WHEN in the course of human Events, it becomes necessary….
Soft Armor by Havens
byVanderleunonJune 11, 2020
A man who lies to himself is often the first to take offense. It sometimes feels very good to take offense, doesn’t it?” – The Elder Zosima, The Brothers K.
Soft Armor
Guard against the joylessness –
the shout
the sloganed cry.
Guard against the chanted curse
and truthful-seeming lie.
Guard against the joylessness –
against the sheepish fright.
Guard against the mirthless marches
that wilt without the light
(a truly righteous Army thrives
even out of sight).
Guard against the joylessness –
the hunt
the blue bird’s noose.
Guard against the flashing placards
that turn a lynching loose.
Guard against the joylessness –
against the textbook heart.
Guard against the low momentum
of the classroom’s faded arts
(the ivory’s crumbling fastest
at the over-polished parts).
Guard against the joylessness
my son,
my girl child,
by suiting up in Mother’s grace
and wielding Father’s smile
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
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& adding to your discussion elsewhere Prof. Wagstaff;
Poets love their revolutions.
Nothing more revolting than a poetic revolution. Or a revolutionary poet.