ROBERT HAYDEN'S "MIDDLE PASSAGE"

 SLAVERY THROUGH THE EYES OF THE SLAVERS

I

Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy:

       Sails flashing to the wind like weapons,
       sharks following the moans the fever and the dying;   
       horror the corposant and compass rose.

Middle Passage:
               voyage through death
               to life upon these shores.

       “10 April 1800—
       Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says   
       their moaning is a prayer for death,
       ours and their own. Some try to starve themselves.   
       Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter   
       to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under.”

Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann:

       Standing to America, bringing home   
       black gold, black ivory, black seed.

               Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,   
               of his bones New England pews are made,   
               those are altar lights that were his eyes.

Jesus  Saviour  Pilot Me
Over    Life’s    Tempestuous    Sea

We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord,   
safe passage to our vessels bringing   
heathen souls unto Thy chastening.

Jesus    Saviour

“8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick
  with fear, but writing eases fear a little
  since still my eyes can see these words take shape   
  upon the page & so I write, as one
  would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding,
  but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune
  follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning   
  tutelary gods). Which one of us
  has killed an albatross? A plague among
  our blacks—Ophthalmia: blindness—& we   
  have jettisoned the blind to no avail.
  It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads.
  Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes   
  & there is blindness in the fo’c’sle
  & we must sail 3 weeks before we come
  to port.”

               What port awaits us, Davy Jones’
               or home? I’ve heard of slavers drifting, drifting,   
               playthings of wind and storm and chance, their crews   
               gone blind, the jungle hatred
               crawling up on deck.

Thou Who Walked On Galilee

       “Deponent further sayeth The Bella J
       left the Guinea Coast
       with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd   
       for the barracoons of Florida:

       “That there was hardly room ’tween-decks for half   
       the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there;   
       that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh   
       and sucked the blood:

       “That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest   
       of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins;   
       that there was one they called The Guinea Rose   
       and they cast lots and fought to lie with her:

       “That when the Bo’s’n piped all hands, the flames   
       spreading from starboard already were beyond   
       control, the negroes howling and their chains   
       entangled with the flames:

       “That the burning blacks could not be reached,   
       that the Crew abandoned ship,
       leaving their shrieking negresses behind,
       that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches:

       “Further Deponent sayeth not.”

Pilot Oh Pilot Me
II

Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories,   
Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar;
have watched the artful mongos baiting traps   
of war wherein the victor and the vanquished

Were caught as prizes for our barracoons.   
Have seen the nigger kings whose vanity
and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah,   
Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us.

And there was one—King Anthracite we named him—
fetish face beneath French parasols
of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth
whose cups were carven skulls of enemies:

He’d honor us with drum and feast and conjo   
and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love,   
and for tin crowns that shone with paste,   
red calico and German-silver trinkets

Would have the drums talk war and send   
his warriors to burn the sleeping villages   
and kill the sick and old and lead the young   
in coffles to our factories.

Twenty years a trader, twenty years,
for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested   
from those black fields, and I’d be trading still   
but for the fevers melting down my bones.


III

Shuttles in the rocking loom of history,   
the dark ships move, the dark ships move,   
their bright ironical names
like jests of kindness on a murderer’s mouth;   
plough through thrashing glister toward   
fata morgana’s lucent melting shore,   
weave toward New World littorals that are   
mirage and myth and actual shore.

Voyage through death,
 voyage whose chartings are unlove.

A charnel stench, effluvium of living death   
spreads outward from the hold,
where the living and the dead, the horribly dying,   
lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement.

       Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,   
       the corpse of mercy rots with him,   
       rats eat love’s rotten gelid eyes.

       But, oh, the living look at you
       with human eyes whose suffering accuses you,   
       whose hatred reaches through the swill of dark   
       to strike you like a leper’s claw.

       You cannot stare that hatred down
       or chain the fear that stalks the watches
       and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath;   
       cannot kill the deep immortal human wish,   
       the timeless will.

“But for the storm that flung up barriers   
   of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores,
   would have reached the port of Príncipe in two,   
   three days at most; but for the storm we should   
   have been prepared for what befell.   
   Swift as the puma’s leap it came. There was   
   that interval of moonless calm filled only   
   with the water’s and the rigging’s usual sounds,   
   then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries   
   and they had fallen on us with machete   
   and marlinspike. It was as though the very   
   air, the night itself were striking us.   
   Exhausted by the rigors of the storm,
   we were no match for them. Our men went down   
   before the murderous Africans. Our loyal   
   Celestino ran from below with gun   
   and lantern and I saw, before the cane-
   knife’s wounding flash, Cinquez,
   that surly brute who calls himself a prince,   
   directing, urging on the ghastly work.
   He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then   
   he turned on me. The decks were slippery
   when daylight finally came. It sickens me   
   to think of what I saw, of how these apes   
   threw overboard the butchered bodies of
   our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam.   
   Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told:
   
               Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us   
               you see to steer the ship to Africa,   
               and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea   
               voyaged east by day and west by night,   
               deceiving them, hoping for rescue,   
               prisoners on our own vessel, till   
               at length we drifted to the shores of this   
               your land, America, where we were freed   
               from our unspeakable misery. Now we   
               demand, good sirs, the extradition of   
               Cinquez and his accomplices to La   
               Havana. And it distresses us to know   
               there are so many here who seem inclined   
               to justify the mutiny of these blacks.   
               We find it paradoxical indeed
               that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty   
               are rooted in the labor of your slaves
               should suffer the august John Quincy Adams   
               to speak with so much passion of the right   
               of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters   
               and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero’s   
               garland for Cinquez. I tell you that   
               we are determined to return to Cuba
               with our slaves and there see justice done. Cinquez—
               or let us say ‘the Prince’—Cinquez shall die.”

       The deep immortal human wish,   
       the timeless will:

               Cinquez its deathless primaveral image,   
               life that transfigures many lives.

       Voyage through death
                                     to life upon these shores.

Robert Hayden, “Middle Passage” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1962, 1966 by Robert Hayden. Copyright © 1985 by Emma Hayden. Reprinted with the permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.

Source: Collected Poems (Liveright Publishing Corporation, 1985)


NOTE: Written from the slaver's point of view, Middle 

Passage, published in 1962, is one of the most searing of

poetry's commentary on the inhumanity of slavery ever 

written.    





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