Postlude/Home

Lyrics

Brathwaite's reading of this poem can be heard on SoundCloud or by opening this annotation Postlude/HomeWhere then is the nigger's home? In Paris Brixton Kingston Rome? Here? Or in Heaven? What crime his dark dividing skin is hiding? What guilt now drives him on? Will exile never end? Will these spent tears, poor pauper's pence, earn him a little solace here bought if not given? When the relеase from fear, bent back unhеaling his- tory? What final peace consumes his ancient fury? So dreams so embers, ashes, smoke. The memories are cold: the old unflamed remains of Tom we sometimes joke about. What we can't touch will never be enough for us to shout about, who live with God- less rock the shock of dis- possession. For we who have cre- ated nothing, must exist on nothing; cannot see the soil: good earth, God's earth, with- out that fixed locked mem- ory of love- less toil, strength des- troyed, chained to the sun like a snail its shell and the hatred it dragged in its trail. So late in the evenin', home fires burnin', lonely hearts pinin', the diner is winin' and his driver is jacked on the dark blue tracks of his flat mistress' flesh; we, winnin' we dinner, is pick up we tools fuh the hit an' run raid an' you better look our for you wallet. An' watchin' me brother here sharpen 'e blade, I is find meself wonderin' if Tawia Tutu Anokye or Tom could'a ever have live such a life.