Thinkin’s a trouble, a h’ant lookin’ over de shoulder,
Set yo’ head on my breas’ and forget about thinkin’.”
“I got my head on yo’ breas’, and it’s sof’ dere, woman,
Sof’ and sweet as a mournin’ out of de Scriptures,
Sof’ as two Solomon doves. But I can’t help thinkin’.”
“Ain’t I good enough for you no more, black boy?
Don’ you love me no more dat you mus’ keep thinkin’?”
“You’s better’n good to me and I loves you, woman,
Till I feels like Meshuck down in de fiery furnace,
Till I feels like God’s own chile. But I keeps on thinkin’,
Wonderin’ what I’d feel like if I was free.”
“Hush, black boy, hush for de Lord’s sake!” “But listen, woman—”
“Hush yo’self, black boy, lean yo’self on my breas’,
Talk like that and paterollers’ll git you,
Swinge you all to bits with a blacksnake whip,
Squinch-owl carry yo’ talk to de paterollers,
It ain’t safe to talk like that.” “I got to, woman,
I got a feelin’ in my heart.” “Den you set on dat feelin’!
Never heard you talk so in all my born days!
Ain’t we got a good cabin here?” “Sho’, we got a good cabin.”
“Ain’t we got good vittles, ain’t old Mistis kind to us?”
“Sho’ we got good vittles, and ole Mistis she’s kind.
I’se mighty fond of ole Mistis.” “Den what you talkin’,
You brash fool-nigger?” “I just got a feelin’, woman.
Ole Marse Billy, he’s goin’ away tomorrow,
Marse Clay, he’s goin’ with him to fight de Yankees,
All of ’em goin’, yes suh.” “And what if dey is?”
“Well, sposin’ de Yankees beats?” “Ain’t you got no sense, nigger?
Like to see any ole Yankees lick ole Marse Billy
And young Marse Clay!” “Hi, woman, ain’t dat de trufe!”
“Well, den—” “But I sees ’em all, jus’ goin’ and goin’,
Goin’ to war like Joshua, goin’ like David,
And it makes me want to be free. Ain’t you never thought
At all about bein’ free?” “Sho’, co’se I thought of it.
I always reckoned when ole Marse Billy died,
Old Mistis mebbe gwine to set some of us free,
Mebbe she will.” “But we-uns gwine to be old den,
We won’t be young and have the use of our hands,
We won’t see our young ’uns growin’ up free around us,
We won’t have the strength to hoe our own co’n ourselves,
I want to be free, like me, while I got my strength.”
“You might be a lot worse off and not be free,
What’d you do if ole man Zachary owned us?”
“Kill him, I reckon.” “Hush, black boy, for God’s sake hush!”
“I can’t help it, woman. Dey ain’t so many like him
But what dey is is too pizen-mean to live.
Can’t you hear dat feelin’ I got, woman? I ain’t scared
Of talk and de paterollers, and I ain’t mean.
I’se mighty fond of ole Mistis and ole Marse Billy,
I’se mighty fond of ’em all at de Big House,
I wouldn’t be nobody else’s nigger for nothin’.
But I hears ’em goin’ away, all goin’ away,
With horses and guns and things, all stompin’ and wavin’,
And I hears de chariot-wheels and de Jordan River,
Rollin’ and Rollin’ and Rollin’ thu’ my sleep,
And I wants to be free. I wants to see my chillun
Growin’ up free, and all bust out of Egypt!
I wants to be free like an eagle in de air,
Like an eagle in de air.”
Iron-filings scattered over a dusty
Map of crook-cornered States in yellow and blue.
Little, grouped male and female iron-filings,
Scattered over a patchwork-quilt whose patches
Are the red-earth stuff of Georgia, the pine-bough green of Vermont.
Here you are clustered as thick as a clump of bees
In swarming time. The clumps make cities and towns.
Here you are strewn at random, like single seeds
Lost out of the wind’s pocket. But now, but now,
The thunderstone has fallen on your map
And all the iron-filings shiver and move
Under the grippings of that blinded force,
The cold pull of the ash-and-cinder star.
The map is vexed with the long battle-worms
Of filings, clustered and moving. If it is
An enemy of the sun who has so stolen
Power from a burnt star to do this work,
Let the bleak essence of the utter cold
Beyond the last gleam of the most outpost light
Freeze in his veins forever. But if it is
A fault in the very metal of the heart,
We and our children must acquit that fault
With the old bloody wastage, or give up
Playing the father to it. O vexed and strange,
Salt-bitter, apple-sweet, strong-handed life!
Your million lovers cast themselves like sea
Against your mountainy breast, with a clashing noise
And a proud clamor—and like sea recoil,
Sucked down beneath the forefoot of the new
Advancing surf. They feed the battle-worms,
Not only War’s, but in the second’s pause
Between the assaulting and the broken wave,
The voices of the lovers can be heard,
The sea-gull cry.
Jake Diefer, the barrel-chested Pennsylvanian,
Hand like a ham and arms that could wrestle a bull,
A roast of a man, all solid meat and good fat,
A slow-thought-chewing Clydesdale horse of a man,
Roused out of his wife’s arms. The dawn outside
Was ruddy as his big cheeks. He yawned and stretched
Gigantically, hawking and clearing his throat.
His wife, hair tousled around her like tousled corn,
Stared at him with sleep-blind eyes. “Jake, it ain’t come morning,
Already yet?” He nodded and started to dress.
She burrowed deeper into the bed for a minute
And then threw off the covers. They didn’t say much
Then, or at breakfast. Eating was something serious.
But he looked around the big kitchen once or twice
In a puzzled way, as if trying hard to remember it.
She too, when she was busy with the first batch
Of pancakes, burnt one or two, because she was staring
At the “salt” on the salt-box, for no particular reason.
The boy ate with them and didn’t say a word,
Being too sleepy. Afterwards, when the team
Was hitched up and waiting, with the boy on the seat,
Holding the reins till Jake was ready to take them,
Jake didn’t take them at once. The sun was up now,
The spilt-milk-mist of first morning lay on the farm,
Jake looked at it all with those same mildly-puzzled eyes,
The red barn, the fat rich fields just done with the winter,
Just beginning the work of another year.
The boy would have to do the rest of the planting.
He blew on
