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Callaloo 23.4 (2000) 1368-1375



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Rise

A. Van Jordan


"For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song . . . ." Psalms 137:3

I. Field Holler

Dead man, we need water now in the fields
to wash this fist from our throats so we can
sing sunshine into our hands and feet. Now,
while our morning is still dark and purple,
bring water. We need the art of droplets
on tree bark and leaves, after the storm cries
over our heads. Weeds grow around honey-
suckle and cotton and our fingers free
their chains. Whose touch will free us--hearts
stiffened, mouths dry from song, feet thick with clay--
from our weeds? Our mules are tired of plowing
through our footsteps. The soil has lost her taste
for our sweat. And through the night, the moon hangs
on its chain while our tears learn sleep's sweetness.
On its chain, while our tears learn sleep's sweetness,
the harvest moon dances through the night, but
only to one song: it hears the echo
of our footsteps as they lead to the field,
the hollow reeds of our spines as we lift
our heads toward home. We will welcome morning:
     His clothes is full of patches,
    His hat is full of holes, [End Page 1368]
    Stoopin down pickin cotton
    From off the bottom boll
    Po far-mer, po--far-mer,
      Po farmer,
    They get all the farmer make
And tomorrow, after the sun's whip rests,
our bloody clothes will be left to explain.

II. Prison Camp Work Song

Our bloody clothes'll be left to explain
why pickaxes and hammers sing to stone.
Crime--wastin our voices on rocks and guards,
watchin sparrows dance just below clouds, while
Alberta's face shimmies beneath my eyelids.
Workin without pay makes the days go slow
And the nights be counted in minutes.
      Now give me water, Lord, when I'm thirsty. (hunh!)
      Honey, give me whiskey when I'm dry (hunh!)
When Boss Man hears us singin he knows
we's breakin rocks into hand-held stars, he
forgets the team's slow man. I'm the first man,
ahead of younger men come mornin, been
first man in my team for 15 years now.

III. Chain Gang

Yeah, first man in my team for fif-teen years now--
that's convict years, no woman, no drink, just
work--so a man's gotta learn him some songs
to keep his head. Guards don't guard a singin' man.
A gun? A knife? They're no match for my song.
I just lullaby'em till they lean back
with their mouth open like catfish and--
for those few minutes-- I'm free. I just pour
the emotion I would've poured into
a woman into a song, it's easy: [End Page 1369]
Now give me water, Lord, when I'm thirsty. (hunh!)
Honey, give me whiskey when I'm dry. (hunh!)
    Give me Alberta, when I need her, (hunh!)
    And heaven when I die. (hunh!)

IV. Levee Camp Moan

And heaven when I die. Oh Lord, I say, heaven when I die,
that's when I'll straighten up this back.
Stars will just be holes peeking through the black
'cause the dark will be the light and the moon will have to sigh.
At least I'll be out of here before Mr. Cholly starts to cry.
    I've met with ups and downs of life and better days I've saw,
    But I never knew what mis'ry was till I came to Arkansas.
And if I go to hell, compared to this, it'll be cooler if I fry.
I'll drink hot water and eat spiced shrimps with the devil.
Slide my steel guitar and stomp a red foot in dirt.
Learn me some new songs 'bout old days on the levee
and none of 'em will be to the rhythm of this rusty, old shovel.
They's got women in hell and I'll find time to flirt
        cause I'll be too far down to dig and my worries won't...

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