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.
Brooks Haxton's Other Poems
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 )
Poem of the Day
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Morning, Paul Laurence Dunbar
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Prayer Before Birth, Louis Macneice
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(15 April 1958)
- Heather Burns
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)