Lisa Hacker

We Don’t Die But Once

Poetry inspired by the life of Harriett Jacobs and “Narrative of a Slave Girl”

[Learning Commentary] 

This collection of poetry was inspired by Harriett Jacobs’ “Narrative of a Slave Girl.” I had originally intended to write one long, narrative poem, told from Harriett’s perspective, of her life as entailed in our reading.

I started out doing some initial research that looked for other sources of information about her, but nothing that I found was substantially different or new from what was revealed in her narrative, and I did not want to rely on secondary sources. I thought I would go back into the narrative and specifically look at the sections that were not assigned for our reading in the class. My original intention was just to look for a few things to supplement what I already had envisioned in my mind as the final project.

I printed the remaining chapters from the Gutenberg website. It amounted to more than 100 additional pages of reading, which surprised me greatly. I did not realize there was that much more to the original work.

My strategy was to go through the entire work, both assigned and unassigned, and make notes when I saw passages that inspired me. I also intended to do a very chronological rendering, starting with her early childhood and ending after she had achieved freedom. (This is where I was particularly interested, in the beginning, in adding supplemental information).

But as I went through the ‘new’ readings, I found myself more inspired by what I had not read up to this point, than by what I had read. So the vision of what I was going to write began to change dramatically.

I have never written anything like this before, so it was very much a “learn as you go” process. But it quickly began to take on its own life. I went through page by page, making note of phrases and sentences that caught my attention. Many of the titles of the poems came from such passages.

Sometimes, I wrote a simple word or two, such as the following brief notes:

Silver candelabra

Child-chattel

Public sale of negroes and horses

We don’t die but once

Eating dead dog’s food

Peeled and pickled

Love-dream

Queen of ‘Merica

Often those simple words or phrases would just jump out at me, and I would almost see a poem start to come together quickly. (I don’t say this to assume or imply that I have great poetic talent; it’s just that the ideas came also immediately with some). Sometimes, a phrase would connect with another story later in the narrative, or I would piece a few of them together to create something.

I tried very hard to retain the original image and its intent.

One thing that changed for me while writing this poetry was the idea that I was going to create a poetic form of Harriett’s original story. As I read more of the excluded excerpts, I found bits and pieces of stories of other slaves that spoke so strongly to me, I became persuased to make this project more of a slave story in general, versus a Harriett story. I think that some of the poems will resonate with those who have read what we read in class. I think they fill recognize familiar phrases or stories. But some of my favorites are the one that emerged from the unassigned reading.

I struggled with the voice of the slave while writing these poems. Sometimes, the pieces that I found came with a strong slave vernacular and sometimes they did not. I worried about consistency, at first, when I was writing. I worried that all of the poems had to sound like they came from the same individual. But the more I noted the different passages that I wanted to use, the more obvious it was that that would be an impossibility. So at times the “voice” is a child’s, at other times it is Harriet’s, at other times it is the voice of a man or the voice of Harriett recalling something that she saw or heard, which would result in a combined voice.

I believe that this is going to be a project that I will continue to work on, and I would like to present the finished project at the Spring student conference. There are dozens upon dozens of more ideas that I have for the poems based on my notes. In fact, some of the ones that I feel the strongest about, the ones that I feel will make the best poems, have not even begun to come together yet.

It was an intimidating task to even attempt to bring a poetic voice to these stories. I am sure that a great deal more editing can be done to what has been completed. I hope that I was able to stay true to the spirit of Harriett and her stories.

The poems have been presented in a format in which each one has its own page. I do not like the look of a poem ripped in half and divided in its original space. Even the shortest poem, which is only four lines, has its own space in this collection.

For the Spring project, I would like to add some sort of endnotes that show from where each poem took its inspiration. I considered adding it to the single page of presentation but was worried that it would distract. I would entertain anyone’s thoughts on that as I work on this over the next few months.

We Don’t Die But Once

We don’t die but once.

Least that’s what I say when her momma cry out,

Beatin’ her hands ‘gainst that coffin

Before it fill that hole,

big and black, but no bigger than the ache it be.

Tears don’t know, so they keep fallin’

Like the clods on the coffin,

Pebbles  plinkin’ ‘gainst the pine.

Don’t know it’s only once

and then just nothin’.

Just nothin’,

or maybe half-heaven for half-nigger.

We don’t die but once.

But sure don’t feel that way.

Pinchin’ flesh and stealin’ soul,

Little deaths every breath, but only room inside for me.

Tears don’t know,  so they keep fallin’

when nobody’s watchin’.

Thievin’ fingers search sacred places,

Tears and dirt all the same.

Don’t you know it’s only once

And then just nothin’.

Just nothin’.

