Tom / All God’s Chillun

Lyrics

Brathwaite's reading of these poems can be heard on SoundCloud or by opening this annotation TomSo many seeds the cotton breeds so many seeds our fathers need. Grow on, cotton lands go on to the bottom lands where the quick cassava grows where the sick back dries, where no one knows if he lives or dies. Blow on cotton blues sun dries the dews on the green on the grass on the pasture and something seen on the wet grass the cool pasture recalls the salt dream the yellow wavеs awash on our shore. Drown the screams, shorе cool the lashed sore, keep the dream pure for we who have achieved nothing work who have not built dream who have forgotten all dance and dare to remember the paths we shall never remember again: Atumpan talking and the harvest branches, all the tribes of Ashanti dreaming the dream of Tutu, Anokye and the Golden Stool, built in Heaven for our nation by the work of lightning and the brilliant adze: and now nothing nothing nothing so let me sing nothing now let me remember nothing now let me suffer nothing to remind me now of my lost children but let them rise O man O god O dawning let my children rise in the path of the morning up and go forth on the road of the morning run through the fields in the sun of the morning, see the rainbow of Heaven: God's curved mourning calling. But help- less my children are caught leader- less are taught fool- ishness and use- lessness and sorrow O weak the flame bitter the flower- blossoms blown in the blind path And I timid Tom father founder flounderer speak their shame their lack of power but weak O weak no crack in the chain starts no bitter flame marks my wrath. So I who have created nothing but these worthless weeds, these need- less seeds, work; who have built but on silt, but on sand, but on luckless salt, dream; who have forgotten all mouth 'Massa, yes Massa, yes Boss, yes Baas' and hold my hat in hand to hide my heart hoping my children's eyes will learn not green alone not Africa alone not dark alone not fear alone but Cortez and Drake Magellan and that Ferdinand the sailor who pierced the salt seas to this land. All God's Chillun1They call me Uncle Tom and mock me these my children mock me they hate the hat in hand the one- roomed God I praise. Winds raise the flat- roofed house each harvest time each southern soft Sep- tember. 'Hey, nuncle! wanna see what God in heaven brought for me? One pink-ear'd rat, thick knuckle-headed land one plot, you know, one bloody plot; one cow, one dog one fuckin' plough that only works one way, a snotty pond in which my children play leap frog: frog's habitat. A sniffin' mouse won't touch the best we have to offer it; and yet there was a time we kept our state on golden stools---remember?' 2Yes, I remember ... but what good is recollection now my own mock me; my own seed, ruined on this rock of God, struggle to strike me and what need my story in these fields where these cart-wheels turn over heart crush hard our hurt destroy the roots of love with pain. Boss man makes rules: who works, who jerks the rope, who rips the patient dirt. Boss man makes rules: I am his patient mule. Boss man rates gain: I am his living vein of sustenance: his corn, his meal, his grain. Boss man lacks pride: so hides his fear of fear and darkness in the whip. Boss man lacks pride: I am his hide of darkness. Bide the black times, Lord, hide my heart from the lips that spit from the hate that grips the sweat- ing flesh the whips that rip so wet, so red, so fresh. 3They call me Uncle Tom and mock me they laugh laugh loud laugh loud at me from the barrels of their bellies swishing loud with liquor. They laugh and the white man laughs: each wishing for mercy, each fearful of mercy, teach- ing their children to hate their skin to its bitter root in the bone. Hold hard heart From the bold sun of the over- seer's rod from the cold sneer of my own children's fear; for I fear to see them back broken black broken teeth their own gravestones, pinched by fever lynched by the balls. 4'But to hell with this, nuncle! You fussy black Uncle Tom, hat in your hand! Cut the cake- walkin', man; bus' the crinoline off the white woman, man; be the black buttin' ram that she makes you an' let's get to hell out'a Pharaoh's land!' 5These my children? God, you hear them? What deep sin what shattered glory? What harsh logic guides their story? When release from further journey 6Ease up, Lord.