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I run high in my body on the road toward sea. I fall in love. The things the wind is telling me. The yellow sky quiet in her quiet dress. Old birds sending news from the reddish hills. & the one hawk flying in the distance overhead. That hawk is what the wind says. In love with the heaving of my peacock chest, with my lungs, two wings, such flying things, but mine for now, just for now as I open my stride above the good, dirt road, fall in love with the mustard & coriander dust, & the far, far mountain beveled by light, by rain, the easy eye of the sun, now, smoke floating across the hillside like a face I knew once very well. Very well, I fall in love with the flowers & the wash hung like prayer flags, see, in red Juanita's yard. In love with the earth the color of earth. In love with the goats, their bellies & hooves, & the goat mouths bleating as they greet me on the road. I fall in love. How they wear their strange & double-eyes. How they do not blink or laugh at me or say a thing I understand when I ask them in my English, because they circle around my feet, as if they always knew me, Were you my children once? Did I know your names? Oh, little magics? Little children?

St. Patrick’s Day! St. Patrick’s Day! Oh! thou tormenting Irish lay— I’ve got thee buzzing in my brain, And cannot turn thee out again. Oh, mercy! music may be bliss But not in such a shape as this, When all I do, and all I say, Begins and ends in Patricks’s Day. Had it but been in opera shape, Italian squall, or German scrape, Fresh from the bow of Paganini, Or caught from Weber of Rossini, One would not care so much—but, oh! The sad plebeian shame to know An old blind fiddler bore away My senses with St. Patrick’s Day. I take up Burke in hopes to chase The plaguing phantom from its place; But all in vain—attention wavers From classic lore to triplet quavers; An “Essay” on the great “Sublime” Sounds strangely set in six-eight time. Down goes the book, read how I may, The words will flow to Patrick’s Day.

From the region of zephyrs, the Emerald isle, The land of thy birth, in my freshness I come, To waken this long-cherished morn with a smile, And breathe o’er thy spirit the whispers of home. O welcome the stranger from Erin’s green sod; I sprang where the bones of thy fathers repose, I grew where thy free step in infancy trod, Ere the world threw around thee its wiles and its woes. But sprightlier themes Enliven the dreams, My dew-dropping leaflets unfold to impart: To loftiest emotion Of patriot devotion, I wake the full chord of an Irishman’s heart. The rose is expanding her petals of pride, And points to the laurels o’erarching her tree; And the hardy Bur-thistle stands rooted beside, And sternly demands;—Who dare meddle wi’ me? And bright are the garlands they jointly display, In death-fields of victory gallantly got; But let the fair sisters their trophies array, And show us the wreath where the shamrock is not! By sea and by land, With bullet and brand, My sons have directed the stormbolt of war; The banners ye boast, Ne’er waved o’er our host, Unfanned by the accents of Erin-go-bragh! Erin mavourneen! dark is thy night; Deep thy forebodings and gloomy thy fears; And O, there are bosoms with savage delight Who laugh at thy plainings and scoff at thy tears! But, Erin mavourneen, bright are the names Who twine with the heart-vein thy fate in their breast; And scorned be the lot of the dastard, who shames To plant, as a trophy, this leaf on his crest! Thrice trebled disgrace His honours deface, Who shrinks from proclaiming the isle of his birth! Though lowly its stem, This emerald gem Mates with the proudest that shadow the earth! Sandhurst, March 17, 1827

Every town with black Catholics has a St. Peter Claver’s. My first was nursery school. Miss Maturin made us fold our towels in a regulation square and nap on army cots. No mother questioned; no child sassed. In blue pleated skirts, pants, and white shirts, we stood in line to use the open toilets and conserved light by walking in darkness. Unsmiling, mostly light-skinned, we were the children of the middle class, preparing to take our parents’ places in a world that would demand we fold our hands and wait. They said it was good for us, the bowl of soup, its pasty whiteness; I learned to swallow and distrust my senses. On holy cards St. Peter’s face is olive-toned, his hair near kinky; I thought he was one of us who pass between the rich and poor, the light and dark. Now I read he was “a Spanish Jesuit priest who labored for the salvation of the African Negroes and the abolition of the slave trade.” I was tricked again, robbed of my patron, and left with a debt to another white man.

Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowdes halle, And servyd him of bred and cloth, as every kyng befalle. Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris hed on honde; He saw a sterre was fayr and bryght over Bedlem stonde. He kyst adoun the boris hed and went in to the halle: "I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle." "I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle." "Quat eylyt the, Stevene? quat is the befalle? Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle?" "Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle." "Quat eylyt the, Stevyn? Art thu wod, or thu gynnyst to brede? Lakkyt the eyther gold or fe, or ony ryche wede?" "Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, ne non ryche wede; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born xal helpyn us at our nede." "That is al so soth, Stevyn, al so soth, iwys. As this capoun crowe xal that lyth here in myn dysh." That word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle, The capoun crew Cristus natus est! among the lordes alle. "Rysyt up, myn turmentowres, be to and al be on, And ledyt Stevyn out of this toun, and stonyt hym wyth ston!" Tokyn he Stevene, and stonyd hym in the way, And therfore is his evyn on Crystes owyn day.

Thinking of rain clouds that rose over the city on the first day of the year in the same month I consider that I have lived daily and with eyes open and ears to hear these years across from St Vincent’s Hospital above whose roof those clouds rose its bricks by day a French red under cross facing south blown-up neo-classic facades the tall dark openings between columns at the dawn of history exploded into many windows in a mortised face inside it the ambulances have unloaded after sirens’ howling nearer through traffic on Seventh Avenue long ago I learned not to hear them even when the sirens stop they turn to back in few passers-by stay to look and neither do I at night two long blue windows and one short one on the top floor burn all night many nights when most of the others are out on what floor do they have anything I have seen the building drift moonlit through geraniums late at night when trucks were few moon just past the full upper windows parts of the sky as long as I looked I watched it at Christmas and New Year early in the morning I have seen the nurses ray out through arterial streets in the evening have noticed internes blocks away on doorsteps one foot in the door I have come upon the men in gloves taking out the garbage at all hours piling up mountains of plastic bags white strata with green intermingled and black I have seen one pile catch fire and studied the cloud at the ends of the jets of the hoses the fire engines as near as that red beacons and machine-throb heard by the whole body I have noticed molded containers stacked outside a delivery entrance on Twelfth Street whether meals from a meal factory made up with those mummified for long journeys by plane or specimens for laboratory examination sealed at the prescribed temperatures either way closed delivery and approached faces staring from above crutches or tubular clamps out for tentative walks have paused for turtling wheel-chairs heard visitors talking in wind on each corner while the lights changed and hot dogs were handed over at the curb in the middle of afternoon mustard ketchup onions and relish and police smelling of ether and laundry were going back and I have known them all less than the papers of our days smoke rises from the chimneys do they have an incinerator what for how warm do they believe they have to maintain the air in there several of the windows appear to be made of tin but it may be the light reflected I have imagined bees coming and going on those sills though I have never seen them who was St Vincent

I wake to light jackhammering, and news follows: a plane failed over the sea. All want to go home, but drastic curfews obtain from a meridian. *     *     * We are a long way from a sea that cedes black boxes from an area forested as the Andes. Instead, a Mercedes, black as La Brea, leaps from the backlit red, anonymous, when we try to cross at the traffic island discarding hibiscus with every wind-toss. *     *     * We are a long way from the courteous lilac or waxwing with sensitive feather tipped as a kayak is tipped by a coxswain.