Or maybe half-dead for half-nigger, too.

Yellow Ladyslipper

If you wondering where I am, Daddy,

I’m here.

I’m here with the wake robins in the field,

And the crickets.

Just listen and you can hear me.

We’re singin’ you a song, can you hear it?

Me, and the fire pink,

The blaze star,

The Indian paintbrush

and the loblolly bay.

Don’t forget the yellow ladyslipper!

Garlands for the mistress, daddy,

To hang in the windows for the party.

I told her you gone now,

To see momma in heaven.

She said There is work to do,

dead daddy or not.

She said there is no heaven for the negro

but I know it ain’t so.

I’m just a-ways down the road.

I hear the voices singin’ over there.

Can you hear me?

We’re singin’ you home,

Me and the yellow jasmine,

flowered trillium,

crested iris and

jack-in-the-pulpit.

I can’t come see you,

mistress said,

But someone will carry a torch for me.

Can you hear me singin’?

My voice is the loudest.

Pieces of Silver

Somebody got to pay the debt.

That’s what she told him.

Mistress dead in the ground,

and she didn’t take the money with her.

I know ‘cause I see it.

The candelabra in the dining room,

its silver fingers like closing petals,

curved, concealing waxy glow

and promise within.

She knows what’s in the will.

Somewhere, between the Wedgewood

and the tea service,

between great-grandmother’s quilt

and baby’s christ’nin’ clothes,

between the painting of the great ship

and the gold ring with the little diamond,

it’s in there.

Look for that promise, Mr. Flint.

So many words.

Might take you awhile to find it.

The law won’t allow it, you say?

How so, I wonder,

when the law allows the candelabra to go.

They come to take it next week.

Three men, two ladders,

their dark muscles twitchin’ tight

as they carried their load

from one house to the next.

I watch that debt go,

and I know

all debts got to be paid.

Thirty pieces of silver bought a traitor,

and thirty silver fingers hid one.

Who Knows the Way of God?

Gone! All gone!

Why don’t God kill me?

Why don’t  he take me now?

Life no good with  all gone.

Leave me one.

Just one pair of arms to wrap around me,

snuggle under the blankets when the chill slips in

and creeps up through the floorboards.

Winter on the way.

They didn’t bring their shoes.

Wait! The shoes!

I need to know their feet won’t be cold.

Need to know where they goin’.

Just one more kiss for the baby,  please.

All my babies!

Whispers

Tender press against the flesh of the neck,

soft lips, quickening breath.

Gentle brush of fingertips

where hair slightly slips

from the bonnet’s  ribbon-edge.

Like a promise of marriage

from a lover’s letter.

But she knows better.

Tightening grip, pale flesh turns pink

but  it’s too hard to think

with  walls all around you

and  no air. What to do?

Raspy whispers lacking sweetness

but  promising completeness

of  theft and nowhere to go

because “You are my negro.”

Why Does the Slave Ever Love?

Why does the slave ever love?

Is it to wish the tendrils of a lover’s whisper away,

once they’ve twisted through the heart?

To walk away from the wound

before the blood sets in the gaping gap?

Is it to pry the babe from breast,

kiss fat fingers once more

before handing the child-chattel

to the block, the whip, the fields?

Is it to watch old women bent and broken

over stoves but never chewing the meat?

Knotted knuckles grasping needles,

darnin’socks, but always icy toes in the winter?

Is it to feel the sting of the lash,

splittin’ skin and stealin’ souls,

leavin’ the rats to lick the wounds

In the hidin’ places?

Or is to cry out to God for mercy,

pray for Providence,

but keep on cryin’, and hurtin’,

and  runnin’, and dreamin’?

Why does the slave ever love? 

That is No Place for You

Why stand you there, Aunt Marthy,

at the public sale of negroes and horses?

The dyin’ wish freed you.

We all heard the promise.

You, the good and faithful servant,

too  good and faithful to stand at the block.

Who is goin’ to buy you, Aunt  Marthy,

when  free womens ain’t to sell, even here?

That lyin’ massa, he don’t tell you?

We all heard the promise.

You, the good and faithful servant,

has earned your freedom.

What price for you, Aunt Marthy,

when all call out as you stand,

crying’ “Shame! Shame!”

We all heard the promise.

You, the good and faithful servant,

that is no place for you.

The Lady of the House

The lady walks with tipped chin,

back straight, curls all in place,

shoulders like the curve of angel’s wings,

lips turned slightly at the corners

with a ready smile.

No linsey-woolsey for the lady,

In her fine chintz roses and

Gold brocade, ear pearls and perfumed wrists.

She extends a dainty, gloved hand

when  proferrered  yours,

lays her napkin just so in her lap

while others pour morning tea.

