Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Rita Dove

The House Slave

De huisslavin

De eerste hoorn heft zijn arm over dauwglanzend gras
en in de slavenverblijven is er bedrijvigheid –
kinderen in schorten stouwen, maisbrood

en waterzakken grijpen, ontbijten met pekelvlees.
Ik zie hoe ze de morgenschemering in worden gedreven
terwijl hun meesteres slaapt als een ivoren tandenstoker

en hun Massa droomt van ezels, rum en slavenangst.
Ik kan niet meer slapen. Bij de tweede hoorn
krult de zweep over de ruggen van de laatkomers –

soms hoor ik daar onmiskenbaar mijn zusters stem.
“O! Bid!” roept ze. “O! Bid!” In die dagen
lag ik op mijn mat, rillend in de vroege warmte,

en nu de velden zich ontvouwen tot witheid,
en als bijen uitzwermen over de vette bloemen,
schrei ik. De zon is nog niet op.

The House Slave

The first horn lifts its arm over the dew-lit grass
and in the slave quarters there is a rustling –
children are bundled into aprons, cornbread

and water gourds grabbed, a salt pork breakfast taken.
I watch them driven into the vague before-dawn
while their mistress sleeps like an ivory toothpick

and Massa dreams of asses, rum and slave funk.
I cannot fall asleep again. At the second horn,
the whip curls across the backs of the laggards –

sometimes my sister’s voice, unmistaken, among them.
“Oh! pray,” she cries. “Oh! pray!” Those days
I lit on my cot, shivering in the early heat,

and as the fields unfold to whiteness,
and they spill like bees among the fat flowers,
I weep. It is not yet daylight.
Close

The House Slave

The first horn lifts its arm over the dew-lit grass
and in the slave quarters there is a rustling –
children are bundled into aprons, cornbread

and water gourds grabbed, a salt pork breakfast taken.
I watch them driven into the vague before-dawn
while their mistress sleeps like an ivory toothpick

and Massa dreams of asses, rum and slave funk.
I cannot fall asleep again. At the second horn,
the whip curls across the backs of the laggards –

sometimes my sister’s voice, unmistaken, among them.
“Oh! pray,” she cries. “Oh! pray!” Those days
I lit on my cot, shivering in the early heat,

and as the fields unfold to whiteness,
and they spill like bees among the fat flowers,
I weep. It is not yet daylight.

The House Slave

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère