The Rebels

      ...simple words are the only salvation 
                      from this death.
                                              CAMUS
                       I
5     All things move in the direction that we sing:
      Rebel-loving mothers battle-hymn long rest
      To babies cooing at their breast; 
      Mother Goose elects the parliament.
      Sane-eyed men put on powdered wigs and sit
10    Arguing weary evenings through to things
      Declared clarity and truth.
           Hanged men say 'o' to the words.
      Stockinged midnight stamps the boards,
      Arguments combat for place, their own hard-won
15    Among the sordid knots of man's oblivion;
      To themselves they whispered out 
      A speech past inheritance, yet thought-possessed:
      Democracy, sighed some. In one shout:
      The Republic! cried the rest.
20         Hanged men say 'o' to the words.
      Syllable by syllable they dreamed
      That their own bitten mouths might close round
      Imaged words their dreams confessed;
      That they themselves were what they seemed:
25    Dear dreams that would not go hoarse
      In the smear of the marketplace 
      Or horse-sown pamphlets thrown to wind. 
           Hanged men say 'o' to the words.
       
30         II
      Romantic governance, the soul upon a sheet
      Of quill-ticked parchment thin as skin
      And worn about the dirty neck
      Of some brave, hanged rebel 
35    For his sole ornament; words kept in
      Sweet consciousness had swept 
      Through the damned head death breaks.
           All things move in the direction that we sing.
      His arms outstretched upon the pallet, 
40    As upon the gibbet, his mother keening there,
      Whether toward some young savior in his mind
      Or from the black-flamed insanity of terror
      None but the dreamer may see or know, 
      His arms outstretched as if toward some 
45    Overwhelming imaginary goal.
           All things move in the direction that we sing.
      Each bobcat wish comes puzzling, and hunts us
      Until we out of each vague thought or meme
      Have trumped the meat, and sit
50    Like the bewildered soldier musket-shot
      Through his cold back in the peaceful, misty field
      In solemn, bloody ownership
      Of our own still-beating hearts.
           All things move in the direction that we sing.

From the collection "Divine Revolt"

Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]

More information available on gregglory.com.