One rusty horseshoe hangs on a nail above the door, still losing its luck, and a work-collar swings, an empty old noose. The silence waits, wild to be broken by hoofbeat and heavy harness slap, will founder but remain; while, outside, above the stable, eight, nine, now ten buzzards swing low in lazy loops, a loose black warp of patience, bearing the blank sky like a pall of wind on mourning wings. But the bones of this place are long picked clean. Only the hayrake's ribs still rise from the rampant grasses.

In my cries I don’t cease (some dumb bird) when from the swinging trees a stag at eve comes prancing, body dappled by the shadows of dripping leaves. It’s fall, after all, when the land undoes its lingerie laces and stands naked for the dark wood, balding plains, for parking lots slick with strange water, for hills growing lush in emptiness and into this scene enters the stag, moon lunate and swinging on a tether of leather scored then cured, from one just like him a year earlier. Some dumb bird, I bid him hello and goodbye in a shriek so lusty he turns his expensive head just to curse me.

1 I always wonder what they think the niggers are doing while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists, are containing Russia and defining and re-defining and re-aligning China, nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile, from blowing up that earth which they have already blasphemed into dung: the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful ladies, and their men, nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam, nostalgic for noble causes, aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages— ah—! Uncas shall never leave the reservation, except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store. The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked: there is a way around every treaty. We will turn the tides of the restless Caribbean, the sun will rise, and set on our hotel balconies as we see fit. The natives will have nothing to complain about, indeed, they will begin to be grateful, will be better off than ever before. They will learn to defer gratification and save up for things, like we do. Oh, yes. They will. We have only to make an offer they cannot refuse. This flag has been planted on the moon: it will be interesting to see what steps the moon will take to be revenged for this quite breathtaking presumption. This people masturbate in winding sheets. They have hacked their children to pieces. They have never honoured a single treaty made with anyone, anywhere. The walls of their cities are as foul as their children. No wonder their children come at them with knives. Mad Charlie man's son was one of their children, had got his shit together by the time he left kindergarten, and, as for Patty, heiress of all the ages, she had the greatest vacation of any heiress, anywhere: Golly-gee, whillikens, Mom, real guns! and they come with a real big, black funky stud, too: oh, Ma! he's making eyes at me! Oh, noble Duke Wayne, be careful in them happy hunting grounds. They say the only good Indian is a dead Indian, by what I say is, you can't be too careful, you hear? Oh, towering Ronnie Reagan, wise and resigned lover of redwoods, deeply beloved, winning man-child of the yearning Republic from diaper to football field to Warner Brothers sound-stages, be thou our grinning, gently phallic, Big Boy of all the ages! Salt peanuts, salt peanuts, for dear hearts and gentle people, and cheerful, shining, simple Uncle Sam! Nigger, read this and run! Now, if you can't read, run anyhow! From Manifest Destiny (Cortez, and all his men silent upon a peak in Darien) to A Decent Interval, and the chopper rises above Saigon, abandoning the noble cause and the people we have made ignoble and whom we leave there, now, to die, one moves, With All Deliberate Speed, to the South China Sea, and beyond, where millions of new niggers await glad tidings! No, said the Great Man's Lady, I'm against abortion, I always feel that's killing somebody. Well, what about capital punishment? I think the death penalty helps. That's right. Up to our ass in niggers on Death Row. Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me! 2 Well, I guess what the niggers is supposed to be doing is putting themselves in the path of that old sweet chariot and have it swing down and carry us home. That would help, as they say, and they got ways of sort of nudging the chariot. They still got influence with Wind and Water, though they in for some surprises with Cloud and Fire. My days are not their days. My ways are not their ways. I would not think of them, one way or the other, did not they so grotesquely block the view between me and my brother. And, so, I always wonder: can blindness be desired? Then, what must the blinded eyes have seen to wish to see no more! For, I have seen, in the eyes regarding me, or regarding my brother, have seen, deep in the farthest valley of the eye, have seen a flame leap up, then flicker and go out, have seen a veil come down, leaving myself, and the other, alone in that cave which every soul remembers, and out of which, desperately afraid, I turn, turn, stagger, stumble out, into the healing air, fall flat on the healing ground, singing praises, counselling my heart, my soul, to praise. What is it that this people cannot forget? Surely, they cannot be deluded as to imagine that their crimes are original? There is nothing in the least original about the fiery tongs to the eyeballs, the sex torn from the socket, the infant ripped from the womb, the brains dashed out against rock, nothing original about Judas, or Peter, or you or me: nothing: we are liars and cowards all, or nearly all, or nearly all the time: for we also ride the lightning, answer the thunder, penetrate whirlwinds, curl up on the floor of the sun, and pick our teeth with thunderbolts. Then, perhaps they imagine that their crimes are not crimes? Perhaps. Perhaps that is why they cannot repent, why there is no possibility of repentance. Manifest Destiny is a hymn to madness, feeding on itself, ending (when it ends) in madness: the action is blindness and pain, pain bringing a torpor so deep that every act is willed, is desperately forced, is willed to be a blow: the hand becomes a fist, the prick becomes a club, the womb a dangerous swamp, the hope, and fear, of love is acid in the marrow of the bone. No, their fire is not quenched, nor can be: the oil feeding the flames being the unadmitted terror of the wrath of God. Yes. But let us put it in another, less theological way: though theology has absolutely nothing to do with what I am trying to say. But the moment God is mentioned theology is summoned to buttress or demolish belief: an exercise which renders belief irrelevant and adds to the despair of Fifth Avenue on any afternoon, the people moving, homeless, through the city, praying to find sanctuary before the sky and the towers come tumbling down, before the earth opens, as it does in Superman. They know that no one will appear to turn back time, they know it, just as they know that the earth has opened before and will open again, just as they know that their empire is falling, is doomed, nothing can hold it up, nothing. We are not talking about belief. 3 I wonder how they think the niggers made, make it, how come the niggers are still here. But, then, again, I don't think they dare to think of that: no: I'm fairly certain they don't think of that at all. Lord, I with the alabaster lady of the house, with Beulah. Beulah about sixty, built in four-square, biceps like Mohammed Ali, she at the stove, fixing biscuits, scrambling eggs and bacon, fixing coffee, pouring juice, and the lady of the house, she say, she don't know how she'd get along without Beulah and Beulah just silently grunts, I reckon you don't, and keeps on keeping on and the lady of the house say She's just like one of the family, and Beulah turns, gives me a look, sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes in the direction of the lady's back, and keeps on keeping on. While they are containing Russia and entering onto the quicksand of China and patronizing Africa, and calculating the Caribbean plunder, and the South China Sea booty, the niggers are aware that no one has discussed anything at all with the niggers. Well. Niggers don't own nothing, got no flag, even our names are hand-me-downs and you don't change that by calling yourself X: sometimes that just makes it worse, like obliterating the path that leads back to whence you came, and to where you can begin. And, anyway, none of this changes the reality, which is, for example, that I do not want my son to die in Guantanamo, or anywhere else, for that matter, serving the Stars and Stripes. (I've seen some stars. I got some stripes.) Neither (incidentally) has anyone discussed the Bomb with the niggers: the incoherent feeling is, the less the nigger knows about the Bomb, the better: the lady of the house smiles nervously in your direction as though she had just been overheard discussing family, or sexual secrets, and changes the subject to Education, or Full Employment, or the Welfare rolls, the smile saying,Don't be dismayed. We know how you feel. You can trust us. Yeah. I would like to believe you. But we are not talking about belief. 