David Heuser
Instrumentation: Voice, Piano
| Music transposed to suit any vocal range. Please specify low and high pitches Range for the piece: one octave plus a Major 6th. |
Duration: 9 minutes, 30 seconds
Text by: Olga Cabral (text is in English)
Pages: 19
How to get it: Contact David Heuser directly
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Olga Cabral
and the green lawns, in the blue hills
the courthouse bells are tolling, tolling
as for a pestilence:
and schoolbells ring an hour late,
a century late, to empty halls,
and the schoolhouse fortress stands besieged, ringed round with bayonets.
O the white towns with white courthouses
under oaks that stand for a hundred years
who is the enemy? Where is the stranger?
Why do the lock-lipped people stand
under the oaks in the courthouse square,
with ashen jaws and haunted air?
Show us, good folk, the enemy
that has come to despoil the September sun,
rot the white fences of your trim towns
and rock your cardboard pillars down
show us, good folk, the enemy
that has brought you here at bay.
Low hang their heads. . . tight clench the fists.
A smell of fear, rank as a beast's
runs through the crowd and fingers lock
on primeval club: an empty bottle: a hidden gun
snatched from its rusted mausoleum
on an ancestral wall:
and a man on the steps points there!
And the crowd breaks with a yell
as the last floodgates give
and the full roaring tide of hate
sweeps onward to the schoolhouse gate.
There, in his strength, is the dreaded enemy:
two black children, clean and scrubbed
as the new September morning:
a child of ten and a child of eight
hand in hand at the schoolhouse gate:
two black children, very small
to face that shouting, dreadful wall
of faces chalk-white, paper-white,
obsessed with storm.
Children, children why do you come
this dangerous road, this forbidden road
this morning in September?
Today's the day I came to learn.
Took a notion to go to school
and teach white folks the Golden Rule.
And if they slam the door
and lock me out, there's more of me, and more.
O you white towns with picket fences,
with your green lawns and you blue hills
nothing will ever be the same!
Look behind the cardboard porches:
peer through the slits in the tight drawn shutters:
in the ancestral gloom
fear sifts, like a thin gray ash
staining the polish, staining the air
but a man sits alone with his shame
and a woman sobs to herself.
The mindless mob is running outside,
the sick of soul are jeering at children,
but behind the shutters is anger and shame
and nothing will ever be the same.
From the book Voice/Over (Selected Poems) 1993, West End Press