She knows how many biscuits to a cup of flour

and counts each morning,

just to be sure

none have taken liberties.

A bit of color in the cheeks

when she steps out into the yard,

autumn’s brisk kiss against her pale face

as the little ones play.

Children of every shade and complexion

play with her own fair babies,

and she is none the wiser.

Sir

I come to you, sir,

because I love.

Not because I desire your permission.

I come to you, sir,

because he asks for my hand,

though it is really yours to give.

I come to you, sir,

because I know you will come to me otherwise

when you hear it in the market,

along the street,

and across the holy bench.

You will come with your foul whispers

behind closed doors,

seeking hands

beneath skirts

and ask again for that I will not give.

The answer will not change,

whether your words are sweet-soft or angry venom.

Why him?

Because we love.

No, every man is not the same.

Your lady, sir,

who watches you now from the window

as your face dips close to mine

in evil whispers,

do you suppose all men are alike to her?

This Condition

Don’t follow this condition.

Nothing but hurt here, little baby.

How long before hunger pains your belly,

when mother’s milk goes to mistress baby

and your cries forgotten?

Don’t follow this condition.

Nothing but hurt here, sweet child.

How long before you are brought to the garden

to weed and dig and pick and plant

with blistered fingers?

Don’t follow this condition.

Nothing but hurt here, young girl.

How long before master’s eyes crave younger flesh,

when mistress turns her face away

and there’s nowhere to hide?

Don’t follow this condition.

Nothing but hurt here, my precious baby.

How long before I see you again?

Remember Mama loved you far too much

for this world to have you.

I Do Not Despise Him

I am thankful that I do not despise him,

that God has left one good man alive

To be the lover of my soul.

I am thankful for each passing glance,

knowing love’s secret

In the hidden places.

I am thankful that he is free,

a free as one can be who has to watch

his lover pass without a touch.

I am thankful that I do not despise him

as I despise you.

They Called Him Beautiful

When he was born,

babe innocent

but blamed for all.

When he was fed,

weak lungs cried out,

too soon, too small.

When he was bathed,

skin betrayed him

and father’s fall.

But when he was a year old,

they called him beautiful.

Nearer to God

When I can read dis good book

I shall be nearers to God.

It ain’t easy for ole black man like me.

Theys  send the bible to heathen abroad,

But whats ‘bout  heathen at home?

No, it ain’t easy for old black man like me,

but if I could be allow’d to live likes a Christian,

Well, then I should be glad.

Was I Not Already in the Dust?

Nothin’ he did wrong

but reach out to catch the lady

when her ankle turned in the

wheel track and she swooned.

He just grabbed hold like this,

to one alabaster elbow

and one slender, perfumed arm

with his sooty hands.

For this 100 lashes,

skin splitting like a rotten plum

in the summer sun and

ropes cutting rivers in his wrists.

Can’t say he’s sorry

cause he done nothing wrong.

The devil’s arc rises in the sunlight

and snap, snap, snap…100 more.

What else to do but let a lady fall?

His master knows the heart

but seals his lips for lack of soul

while mother cries “Mercy! Mercy!”

They cut him down,

then a boot in the back

and his weary face in the dirt-

but eyes too proud to tear.

He smiles before he faints,

“Was I not already in the dust?

He made me from it,

so you putting me back in it ain’t so bad.”

Cruelty is Contagious

Cruelty is contagious in uncivilized communities.

Sons follow the conditions of their fathers.

Daughters turn blind eyes like their mothers.

Gods close their eyes like weary lovers.

There Was Some Reality in Her Religion

When the day of sale came,

she took her place among the chattels.

At first call, she sprang upon the auction block.

Not one dared to bid.

All knew the promise.

At last, a feeble voice called out,

Fifty dollars.

The old, maiden sister of the dead mistress,

come to redeem the faithful servant.

She alone knew the cruelties of the house,

the stolen rights,

the spineless son.

She had come to protect.

She alone knew the meaning of a promise.

and not one dared to bid above.

Instead of a name,

which she knew neither how to read nor write,

she drew the cross.

Symbol of salvation.

There was some reality in her religion.

Aunt Nancy

Aunt Nancy lost eight babies.

Not her fault.

Mistress wouldn’t let her to bed,

instead each night to lie like a cur

on the floor outside her door.

Married to negro man but tethered to white wife.

Hard floor no place to birth a baby.

All eight wee ones come too early,

but what she to do?

When she died,

Mistress asked for Nancy to bury in family tomb.

“Just can’t imagine sleeping without her, each night, when the time comes,”

she weeped.

But grandmother says no.

Nancy gotta have some time to rest.