Brothers-American Drama


See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air   
Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!   
No light is there; none, save the glint that shines   
In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs
Of some wild animal caught in the hunter’s trap.

How came this beast in human shape and form?   
Speak man!—We call you man because you wear   
His shape—How are you thus? Are you not from   
That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race   
Which we have known three centuries? Not from   
That more than faithful race which through three wars   
Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes   
Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!


I am, and am not.


                            Then who, why are you?


I am a thing not new, I am as old
As human nature. I am that which lurks,   
Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed;   
The ancient trait which fights incessantly   
Against restraint, balks at the upward climb;   
The weight forever seeking to obey   
The law of downward pull—and I am more:   
The bitter fruit am I of planted seed;   
The resultant, the inevitable end
Of evil forces and the powers of wrong.
Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,   
The memories of cruel sights and deeds,   
The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate   
Filtered through fifteen generations have   
Sprung up and found in me sporadic life.   
In me the muttered curse of dying men,   
On me the stain of conquered women, and   
Consuming me the fearful fires of lust,   
Lit long ago, by other hands than mine.
In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers   
Of wretches now long dead—their dire bequests.   
In me the echo of the stifled cry
Of children for their battered mothers’ breasts.

I claim no race, no race claims me; I am   
No more than human dregs; degenerate;
The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;   
I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fed
Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same   
Today. But I—


                      Enough, the brute must die!   
Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist   
The fire much longer than this slender pine.   
Now bring the fuel! Pile it round him! Wait!   
Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose   
The agony and terror in his face.
And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames   
Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek!   
And there’s another! wilder than the first.   
Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on
The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so!   
Now let it slowly blaze again. See there!
He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out,   
Searching around in vain appeal for help!   
Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh   
Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts
Down through the coils of chain that hold erect   
The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.

Stop! to each man no more than one man’s share.   
You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain,   
Let us divide its links; this skull, of course,   
In fair division, to the leader comes.

And now his fiendish crime has been avenged;   
Let us back to our wives and children—say,   
What did he mean by those last muttered words,   
“Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we”?
James Weldon Johnson, "Brothers--American Drama" from James Weldon Johnson: Complete Poems, edited by Sondra Kathryn Wilson. Copyright © 2000 by Sondra Kathryn Wilson, Literary Executor of the Estate of James Weldon Johnson. Used by permission of Penguin, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. For online information about other Penguin Group (USA) books and authors, see
Source: Complete Poems (2000)
More Poems by James Weldon Johnson