505 History and politics poems

We were dreaming on an occupied island at the farthest edge of a trembling nation when it went down. Two towers rose up from the east island of commerce and touched the sky. Men walked on the moon. Oil was sucked dry by two brothers. Then it went down. Swallowed by a fire dragon, by oil and fear. Eaten whole. It was coming. We had been watching since the eve of the missionaries in their long and solemn clothes, to see what would happen. We saw it from the kitchen window over the sink as we made coffee, cooked rice and potatoes, enough for an army. We saw it all, as we changed diapers and fed the babies. We saw it, through the branches of the knowledgeable tree through the snags of stars, through the sun and storms from our knees as we bathed and washed the floors. The conference of the birds warned us, as they flew over destroyers in the harbor, parked there since the first takeover. It was by their song and talk we knew when to rise when to look out the window to the commotion going on— the magnetic field thrown off by grief. We heard it. The racket in every corner of the world. As the hunger for war rose up in those who would steal to be president to be king or emperor, to own the trees, stones, and everything else that moved about the earth, inside the earth and above it. We knew it was coming, tasted the winds who gathered intelligence from each leaf and flower, from every mountain, sea and desert, from every prayer and song all over this tiny universe floating in the skies of infinite being. And then it was over, this world we had grown to love for its sweet grasses, for the many-colored horses and fishes, for the shimmering possibilities while dreaming. But then there were the seeds to plant and the babies who needed milk and comforting, and someone picked up a guitar or ukulele from the rubble and began to sing about the light flutter the kick beneath the skin of the earth we felt there, beneath us a warm animal a song being born between the legs of her; a poem.

Pardon us for uttering a handful of words in any language, so cut loose are we from homes, and from His name that is still nameless, blessed be He. We raised a prayer house— that is, we broke new wood for one, but some tough burned it, snarling: “Carve only stones for the dead.” Damp ground, no fire, no psalm we all remember. But tall ships anchor here, and at low tide, people with wheat-colored hair look out to sea, just as we’d searched for land. “Pray if you must,” my father said, “and when prayer fails, a story, if it is all you have, will do.” Months past, we left Recife’s forced-worship laws in the year of their Lord sixteen hundred and fifty-four, for our new world, old-country Amsterdam. Leagues seaward, Spanish pirates slaughtered our scant crew, and all that was left of us (friends wheezed their last while they ragged us on) rose up on deck and tossed our bags in the sea. We watched the wake turn silver: kiddish wine cups, hanging bowls, a candelabrum for the promised altar, carved pointers. Books’ pages curled and sank, prayer shawls ballooned and, soaking, spiraled downward. Just as we stared, again we heard swords clank— a French ship, the Ste. Catherine(her prow had shone gold on a gray horizon), came to our port side and rescued us. In that commotion on deck, we crouched below—not out of fear, I swear, but stunned by luminous words that echoed oddly—beautifully—like lightning flickering through palls of thickset clouds. A jaunty captain rasped to us in hiding: “Where are you bound?” “Amsterdam. Old country.” “Where?” “Amsterdam.” “Antilles?” “No, Amsterdam.” “Yes, yes. Nieuw Am sterdam. I’ll see you get there safely.” He meant well, bless him. Ste. Catherine sailed to land at its tip no larger than a meadow, fanned out at its sides: Manhattan Island. Our new master, Stuyvesant, lashed us with phrases,wheffs, guzzads, that stung but were not fathomed, mercifully, when we came on a Sabbath, more than twenty men, women, a baby born at sea. Still cursing, he let us land, and heard our praise, then disappeared among lank citizens with faded skin who stride to the bay and brood on water that we trust and dread, and listen to tales unstamped by laws and never sacred.

The wild and wavy event now chintz at the window was revolution . . . Adams to Miss Abigail Smith: You have faults You hang your head down like a bulrush you read, you write, you think but I drink Madeira to you and you cross your Leggs while sitting. (Later:) How are the children? If in danger run to the woods. Evergreen o evergreen how faithful are your branches.

between basalt cliffs no one mourns the loss of statecraft. a blaze over water reminds a quayside that soon the sea shall round up stoneposts, tapers and— should the seafarer invite tenderness to meander through returning hairlines should his fingers become racy or go idling through wingtips of paranoia —the sea shall watch itself riot and reclaim the storm that snaps and screams and whirls past clambacks porcupine quills seeds of clover flesh of tides.

