Lyrics

Brathwaite's reading of this poem can be heard on SoundCloud, via the audio player (above right), or by opening this annotation Shepherd1Dumb dumb dumb there is no face no lip no moon the tambourine tinkles the room rumbles clouded with drums a crack ascends the silence soles of my feet are tall are tall are tall the sky is no wall at all the messenger spins she wears white calico whispers the smooth silvers and tears the water is waiting. Dumb dumb dumb in the dumb room the crack widens the eye screams the knuckles knock it ajar the door opens and the wind is near. Dumb dumb dumb the drum trembles the knocking wakes its sound the tambourine tinkles and my feet have found the calling clear the bubble eyes the river. If this is all I have if this is all I have I can travel no farther you must pour you must pour you must pour me out so the god can enter the silver so the god can enter the river you must spill me into the cracked ground I am blood I am pebble root hairs and the dust of the thunder's room I am water I am blood I am the hot rum leaking from green from the clanking of iron I bleed with the fields' sweat with the sweet backs of labour my steps take root in the worn shadows where the noon has burnt a harbour. Dumb dumb dumb now the drum speaks flat palms open their lips give light to the tight eyes the tambourine wrinkles white shrieks as the messenger whirls faster and faster lips curl into old shapes thick gutturals red heavy consonants furl on the dry tongue and the god is near. He moves slowly slowly slowly he moves slowly the dark swells mountain mountain mountain near me. Now I can smell his sweat his musk of damp and slave ships his heat hurts me, my belly is tight his hands hit me into sound mountain mountain mountain the god moves the god moves me all around me is light can you see me? Slowly slowly slowly the dumb speaks 2But you do not understand. For there is an absence of truth like a good tooth drawn from the tight skull like the wave's tune gone from the ship's hull; there is sand but no desert where water can learn of its loveliness; volcanoes without their living eyes. The streets of my home have their own gods but we do not see them they walk in the dust but are hidden from our eyes even though the knuckles of my friends' knocking open their secret doors. The orange on the table, the grapefruit, the cashew nut: these are our votive offerings but we do not use them. The limes in the market praise them and the green teeth of the chewing herds; their cross is the street that runs down to the harbour; it is cobbled with voices; it shines like the crabs' backs after the rain. The streets' root is in the sea in the deep harbours; it is a long way from Guinea but the gods still have their places; they can walk up out of the sea into our houses; the street directs them upwards like blind incense; they find their way through the rusty holes of our shacks' innocence. Every tree praises them every ambition that aspires; the drum praises them and the rope that loosens the tongue of the steeple; they speak to us with the voices of crickets, with the shatter of leaves.