4 The sons of greed, the heirs of plunder, are approaching the end of their journey: it is amazing that they approach without wonder, as though they have, themselves, become that scorched and blasphemed earth, the stricken buffalo, the slaughtered tribes, the endless, virgin, bloodsoaked plain, the famine, the silence, the children's eyes, murder masquerading as salvation, seducing every democratic eye, the mouths of truth and anguish choked with cotton, rape delirious with the fragrance of magnolia, the hacking of the fruit of their loins to pieces, hey! the tar-baby sons and nephews, the high-yaller nieces, and Tom's black prick hacked off to rustle in crinoline, to hang, heaviest of heirlooms, between the pink and alabaster breasts of the Great Man's Lady, or worked into the sash at the waist of the high-yaller Creole bitch, or niece, a chunk of shining brown-black satin, staring, staring, like the single eye of God: creation yearns to re-create a time when we were able to recognize a crime. Alas, my stricken kinsmen, the party is over: there have never been any white people, anywhere: the trick was accomplished with mirrors— look: where is your image now? where your inheritance, on what rock stands this pride? Oh, I counsel you, leave History alone. She is exhausted, sitting, staring into her dressing-room mirror, and wondering what rabbit, now, to pull out of what hat, and seriously considering retirement, even though she knows her public dare not let her go. She must change. Yes. History must change. A slow, syncopated relentless music begins suggesting her re-entry, transformed, virginal as she was, in the Beginning, untouched, as the Word was spoken, before the rape which debased her to be the whore of multitudes, or, as one might say, before she became the Star, whose name, above our title, carries the Show, making History the patsy, responsible for every flubbed line, every missed cue, responsible for the life and death, of all bright illusions and dark delusions, Lord, History is weary of her unspeakable liaison with Time, for Time and History have never seen eye to eye: Time laughs at History and time and time and time again Time traps History in a lie. But we always, somehow, managed to roar History back onstage to take another bow, to justify, to sanctify the journey until now. Time warned us to ask for our money back, and disagreed with History as concerns colours white and black. Not only do we come from further back, but the light of the Sun marries all colours as one. Kinsmen, I have seen you betray your Saviour (it is you who call Him Saviour) so many times, and I have spoken to Him about you, behind your back. Quite a lot has been going on behind your back, and, if your phone has not yet been disconnected, it will soon begin to ring: informing you, for example, that a whole generation, in Africa, is about to die, and a new generation is about to rise, and will not need your bribes, or your persuasions, any more: not your morality. No plundered gold— Ah! Kinsmen, if I could make you see the crime is not what you have done to me! It is you who are blind, you, bowed down with chains, you, whose children mock you, and seek another master, you, who cannot look man or woman or child in the eye, whose sleep is blank with terror, for whom love died long ago, somewhere between the airport and the safe-deposit box, the buying and selling of rising or falling stocks, you, who miss Zanzibar and Madagascar and Kilimanjaro and lions and tigers and elephants and zebras and flying fish and crocodiles and alligators and leopards and crashing waterfalls and endless rivers, flowers fresher than Eden, silence sweeter than the grace of God, passion at every turning, throbbing in the bush, thicker, oh, than honey in the hive, dripping dripping opening, welcoming, aching from toe to bottom to spine, sweet heaven on the line to last forever, yes, but, now, rejoicing ends, man, a price remains to pay, your innocence costs too much and we can't carry you on our books or our backs, any longer: baby, find another Eden, another apple tree, somewhere, if you can, and find some other natives, somewhere else, to listen to you bellow till you come, just like a man, but we don't need you, are sick of being a fantasy to feed you, and of being the principal accomplice to your crime: for, it is your crime, now, the cross to which you cling, your Alpha and Omega for everything. Well (others have told you) your clown's grown weary, the puppet master is bored speechless with this monotonous disaster, and is long gone, does not belong to you, any more than my woman, or my child, ever belonged to you. During this long travail our ancestors spoke to us, and we listened, and we tried to make you hear life in our song but now it matters not at all to me whether you know what I am talking about—or not: I know why we are not blinded by your brightness, are able to see you, who cannot see us. I know why we are still here. Godspeed. The niggers are calculating, from day to day, life everlasting, and wish you well: but decline to imitate the Son of the Morning, and rule in Hell.