Poetry Page 2.
The Man Born Blind – Ambrose Bierce, 1888
A man born blind received his sight
By a painful operation;
And these are the things he saw in the light
Of an infant observation.
He saw a merchant, rich and wise,
And greatly, too, respected,
Who looked, to those imperfect eyes,
Like a swindler undetected.
He saw a patriot address
A noisy public meeting,
And said: “Why, that’s a calf, I guess,
And for the teat is bleating.”
A doctor stood beside a bed
And shook his head quite sadly:
“O see that foul assassin!” said
The man who saw so badly.
He saw a lawyer pleading for
A thief whom they’d been jailing,
And said: “That’s an accomplice, or
My sight’s already failing.”
Upon the bench a justice sat,
With nothing to restrain him;
“’Tis strange,” said the observer, “that
They ventured to unchain him.”
He saw a parson pound the Book
As ’twere an erring brother;
“He serves Abaddon and has a look
As if he were another.”
With theologic works supplied,
He saw that self-same preacher:
“A burglar with his kit,” he cried,
“To rob a fellow creature.”
An honest farmer next he saw
Sell produce in a village,
And said: “What! what! is there no law
To punish men for pillage?”
A dame, tall, fair, and stately, passed,
Who many charms united;
He thanked his stars that his lot was cast
Where sepulchers were whited.
He saw in splendorous attire
Some “Grand Supreme Commander”;
“A peacock’s plumes I don’t admire,”
He swore, “upon a gander.”
He saw a soldier, stiff and stern,
“Full of strange oaths” and toddy,
But was unable to discern
A wound upon his body.
Twenty square leagues of rolling ground
To one great man belonging
Looked like one little grassy mound
With worms beneath it thronging.
A palace’s well-carven stones,
Where Dives dwelt contented,
Seemed built throughout of human bones
With human blood cemented.
He watched the yellow, shining thread
A silkworm was a-spinning:
“That creature’s coining gold,” he said,
“To pay some girl for sinning.”
His eyes were so untrained and dim,
All politics, religions,
Arts, sciences appeared to him
Machines for plucking pigeons.
And so he drew his final breath,
And thought he saw with sorrow
Some persons weeping for his death
Who’d be all smiles tomorrow.
Look to the end – Clinton Loveridge, 1899
By the light of history’s pages,
Travel back the past dead ages;
Ever find the tragic story telling just the same:
Man in bloodiest war engages;
Tortures, burns, and kills the sages;
Ever stained with blood and crime, and lust of power and fame.
Who can answer, who can say
Man is wiser now, today,
Than when Egypt’s Pharaohs lived and reigned on earth?
Does the State’s or Church’s sway
Offer any nobler way?—
Are not countless millions doomed to wretchedness from birth?
The world is ruled by millionaires;
The cross of Christ no message bears—
Throws but a blighting shadow everywhere o’er life;
The rulers claim all that is theirs,
The toiler’s harvest—all but the tares!—
Where do history’s pages show base robbery more rife?
Lust of gold, of power athirst,
This man’s history from the first—
Ever since the written record was begun on stone or skin;
Ever making gods the worst,
Reflect all his deeds accursed;
Showing by his worshipped gods how poor man’s life has been.
High the towers and steeples rise
Of churches mocking fairest skies—
But within does right word spoken ever greet the ear?
And with every hour that flies
The church all freedom e’er denies—
The cross-crowned church holds jangling priest, no prophet, poet, seer.
Ever chained by superstition;
Ever slaves to old tradition,—
So the toilers of the world build here on earth their hells;
Seemingly without volition,
Witless in self-wrought perdition—
O, for this sad inanition be there word or spell!
Unnumbered slaves of every nation;
Old archetype lies their adoration;
It would not seem a grievous wrong their choice to dwell in hell—
But that the coming generation
May wallow in the same stagnation;
They suicide as well as ring the little children’s knell.
Rhymes for the Times – Elmina Slenkeb, 1881
Published in the predecessor to Lucifer
“Oh, believe or be damned?” is what Christians all teach;
They alone have the truth and God’s holy word preach.
They are saved from all sins by prayer, faith, and grace;
At the right hand of God they have chosen their place.
They work for His glory, seek from hell souls to save;
All else they deem worthless on this side of the grave.
Thus labor is wasted, precious time thrown away,
On dreams that are baseless, on myths worn and gray.
But the “Infidel,” true, firm, and loyal, doth stand
On a plane that is higher, more noble and grand.
He follows the spirit and listens to its teachings,
Caring only for the right, despising the preachings
Of pious ones holy, who talk, with long faces,
Of high heavens, deep hells, and like mythical places;
Despising and hating pure joys and sweet pleasures,
Happy homes here on earth, overflowing with treasures
Of blissful contentment and peace, hope, and love,
Sacrificing them all for air-castles above,
Where, with wings at their backs and crowned like a king,
For ages and ages hosannas they’ll sing;
Nor pity the billions who, in hell’s deep abyss,
Suffer anguish and torment in sight of their bliss.
Unknown – Sylvester Viereck, 1910
The mockery of thy lips adored,
Thy lovely languid head,
Enwreathed with poppies red, Is my loadstone.
