Gary Blankenship
Song of Myself #21
- Immigrants
Song of Myself #22 - Cane
Cutters
Song
of Myself #21 - Immigrants
21. The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or
levee
We braved walls of ice and uncommon cold
to follow the herds to where no man stood
Chained against air and sky,
we traversed the Middle Passage
to view your struggle for freedom
We withstood ceaseless storms to cross the
oceans
for the Golden Mountain,
to enter the City on the Hill,
and succor the land for our prosperity
We laid your rails, roads and bridges,
drew coal from the ground to fuel your
homes
and forge your machines,
picked your lettuce and cut your cane,
plowed your fields and fought your wars,
made your beds
and cleaned your toilets
From steerage and deep holds,
we have become the highest
and too often have been tricked
into remaining the lowest
And now you form a wall against us,
you see us only as “wretched refuse”
though we stand where you stood
and desire what you desired -
the hallowed light of liberty
Song of Myself #22 – Cane Cutters
22. The woollypates hoe in the sugar
field
Under the glare of a Louisiana sun
and the scowl of Boss Jim,
from sleepy dawn to tired dusk,
hoes chop and cut and hack
behind the hovels
Massa Sam calls quarters
we are allowed a patch
for greens and roots
watered and weeded
by the little, pregnant and aged
until the hoes replaced with knives
to cut the cane
to boil the cane
to purify the molasses
to distill into rum
a good harvest expected
a bit of okra and turnips
collard and peppers
old Massa Sam don’t cut our vittles
for the crops behind our huts
even though young Massa George would
sent to Liverpool for trade goods
sent to the Benin for black men
sent to America to hoe and hack
and cook and refine cane
when our children and theirs
leave for their offices
factories and schools
full of sweetened cereal
remember who weeds
and chops the cane
until the trumpet blows