The Moderns (with Picture)

I wrote this poem as my first year of Harvard was drawing to a close two years ago.

A couple of months ago a great friend of mine shared some of my poems with his girlfriend. He kept this a secret, and I only found out this past weekend when he told me his girlfriend had actually put several of the poems to sketch form.

Tuesday night he promised to email one of them to me, and so he has.

Below you see the result of what I believe is a marvelous rendition and translation of the original idea.

A great job to J, and a thank you to the Admiral!

I hope you all enjoy it.

The Old Soviet Museum

I stared at the shiny ceiling,

with colors of red, green, and blue,

at bronze statues, bold, or kneeling,

with magnificent golden hues.

I saw Lenin’s words on the wall,

in vivid Russian, I could read,

and stared at his form ten times tall,

staring back, bidding me to think.

And so, my eyes continued their gaze,

around the lavish old museum -

past red flags, ready and arrayed,

to march with pictures deep within.

And as my head traced left to right,

across the room which seemed a land,

as rich thoughts murmured in my mind,

my eyes fell on one lonely strand.

There, up high, was a piece of wall,

where time had worn through the dye,

These six words stood alone, and small,

“Freedom is always black and white.”

And though I tried to film that place,

I couldn’t. The shading wasn’t right.

So I moved to the far palisade,

where the sun shone in, gay and bright.

Letter to the Censors

I’d like to take a moment now,
to ease your task, and make it clear.
I ask no pardon for this bow,
or words of kindness in my ear.

I love the God who you defame.
I love the land which you decry.
Each life is dear – in its own way –
for which every soul knows why.

I think this is enough for you.
So blot my words out, and my name.
It’s ok. You have your job – I did too.
Now let my papers feed the flame.

Freedom Dies By Suicide! (Obituary on A 2)

Dear Readers,

Freedom died last night,
at the age of three hundred, three.
He left his children and his wife,
with nothing but their dreams.

He was found near a glass of gin,
and books piled to the lights,
(It was a lady friend who found him -
at a quarter past midnight.)

Though details are still to come,
The facts, as they are, imply:
Freedom did not die by the gun.
He died by suicide.

Freedom

As freedom sits alone tonite,
its never been like this before,
never has it felt so alone,
or ever needed someone more.

Will its sun rise in the morning,
that humbled virtue to adore,
which wizened men now decry,
for having kept so many warm?

Gravestone Found Near Boston Dated 1920 (“The Last Hero”)

To an American two generations hence,
You, who my face will never see,
Nor my presence nor love sense.
I bid you well and I bid you be.

Like you, I loved a woman’s hand,
And treated each with much respect,
I, too, prayed to God for my land,
And every night and day, He blessed.

And I too knew my faults and flaws,
And writhed long the Scriptured page,
Like you, I stared at Nature’s awe,
And a family held, birthed, and made.

Yes. I must be just like you, my son,
An American, but eighty years removed,
Live your life well – as you have done,
That is all I ask of you.

The Moderns

My men of Modern means,
Learned, you have always been.
My men of Modern means,
Tell us how to think and dream.

Tell us how your thoughts lend,
Themselves, to every code and creed,
How you’ve learned not to offend,
And so learned not to believe.

My men of Modern means,
Prudent, you have always been,
My men of Modern, please,
Tell us what you have not seen.

Tell us how the world began,
Long before the sea did swim,
Of faith – or the heart of man,
Or the gods you curse and dim.

My men of Modern means,
Sages, you have always been,
My men of Modern, please,
Tell us how the future gleams.

Tell us of your New Earth –
And the glory it will hold,
Where all work is equal worth,
And freedom’s bought and sold.

My men of Modern means,
Triumphant, you will be,
So men of Modern, please,
Begrudge me not this plea:

Moderns, oh so strong and tall,
I have lost and I will bend!
Just tell me how you fooled us all,
Into the madness of this end.

To Worlds Apart

Hail, ye men of true and free,
the hopes and dreams you hold,
are all that now guard Me.
Hail, to your work and to your toil,
to that hope of a New Jerusalem,
in this world and from this soil!
My men, lose not your hearts,
futile though the work may seem,
for with you, I’ve entered worlds apart.
Toil on My men of true and free!
yet know – the temple you build now,
your work will not complete.

History vs. Socialism

I see we meet again,
and I must stand to protest,
for your melodies will end,
no different than the rest!

Stand aside and let us pass,
“equality” is our only cure!
our ideals will thee surpass,
and the future we’ll secure!

Ten thousand years ago I too,
heard the siren you now sing,
but from your hopes soon grew,
a hate that only fear could bring!

You have no right to judge,
you forget, we know you well!
You hold no lesson but a grudge,
which is why we now rebel!

Fools! you forsake freedom,
for a maniacal charade!
repent now or soon succumb,
to evil in “equality” betrayed!

We need not hear your lecture,
for we know liberty’s faults,
your certainties are mere conjecture,
‘tis “equality” we now exalt!

You fools! in all my many pages,
and in all my complex works,
as I’ve lived throughout the ages,
‘tis no price for freedom’s worth.

Liberty be damned and lost!
‘tis but a small price to pay!
“equality” is never absent of cost,
nor will it be in “our new day”!

Then go with all your longing!
I will once again take a seat,
and see ye mortals dying,
as I pause – and then repeat.