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 scarifice

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 ijs 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

- Kamau Braithwaite

A City's Death By Fire

After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,

I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;
Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I
Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.
All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,
Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;
Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales
Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.
By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why
Should a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?
In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;
To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breath
Rebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,
Blessing the death and the baptism by fire. - Derek Walcott