Because thou art cruel, therefore, be my Lord, Kakodaimon!
Thy glorious body, unto me made known,
Is like a stately fane of alabaster
Where in procession, to thy praise alone,
‘Mid torches’ glimmer and organ’s pealing tone,
Pass scarlet Sin, and Shame and black Disaster,
Kakodaimon!
Coward Hearts – J.L. Joynes, 1885
Transcribed from Lucifer the Light Bearer
And shall we blow the trumpets yet,
And shall we beat the rattling drum,
And cry to them that cannot hear,
And call to them that will not come,
And pipe to those who do not dance,
And mourn with them that will not weep,
And shout our battle cry to those
Who only fold their hands and sleep?
The cowards!—though our only help
Be brandished in our own right hand,
And though our lamp of hope be dim,
And far away our promised land,
And though our hosts be hard beset,
And though our hearts be sore afraid,
We will not pray to them for help,
We will not ask of them for aid.
Nay, never—we will march alone
To conquer or, if need be, die.
We want no traitor hearts like theirs
To rally round our battle cry;
We need no faint applause from them,
No cheer from all the cringing crowd,
When, if the cowards held their peace,
The very stones would cry aloud.
But if, despite of desperate odds,
We turn in triumph home at last,
With all the painful struggle done
And all the peril overpast,
Then will the faint-heart knaves be first
With triumph songs our steps to greet,
And deafen us with shouts of praise,
And lick the dust from off our feet.
And shall we let them share the fruits
Of victories so hardly won,
Or take a stern revenge at last
For all the harm their sloth has done?
Nay, surely shame and sharp remorse
Are worse than any deeded smart;
We pity them! ’Tis curse enough
To be such coward slaves at heart!
A HYMN MODERN – Ogilvie Mitchell, 9/10/1891
Earth to earth, and dust to dust,
From the centre to the crust.
Land is bartered, bought, and sold
For the cursed greed of gold—
Gold which earth itself doth hold.
Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Selfish appetite and lust
Stole the earth when earth was young,
On its face their burdens flung,
Reft the virtue that had sprung.
Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Down their throats the lie we thrust,
When the idlers, vaunting, say
That we are of other clay,
Made of baser earth than they.
Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Mother Earth, to us you must
Come, for we have waited long
Through the centuries of wrong—
Now the weak are growing strong.
Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Rise we in our fierce disgust,
Shout we loud with scorn and mirth:
“Earth is ours, if we be earth—
Ours in death, and ours from birth!”
GENERATION – Elizabeth Watson 9/10/1891
“The world is going wrong,” you say,
“And has been, ever since creation!
Come, let us kneel to God, and pray
For all mankind’s regeneration!”
Nay, nay, my friend, the world’s all right,
And God heeds not our supplication;
All that is needed is more light
Upon the law of GENERATION.
This wondrous power to enshrine
In form of flesh the good or evil,
And with the parent life entwine
The attributes of god or devil!
A subtle, unsubstantial breath,
With kiss of love as consecration,
Leaps through the boundaries of death—
A thing of life, a soul creation.
Yet, like the source from whence it springs,
Be it Gehenna or Elysium,
Our secret thought it ever brings
Before our oft-astonished vision!
A moment’s hate may crystallize
Into defiance of all duty,
Or thought from love’s sweet paradise
Become a never-failing beauty.
We sow our passions, rank and wild,
Amid the poor soul’s strong delusions,
And then expect a holy child
As fruitage of our life’s confusions!
Men sacrifice their souls to sense
And trample on the rights of woman,
Then make this plea in self-defense:
“But sure, you know, all men are human.”
And women, weak, irresolute,
Allow the awful desecration
Of that which love should e’er transmute
Into a blessed consecration.
And from the fountains, so defiled,
Flows life’s dark stream of troubled waters,
The Christ crushed out of every child,
While sin claims all earth’s sons and daughters.
And thus we go from bad to worse,
Few hoping for amelioration,
While preachers prate of the “primal curse”
And paint the scenes of soul-damnation.
The Tale Of A Wanderer’s Trail
– Charles Manson, 1990’s
A tale of a wonderless trail
a tale that was passed on to me
a man whose back to the wall
and all the flip guys who think they’re wise
you can take heed avert your downfall
I’m a wise egg I can lie steal and beg
I’ve traveled this world around to the east and west
and I’m there with the best when it comes to covering the ground
I’ve handled a pick alongside of a trick then steel on the DRG
and done the heavy on the New Orleans levee
and sailed on the whale of the sea
juggled a tray in a newer cafe in a hot belt in the hotel and shy
and carried a pack along the B&O track
i caught Red Ball freights on the fly
I’ve lied in my cell and suffered like hell with a wonderful shot of dope
begging despair to be sent to the chair or bumped off at the end of a rope
All my life I’ve ranted and raved to the things that I craved to soothe my raw ragged nerves
and prayed without hope to the goddess of dope who’s every bidding I have served
All my life I’ve roamed without friend or home up and down this old cinder trail
and now it seems all I have is dreams of days that were spent out of jail
so heed to this tale of the wonderless trail
you can see how it’s ended for me
getting the sticks, the hicks, and tricks
