They Marched in tens.
They Marched in hundreds.
They Marched in thousands.
They Marched in tens and hundreds of thousands.
Millions marching.From Maine to California they marched.
From Florida to Alaska they marched.
From Texas to Minnesota they marched.In towns and great cities they marched.
Across the land they marched.
They were grieving as they marched.
They were angry as they marched.
They were hopeful and anxious as they marched.
They were defiant as they marched.
Old and young marched.
Black and white marched.
Asians and native people marched.
Women and men marched.
People of every faith marched.
Martin Luther King was with them, as they marched.
And Lincoln. And Washington
And Bobbie Kennedy.
And Jesus of Nazareth.
And all who gave their lives,
That all mankind might live in dignity.
That all might live in peace.
That all might be free.
And the Governors hid in their statehouses.
And the Mayors in their chambers.
And the Legislators in their cellars.
And the Rich behind their iron gates.
And the President swaggered and blustered.
So They sent the police to the streets.
The President called for the military.
To intimidate the marchers.
To chase them home.
For They were sore afraid.
But the people heeded not the threats and danger.
The people marched on.
Because black lives matter.
Because poor people matter.
Because immigrants matter.
Because the old and sick matter.
Because everyone matters.
The people marched on.
| Copyright © 2020 by Neil P. Hoffmann |
Thank you for the lovely format. It actually looks like something.
ReplyDeleteI have never thought of myself as a writer, much less a poet, those who always seemed people of special gifts. I was inspired by all the poems in Michael”s march, and by the overhead shots on TV of Ben Franklin Parkway, filled with marching demonstrators yesterday, flowing like a great river. An awe inspiring sight.
I was also inspired by W.B. Yeats whose “The Celtic Twilight” (1902) I have been reading. A man of special gifts. You may have seen it. Yeats transcribing the fantastic, mystical stories he was hearing from the peasants of the West of Ireland. Galway, Tuam, Sligo, the westward slope of the magical mountain, Ben Bulben.
For the first 50 pages of spooky, complex but somewhat repitious stories of ghosts, angels, little people, mythological heros, Christianity, mideaval legends, I thought, “How silly, these crafty peasants are telling the rich city man what he wants to hear. Good for a whiskey and a few bob.”
But now, after 2 weeks of it seeping into my brain, I do not know. And Yeats did not know. I am falling into this ancient nether world, as he did. Even through the pages of a book, the intangible become tangible. The world of the unliving is strangely real, but only to believers.
Parallel worlds that don't exist without each other. Yeats, I think, trusted the story tellers and saw things himself that he could not explain.
I know that wild country a bit. Walking those hills and shores of a dark night after a few whiskies...who knows? Does anyone still believe? Am I becoming a believer? My mother would have been.
I felt that same inspiration---a catch in my throat---as I saw the teeming thousands march past my street twice this week.
DeleteI was also reminded of these two excerpts, from poet Katherine Lee Bates (Wellesley) and Irish poet Seamus Heaney, respectively:
Oh, beautiful for patriot dream that sees beyond the years thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed hiis grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea.
(Formatting was mine) AND:
History says, Don't hope
On this side of the grave,
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
From Yeats, 'The Celtic Twilight ', unattributed, 1901
DeleteHeardst thou not sweet words among
That heaven-resounding minstrelsy?
Heardst thou not that those who die
Awake in a world of ecstasy?
How love, when limbs are interwoven,
And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,
And thought to the world's dim boundaries clinging,
And music when one's beloved is singing,
Is death?
Yeats, one of my favorites. Thanks for the reminder, Neil.
DeleteNow, that's what I call poetry.
DeleteAnd I. I know a lot of Yeats, but not that one. Thanks.
DeleteNeil, you have a poet’s soul. I knew it! Thanks for this “offering.”
ReplyDeleteI loved your poem. A hint of Vachel Lindsay.
ReplyDeleteThanks Brooks,
DeleteNow I have to look up Vachel Lindsey!
One of my favorites: “General Booth Marches into Heaven.”
DeleteAll of this has me thinking that we are in a web, a nether world of Power and Evil I would call Hypocritiam. Hypocritiam is not mythical. It is very real and worldwide. While ordinary folk can be hypocrites the leaders of Hypocritiam, the elite Hypocritians, ride a race of cosmic horses called Hypocritae upon which they can instantly deliver their hypocrital, tearful messages of sadness, yea grief, for George Lloyd and all "People of Color".
ReplyDeleteWe know who the Hypocritian Elite are. They run the real world. They are the politicians promising equality and opportunity. Safe streets and justice. Delivering nothing but empty promises. But they weep for George Lloyd.
They are the great bankers charging poor people 25% interest on credit cards. But they weep for George Lloyd.
They are great Corporate Lords and Ladies who treat their employees like chattel. Selling their jobs, benefits and lives down the river. But they weep for George Lloyd.
They are great media gurus who protect their rich advertisers with convenient Opinion and Faux News. But they weep for George Lloyd.
They are the religious leaders who tolerate racial, religious and social intolerance, injustice, and bigotry. But they weep for George Lloyd.
They are great University leaders who sell Honorary degrees to their corrupt fellow Elite Hypocritians for Favors and many Pieces of Eight. But they weep for George Lloyd.
So lest we imagine that those Great Hypocritians will get off their Cosmic war horses, The Hypocritae, or ride them for equity, justice and liberty, we best think again.
They would all have us believe that it is the Police who are the problem. Those folks we call when we're in trouble. Those folks who spend most of their time trying to protect us.
Let us not forget who is really responsible for George Lloyd.
And let me give this poem a solid high five and an amen!
ReplyDeleteIt's time the poets of the nation--the poets of Moristotle--rose up in protest and did another protest, but this time with poetry.
ReplyDelete