by Andrea Cheng
pouring out of his mouth.
Dave had a wife once
when he was a young man.
She’s gone now,
sold off
before his eyes.
I had a husband once.
I can see his face
in both my sons.
He’s gone now too,
sold off
before my eyes.
Dave wants to marry me,
and I’m thinking
it’s hard to raise these boys
alone.
The boys have taken to Dave.
He is teaching George and John
to read,
and John likes to climb
into Dave’s lap at night.
The broomstick is waiting,
and I will jump.
Submissionists
A NULLIFIER, 1831
Good people of South Carolina,
there are some
in our dear nation
who are determined
to destroy the heart and soul
of the South.
First the government takes
our money.
Next it will order us
to free our slaves.
We will always and forever
oppose taxes and tariffs
and threats to the institutions
that Southern states hold dear.
Unionists,
is that what they call themselves?
They claim to protect our nation.
Blundering, bumbling submissionists,
that’s what I say they are!
We will create our own government
in the South
before we will ever submit
and let the Unionists
have their way.
Speaking Out
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1831
As a defender of the Union,
I can no longer stay in Edgefield,
where the Nullifiers surround me
and drown out my voice.
Don’t misunderstand me;
I am not against the South.
But this country is one,
and I must speak out more forcefully
for the Unionist cause.
Columbia, the capital of our state,
beckons me
to defend our land with words.
I will send copies
of my renamed newspaper,
The Columbia Free Press and Hive,
to Harvey Drake
for all in Edgefield and Pottersville
to read,
so they may know
that the Constitution of the United States
will stand forever.
Dave,
you will go back
to the pottery works,
and while your hands
are wet with clay,
remember this:
a man must stand up
for what he thinks is right
even when
he stands alone.
Words and Verses
DAVE, 1831
Several times a week
Master Drake brings
The Columbia Free Press and Hive
to the turning house.
I read Doctor Landrum’s
words and verses
for all to hear.
“He reads nice,”
one of the other potters says,
surprised
that I know my letters
and can read
Doctor Landrum’s big words.
All day long
I’m turning pots and jars
on the potter’s wheel
while my words and verses
swirl in my head.
But what’s a verse
if it can’t be read?
Someday
I’ll write down verses of my own
and sign my name:
Dave.
Death of Harvey Drake
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1832
There was no better man
in all the land
than Harvey Drake.
Gripped by a fever
at the age of thirty-six,
my nephew died too young.
He leaves a wife
without a husband,
children
without a father,
and slaves
without a master.
He leaves scores of pots
unturned,
the clay a wet mound
of potential.
Lord, Help Us
DAVE, 1832
Why didn’t Master Drake
leave a will?
I know that means
the auction block is waiting.
The voice of the auctioneer,
I remember it well.
“He’s country born,
good teeth,
straight back.”
Now my back aches
from working clay,
and two teeth
are gone out of my mouth.
I have Lydia and her boys,
who are old enough
to be sold away
to work.
The boys, afraid to sleep,
cling to their mother
like baby possums.
Could this be our last night
together?
I rub their backs,
first John, then George.
Go to sleep, boys,
go to sleep.
Lydia sits close to me
and reaches for my hand.
Lord, help us
and keep us together,
for we have lost too much
in this world
already.
Purchase
REUBEN DRAKE, 1833
Four hundred dollars
to purchase Dave?
More than I anticipated,
but what choice do I have?
My brother is dead,
but still we have
the clay and the wood,
the water and the furnace.
And now Dave will continue
to turn the potter’s wheel.
In the name of my brother,
Harvey Drake,
Pottersville Stoneware Manufactory
will live on.
Missing Dave
LYDIA, 1833
Oh, thank goodness!
My boys are still with me.
They are saying
how much they miss Dave,
and I say
they could be missing Mama too.
We could have been sold separate,
to plantations far away,
instead of being bought
by Master Drake’s widow.
Then my tears start falling
and won’t stop.
I don’t know why I’m crying
when Dave’s with Reuben Drake,
only a mile
down the road.
Truth is,
I want him here
with me.
Second Nature
DAVE, 1833
Centering a mound of clay
is like walking.
Once you learn to do it,
you never forget.
You let your body settle in,
relaxed but firm.
Don’t fight the clay
because it’s sure to win,
landing like a heap
of mud
at your feet.
See here;
you lean in,
elbows down,
no flopping like a fish.
And once the mound is centered,
you draw the walls up,
shaping things
the way you want,
wide mouth or narrow,
thin walls or thick.
To some it looks like magic,
but to me,
making a jar
is second nature.
Nat Turner
DAVE, 1834
Nat Turner—I heard
he was a brave man,
led a rebellion of slaves
up in Virginia.
He knew his Scriptures,
knew God was telling him
to set slaves free.
So when a sign
came from the sky
and the sun almost disappeared
during the day,
the time was right.
More than fifty whites killed
in a single day,
one single day.
Nat Turner was hanged
for leading this rebellion,
but I’m telling you,
Mr. Turner,
you were a braver man
than I.