Since Persia fell at Marathon, The yellow years have gathered fast: Long centuries have come and gone. And yet (they say) the place will don A phantom fury of the past, Since Persia fell at Marathon; And as of old, when Helicon Trembled and swayed with rapture vast (Long centuries have come and gone), This ancient plain, when night comes on, Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast, Since Persia fell at Marathon. But into soundless Acheron The glory of Greek shame was cast: Long centuries have come and gone, The suns of Hellas have all shone, The first has fallen to the last:— Since Persia fell at Marathon, Long centuries have come and gone.

To those fair isles where crimson sunsets burn, We send a backward glance to gaze on thee, Brave Toussaint! thou was surely born to be A hero; thy proud spirit could but spurn Each outrage on the race. Couldst thou unlearn The lessons taught by instinct? Nay! and we Who share the zeal that would make all men free, Must e’en with pride unto thy life-work turn. Soul-dignity was thine and purest aim; And ah! how sad that thou wast left to mourn In chains ’neath alien skies. On him, shame! shame! That mighty conqueror who dared to claim The right to bind thee. Him we heap with scorn, And noble patriot! guard with love thy name.

Thus from a mixture of all kinds began, That het’rogeneous thing, an Englishman: In eager rapes, and furious lust begot, Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot. Whose gend’ring off-spring quickly learn’d to bow, And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough: From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came, With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame. In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran, Infus’d betwixt a Saxon and a Dane. While their rank daughters, to their parents just, Receiv’d all nations with promiscuous lust. This nauseous brood directly did contain The well-extracted blood of Englishmen. Which medly canton’d in a heptarchy, A rhapsody of nations to supply, Among themselves maintain’d eternal wars, And still the ladies lov’d the conquerors. The western Angles all the rest subdu’d; A bloody nation, barbarous and rude: Who by the tenure of the sword possest One part of Britain, and subdu’d the rest And as great things denominate the small, The conqu’ring part gave title to the whole. The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane, submit, And with the English-Saxon all unite: And these the mixture have so close pursu’d, The very name and memory’s subdu’d: No Roman now, no Britain does remain; Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain: The silent nations undistinguish’d fall, And Englishman’s the common name for all. Fate jumbled them together, God knows how; What e’er they were they’re true-born English now. The wonder which remains is at our pride, To value that which all wise men deride. For Englishmen to boast of generation, Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation. A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction. A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules. A metaphor invented to express A man a-kin to all the universe. For as the Scots, as learned men ha’ said, Throughout the world their wand’ring seed ha’ spread; So open-handed England, ’tis believ’d, Has all the gleanings of the world receiv’d. Some think of England ’twas our Saviour meant, The Gospel should to all the world be sent: Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach, They to all nations might be said to preach. ’Tis well that virtue gives nobility, How shall we else the want of birth and blood supply? Since scarce one family is left alive, Which does not from some foreigner derive.

How blest the land that counts among Her sons so many good and wise, To execute great feats of tongue When troubles rise. Behold them mounting every stump, By speech our liberty to guard. Observe their courage—see them jump, And come down hard! "Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud, "And learn from me what you must do To turn aside the thunder cloud, The earthquake too. "Beware the wiles of yonder quack Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. I—I alone can show that black Is white as grass." They shout through all the day and break The silence of the night as well. They'd make—I wish they'd go and make— Of Heaven a Hell. A advocates free silver, B Free trade and C free banking laws. Free board, clothes, lodging would from me Win warm applause. Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see The single tax on land would fall On all alike." More evenly No tax at all. "With paper money," bellows E, "We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt— And richest of the lot will be The chap without. As many "cures" as addle-wits Who know not what the ailment is! Meanwhile the patient foams and spits Like a gin fizz. Alas, poor Body Politic, Your fate is all too clearly read: To be not altogether quick, Nor very dead. You take your exercise in squirms, Your rest in fainting fits between. 'Tis plain that your disorder's worms— Worms fat and lean. Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell Within your maw and muscle's scope. Their quarrels make your life a Hell, Your death a hope. God send you find not such an end To ills however sharp and huge! God send you convalesce! God send You vermifuge.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and slavery! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave! Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!— Let us do or die!

In first grade, you met Squanto, nearly naked and on his haunches, showing those thick-headed pilgrims how one must plant fish to grow maize. And in autumn you dove into the lobotomized pumpkin, into the gooey pulp and seeds, raising a clump like a slimy chandelier from the Titanic. And now in late summer, daughter, you smile, holding a ripe watermelon, cut in half, exposing the black seed within its bright red heart. Your melon. How proud you are to think you grew this delicious thing all on your own.