Born in Barbados on May 12, 1930, Brathwaite (who died in February of this
year) was a renowned poet, essayist and acclaimed professor of Comparative
Literature at New York University. The Winner of the prestigious Griffin Poetry Prize for Born to
Slow Horses, he also was internationally renowned for his book The History of Voice. Among his other best-known poetry
works are The Lazarus Poems and Words Need Love Too. For Saturday’s Poem, here is Brathwaite’s,
Bread
Slowly the white dream wrestle(s) to life
hands shaping the salt and the foreign cornfields
the cold flesh kneaded by fingers
is ready for the charcoal for the black wife
of heat the years of green sleeping in the volcano.
the dream becomes tougher. settling into its shape
like a bullfrog. suns rise and electrons
touch it. walls melt into brown. moving to crisp and crackle
breathing edge of the knife of the oven.
noise of the shop. noise of the farmer. market.
on this slab of lord. on this table w/ its oil-skin cloth
on this altar of the bone. this sacrifice
of isaac. warm dead. warm merchandise. more than worn merchandise
life
itself. the dream of the soil itself
flesh of the god you break. peace to your lips. strife
of the multitudes who howl all day for its saviour
who need its crumbs as fish. flickering through their green element
need a wide glassy wisdom
to keep their groans alive
and this loaf here. life
now halted. more and more water add-
itive. the dream less clear. the soil more distant
its prayer of table. bless of lips. more hard to reach w/ penn-
ies. the knife
that should have cut it. the hands that should have broken open its victory
of crusts at your throat. balaam watching w/ red leak
-ing eyes. the rats
finding only this young empty husk
sharp-
ening their ratchets. your wife
going out on the streets. searching searching
her feet tapping. the lights of the motor-
cars watching watching round-
ing the shape of her girdle. her back naked
rolled into night into night w/out morning
rolled into dead into dead w/out vision
rolled into life into life w/out dream
hands shaping the salt and the foreign cornfields
the cold flesh kneaded by fingers
is ready for the charcoal for the black wife
of heat the years of green sleeping in the volcano.
the dream becomes tougher. settling into its shape
like a bullfrog. suns rise and electrons
touch it. walls melt into brown. moving to crisp and crackle
breathing edge of the knife of the oven.
noise of the shop. noise of the farmer. market.
on this slab of lord. on this table w/ its oil-skin cloth
on this altar of the bone. this sacrifice
of isaac. warm dead. warm merchandise. more than worn merchandise
life
itself. the dream of the soil itself
flesh of the god you break. peace to your lips. strife
of the multitudes who howl all day for its saviour
who need its crumbs as fish. flickering through their green element
need a wide glassy wisdom
to keep their groans alive
and this loaf here. life
now halted. more and more water add-
itive. the dream less clear. the soil more distant
its prayer of table. bless of lips. more hard to reach w/ penn-
ies. the knife
that should have cut it. the hands that should have broken open its victory
of crusts at your throat. balaam watching w/ red leak
-ing eyes. the rats
finding only this young empty husk
sharp-
ening their ratchets. your wife
going out on the streets. searching searching
her feet tapping. the lights of the motor-
cars watching watching round-
ing the shape of her girdle. her back naked
rolled into night into night w/out morning
rolled into dead into dead w/out vision
rolled into life into life w/out dream
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