End Slave Literacy
A NULLIFIER, 1834
David Walker in Boston,
Nat Turner in Virginia,
stirring up the slaves
these past few years,
killing white men,
innocent women,
and children too.
It’s just plain wrong,
and we have had enough!
People, you must understand
that when you teach a slave
to read and write,
you are giving him the tools
to send out a message
and plan his escape—
or worse,
to slit your throat.
Let us pass a law
here in South Carolina:
a slave who learns to write
will be given twenty lashes,
and his teacher will pay
a hefty fine.
Etched in Clay
DAVE, JUNE 12, 1834
Only me here,
turning pots, making jars,
turning words inside my head
until I’m ready to explode
like a jar with an air bubble
in the furnace.
Magnanimous,
sagacity,
concatenation.
Here, on this jar
for all to see,
I’ll inscribe the date,
June 12, 1834,
and the word
Concatination.
Someday the world will read
my word etched in clay
on the side of this jar
and know about the shackles
around our legs
and the whips
upon our backs.
I am not afraid
to write on a jar
and fire it hot
so my word
can never be erased.
And if some day
this jar cracks,
my word will stay,
etched in the shards.
A Poem!
DAVE, JULY 12, 1834
The summer’s so hot,
it’s like we’re living
in the furnace.
The clay doesn’t like it either,
getting hard on me
too quick.
I better hurry now,
before the sun’s too low to see.
What words will I scrawl
across the shoulder
of this jar?
I hear Lydia’s voice in my head.
Be careful, Dave.
Those words in clay
can get you killed.
But I will die of silence
if I keep my words inside me
any longer.
Doctor Landrum used to say
it’s best to write a poem a day,
for it calms the body
and the soul
to shape those words.
This jar is a beauty,
big and wide,
fourteen gallons
I know it will hold.
I have the words now,
and my stick is sharp.
I write:
put every bit all between
surely this Jar will hold 14.
Anti-Literacy Law
MEMBER OF SOUTH CAROLINA GENERAL ASSEMBLY, DECEMBER 17, 1834
New law, passed today by the
South Carolina General Assembly:
Any white person
convicted of teaching a slave
to read or write
will be fined up to one hundred dollars
and put in prison for up to six months.
Any slave
convicted of teaching another slave
to read or write
will get fifty lashes.
Any informers
will receive half the money collected
from the fines.
Stop That Foolishness
LYDIA, 1835
If I ever catch you again
with that little spelling book
I’ll tan your hide.
You hear me, George?
You hear me, John?
No more reading and writing.
If somebody tells somebody
who tells somebody else,
they‘ll take you
and cut off your fingers
so you won’t ever write again.
You want five fingers
on each hand?
Then you better stop
that foolishness.
If you don’t,
they’re sure to hurt you,
and make you tell them
Dave gave you that book,
and then they’ll whip him bloody.
Is that what you want?
Delivery
REUBEN DRAKE, 1835
Dave,
you and Little John
load these pots and jars
into the wagon.
Then you, Dave,
drive it all the way
to the railroad depot
in Hamburg
so our pottery may be sent
to towns across the state.
Tomorrow, bring me back
the supplies we need
and a keg of rum.
Here’s the money, Dave.
Keep it safe.
I’ll be checking that keg
when you get back
to make sure it’s full.
Well, what are you waiting for?
Get to work, boys.
On the Train Tracks
PASSENGER ON TRAIN FROM CHARLESTON TO COLUMBIA, 1835
Feeling sick on the train,
I think to look out the front,
and what do I see
but someone upon the tracks.
“Stop! Stop!
Stop the engine!”
The train jolts to a halt
too late.
There lay a Negro man and his leg,
the blood flowing into the gravel,
the bone cut in two.
A stranger hauls him up,
says he’s heavy too,
and ties the w
ound with rags.
We hear him moan,
calling for his mother,
and then he is silent.
I don’t know what happened
after that,
but I suspect he was dead.
Turning, Turning
DAVE, 1835
The wheels of the train,
turning, turning,
like the clay on the wheel,
turning, turning.
Oh, the stars were so bright
that night
and more than I had ever seen.
It’s coming back to me now.
I had been to Hamburg
to sell our wares.
Reuben Drake said
bring back the rum keg
full to the brim.
In the dark,
I filled my small flask,
filled it three times,
a small treat
on a cool night.
I lay down on the tracks
to see those stars,
the constellations forming messages
to my mother
and Eliza and Lydia
and George and John—
long words
scrawled across the heavens.
I heard a whistle
from far away
and thought
my mother was calling.
Now I have one leg.
Letter to Dave
DR. ABNER LANDRUM, 1835
Take heart, Dave.
Hamburg is not so far
from here.
Soon as you are well enough
we’ll send for you.
Lydia and the boys are waiting,
as am I.
Remember,
Josiah Wedgwood had but one leg
and he made the finest pottery
in all the world.
Get well, Dave.
Very truly yours,
Dr. Abner Landrum
Home Again
DAVE, 1835
True to his word,
Doctor Landrum brings me home.
Lydia, John, and George
are waiting
under the hackberry tree