­la, would be to mis­un­der­stand its uni­ver­sal scope. If the de­nun­ci­a­tion of Black op­pres­sion is the start­ing point, Diop’s strug­gle em­braces all the wretched of the earth. His po­etry is a clamor that rises “from Africa to the Amer­i­cas” and his sol­i­dar­ity ex­tends to the “docker of Suez and the coolie of Hanoi”, to the “Viet­namese ly­ing in the rice field” and the “con­vict of the Congo brother of the lynched of At­lanta”.

This fra­ter­nity in suf­fer­ing and strug­gle is the mark of a pro­found hu­man­ism. The poet does not con­tent him­self with curs­ing, he calls for col­lec­tive ac­tion, for unan­i­mous re­fusal em­bod­ied by the fi­nal in­junc­tion of “Chal­lenge to Force”: “Stand up and cry: NO!”. For, ul­ti­mate­ly, be­yond the vi­o­lence of the word, David Diop’s song is “guided only by love”, the love of a free Africa within a rec­on­ciled hu­man­i­ty.

The work of David Diop, cut down in full bloom by a tragic death that de­prived us of his forth­com­ing manuscripts, re­tains a burn­ing rel­e­vance. Léopold Sé­dar Sen­ghor, his for­mer teacher, hoped that with age, the poet would go “hu­man­iz­ing him­self”. One can af­firm that this hu­man­ism was al­ready at the heart of his re­volt. Coups de pi­lon (Ham­mer Blows) re­mains an es­sen­tial text, a clas­sic work of African po­et­ry, a vi­aticum for all youth yearn­ing for jus­tice and free­dom.

That is al­ready a lot for a work that is, all things con­sid­ered, quite lim­it­ed, for a first and—alas—last work. But there are texts that go to the heart of things and speak to the en­tire be­ing. Lyri­cal, sen­ti­men­tal, ex­pres­sion of a per­sonal de­mand and anger, this po­etry ”launched gravely to as­sault chimeras“ […] is in­deed one of those that will eter­nal­ly, to pla­gia­rize Cé­saire, defy ”the lack­eys of or­der“ [that is, the agents of re­pres­sion], one of those that […] will al­ways ob­sti­nately re­mind us that ”the work of man has only just be­gun“, that hap­pi­ness is al­ways to be con­quered, more beau­ti­ful and stronger.

So­ciété africaine de cul­ture (ed.), David Diop, 1927-1960 : té­moignages, études (David Diop, 1927-1960: Tes­ti­monies, Stud­ies), Paris: Présence africaine, 1983.


To Go Further

Around Coups de pilon (Hammer Blows)

Quotations

My brother with teeth that shine un­der the hyp­o­crit­i­cal com­pli­ment
My brother with golden glasses
On your eyes made blue by the Mas­ter’s word
My poor brother in a tuxedo with silk lapels
Chirp­ing and whis­per­ing and strut­ting in the sa­lons of con­de­scen­sion
You make us pity you
The sun of your coun­try is but a shadow
On your serene civ­i­lized brow

Diop, David, Coups de pi­lon (Ham­mer Blows), Paris: Présence africaine, 1973.

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Bibliography

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