I made sackcloth my garment once, by cutting
arm and neck holes into a burlap bag.
A croker sack they called it. Sackdragger
they called the man who dragged a croker sack
between the cotton rows to pick. He dragged
a gunnysack behind him in the ditch
collecting empties. Him they chose
the Likeliest to Sack Seed in the feed store,
or to suck seed. He was your daddy. He sacked
groceries part-time, and they jeered:
you sorry sack of shit. Sackcloth,
which Job sewed upon his skin, was goat hair.
God who clothed the heavens with such blackness
said, I make sackcloth their covering.
Isaiah understood. God had him speak a word
in season to the weary. Speak, Isaiah, now, to me.
Before the stars like green figs in a windstorm
drop, the sun is black as sackcloth, and the moon
becomes as blood. My soul is weary. Speak,
Isaiah. Sing. I was a scholar as a boy:
I cut the neck and arm holes into the burlap,
pulled it on, and cinched it with a hank of rope:
what I have done from then till now is itch.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Sackcloth by Brooks Haxton )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- See everything pure, gajanan mishra
- When I hold you tightly against me, Gert Strydom
- the gramophone record, Somanathan Iyer
- the idiot box, Somanathan Iyer
- We can't live, Somanathan Iyer
- Ideals, Somanathan Iyer
- That's Racist, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- The best I could do, Somanathan Iyer
- A Confidence Born Of Grace, John deVries
- HAIKU...The Wizard of Ice, Ken e Hall