Batuque
I have a drum
I have a drum
I have a drum
I have a drum
In my chest
I have a drum
Decorated with ribbons
Red black yellow
and white
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
That evokes the bravery of
our ancestors
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
A rhythm to reunite
All brothers and sisters of all colors
without discrimination
I have a drum
I have a drum
I have a drum
I have a drum
In my chest
I have a drum
Decorated with ribbons
Red black yellow
white blue and green
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
A rhythm to reunite all
Brothers and sisters of all colors
Scattered
Thrown in senzalas of pain
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that speaks of hate and love
Drum that beats sounds short and long
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
Batuque batuque beats
Drum that beats
A rhythm to reunite
All brothers and sisters of all colors
In a quilombo
In a quilombo
In a quilombo
I have a drum
I have a drum
I have a drum
I have a drum
In my chest
I have a drum
Crime
Out of nowhere
Out of a police car
Several officers
Are on top of me
With nightsticks revolvers
And assault rifles in their hands
And hatred
In their eyes
They surround me
In the middle of the sidewalk
In a circle of terror
They don’t ask for my documents
They don’t ask me anything
My color is enough.
Daybreak (or nightfall)
For a long time
I’ve gone looking for myself
Down ways of pain
For a long time
I’ve gone looking for myself
Down ways of pain
I went looking for myself
Among the debris
Of my life dug out from under me
In search of my pride
Bent by blows
Searching for my drums
My drums of war and celebration
Silenced all of a sudden
In search of the protector Gods
Who governed events
Before the white cataclysm
It was not in vain
That I went looking for myself
Down ways of pain
It was not in vain
That I went looking for myself
Down ways of pain
Here I have found myself at the end
My pride
My drums
My Gods
Are awake
They are awake again
Again awake
In the streets of my blood
Once more
My Grandparents
for Prof. Eunice de Paula Cunha
My grandparents were strong
Strong were my grandparents
I take pride in my grandparents
Who in times past
Bore the cross of slavery
On their backs
I take pride in my grandparents
Who in times past
Worked alone
So that this country
Would become great
Great as it is today
My grandparents were strong
Strong were my grandparents
This country, brothers and sisters, is the fruit
Of the seeds of sacrifice
My grandparents planted
In the soils of the past
There are many stories
About my grandparents
That History does not
Care to tell
My grandparents were brave
Brave were my grandparents
Although they still did not know
The new land
To which they had been brought
Chained as though they were beasts
In sinister slave ships
Although they still did not know
The new land
My grandparents ran away from the farms
Cities expeditions and mines
And they entrenched themselves in forests
Persecuted by dogs and slave catchers
There are many stories
About my grandparents
That History does not
Care to tell
The story
Of those who in despair
Threw themselves from the ships
Into the abyss of the ocean
And were comforted
By Iemanjá
And the story
Of those who went mad
Screaming in vain
Calling Africa
Missing Mother Africa
Anxious to hold
Old Mother Africa
Once again in their arms
And the story
Of those who died of banzo
Of those who committed suicide
Of those who refused
Any food whatsoever
And though threatened
With trunks and whips
Refused to eat
Until they died
Finding at long last in death
The door to liberty
And mass flights
Planned by night in the senzalas
And overseers
Killed in the plantations
And masters
Killed in manor houses
In street ambushes
There are many stories
About my grandparents
That History does not
Care to tell
My grandparents were brave
Brave were my grandparents
Do not tell me
That my grandparents submitted
To slavery without resistance
Do not tell me
That my grandparents were
Submissive slaves
Please do not tell me
I will accept no lies
With the sword of my verse
I will cut
The heads off all the lies
Bent on evil
Lies with which they wish to humiliate me
Destroy my pride
Falsifying as well
My grandparents’ history
My grandparents were brave
Brave were my grandparents
In spite of “public
Punishments to serve as an example”
Although flagellated
In flesh and soul
Although divided
And oppressed
By a vilifying regime
My grandparents never
Never submitted themselves
To slavery
There are many stories
About my grandparents
That History does not
Care to tell
My grandparents were strong
They were brave
Brave were strong were
My grandparents
To those who still doubt
I point to among other epics
The epic of Palmares
Whose quilombos led
By the Black hero Zumbi
Surrounded by enemies
Much better armed
And much more numerous
Once their strength was spent
Once all hope was destroyed
Hurled themselves from the Serra da Barriga
Preferring glorious death
To a vile life of slavery
To those who still doubt
I point to the Malês Revolt
When the bata-cotôs
(Warrior drums)
Threw the city of Salvador
Bahia into panic
I point to the Jabaquara Quilombo
Yet another example of the bravery
Of my grandparents
To those who doubt
I point to Black secret societies
That raised funds
To buy the freedom
Of their enslaved siblings
There are many stories
About my grandparents
That History does not
Care to tell
My grandparents were strong
They were brave
Brave were strong were
My grandparents
Four Poems
Carlos de Assumpção
translated from the Portuguese by Robert Smith
Read the original in Portuguese
Listen to the original read by the poet:
Carlos de Assumpção’s poems were composed to be recited before large audiences. For more than sixty years, Assumpção has publicly spoken out against racism as a poet, teacher, and social activist in diverse movements and venues throughout Brazil. In the words of Abdias Nascimento, “His poem ‘Protest’ played an important role in our struggle. He would arrive, recite the poem, and the room would catch fire.”
Assumpção grew up listening to stories around the bonfire. “My grandfather saw his parents and grandparents suffering in slavery,” he recalls. On one occasion, his younger brother was nearly expelled from school for contesting their history teacher on the subject of slavery. This emphasis on storytelling and oral traditions directly reflects in the spoken nature of Assumpção’s poetry. During our phone conversations, Assumpção recited a number of poems by heart, including “I Too Am America” by Langston Hughes. Assumpção was impressed when I mentioned that I had first seen this poem in a high school textbook; those who know Assumpção are looking forward to the day when his poems of protest, resistance, and celebration will likewise be widely taught in Brazilian schools.
Assumpção related that he has been criticized for his poetry being “too open” and connected to popular culture, but his works are by no means simple, much less easy to translate. The word batuque, for example, refers to both Afro-Brazilian percussion and the accompanying dances. The word banzo has been defined by Nei Lopes as “a fatal nostalgia that affected Black Africans who were enslaved in Brazil.” The choice to leave these words in Portuguese was guided by the desire to maintain the poems’ musicality. It is my hope that these translations succeed in conveying the rebellious cadence, acoustic force, and performative nature of Assumpção’s poems, as well as their enduring social impact.
Assumpção grew up listening to stories around the bonfire. “My grandfather saw his parents and grandparents suffering in slavery,” he recalls. On one occasion, his younger brother was nearly expelled from school for contesting their history teacher on the subject of slavery. This emphasis on storytelling and oral traditions directly reflects in the spoken nature of Assumpção’s poetry. During our phone conversations, Assumpção recited a number of poems by heart, including “I Too Am America” by Langston Hughes. Assumpção was impressed when I mentioned that I had first seen this poem in a high school textbook; those who know Assumpção are looking forward to the day when his poems of protest, resistance, and celebration will likewise be widely taught in Brazilian schools.
Assumpção related that he has been criticized for his poetry being “too open” and connected to popular culture, but his works are by no means simple, much less easy to translate. The word batuque, for example, refers to both Afro-Brazilian percussion and the accompanying dances. The word banzo has been defined by Nei Lopes as “a fatal nostalgia that affected Black Africans who were enslaved in Brazil.” The choice to leave these words in Portuguese was guided by the desire to maintain the poems’ musicality. It is my hope that these translations succeed in conveying the rebellious cadence, acoustic force, and performative nature of Assumpção’s poems, as well as their enduring social impact.
Carlos de Assumpção is considered one of the foremost Afro-Brazilian poets. Born in 1927 in a small town in the state of São Paulo, Assumpção was active in the Brazilian civil rights movement, publicly reciting his poems on several occasions. He also worked as an elementary school teacher for many years. At the age of 93, Assumpção continues to act as a mentor and activist in his community, where he coordinates Sarau Protesto, an itinerant literary project that brings poetry readings, workshops, and other activities to schools, juvenile detention centers, landless rural workers camps, and other public spaces. Assumpção’s collected poems, Não pararei de gritar, were published by Companhia das Letras in 2020.
Robert Smith has published translations in Anomaly, Asymptote, Epiphany, InTranslation, Journal of Italian Translation, New Poetry in Translation, Two Lines, and Vestiges.
