The People
Where you but once have ever been must ever be--Landor
If I say we I mean no pluribus but only us
who from churl villeins ascended.
They, who I say are we, once huddled
over small smoky fires, dipping millet gruel
from wooden bowls with filthy fingers,
cuffing aside the thrusting noses
of pigs and goats that shared our hovels.
We, who were them, were known
by just the one name called christian
and we glowed with pride when squires
amidst merry jesting deigned to call us
by them when they let us hold the reins
of silky war steeds when knights
paused to honor our wives and daughters
with their pleasure. Even now, munching
burgers beneath flashing screens
in sports bars, one of our three-globbed
brains summons a deep-meated thrill,
a vision flitting so fast only unknown minds
underneath minds can see it: how we,
when we were them, exulted in glee
and terror while heretics shrieked
in the devil’s tongue as flames licked up
around them and smoky savors
aroused our hunger. Nothing changes,
so nothing changes. When black-blistered
buboes sprouted beneath armpits,
clearing the countryside of sinners,
we could freely roam empty villages
with cudgels ready, but priests
always returned, still holding handkerchiefs
against their noses as we knelt
beneath them to take the sacrament.
Yes, we did come to lose the belief
our beliefs would girdle the world
unchanged forever. We beheaded kings
in spectacles of sublime ecstasy and took up
the notions of egghead philosophes
we’d made a picnic with our families to see
burn up when we were being them.
Belief? Whatever we say on truck bumpers
or ink into our skin to keep faith forever
with, that’s what. We can wear
our ball caps backwards where’er we eat
or pray, but great nature yet knows
our true station. We are what we are.
If I say we I mean no pluribus but only us
who from churl villeins ascended.
They, who I say are we, once huddled
over small smoky fires, dipping millet gruel
from wooden bowls with filthy fingers,
cuffing aside the thrusting noses
of pigs and goats that shared our hovels.
We, who were them, were known
by just the one name called christian
and we glowed with pride when squires
amidst merry jesting deigned to call us
by them when they let us hold the reins
of silky war steeds when knights
paused to honor our wives and daughters
with their pleasure. Even now, munching
burgers beneath flashing screens
in sports bars, one of our three-globbed
brains summons a deep-meated thrill,
a vision flitting so fast only unknown minds
underneath minds can see it: how we,
when we were them, exulted in glee
and terror while heretics shrieked
in the devil’s tongue as flames licked up
around them and smoky savors
aroused our hunger. Nothing changes,
so nothing changes. When black-blistered
buboes sprouted beneath armpits,
clearing the countryside of sinners,
we could freely roam empty villages
with cudgels ready, but priests
always returned, still holding handkerchiefs
against their noses as we knelt
beneath them to take the sacrament.
Yes, we did come to lose the belief
our beliefs would girdle the world
unchanged forever. We beheaded kings
in spectacles of sublime ecstasy and took up
the notions of egghead philosophes
we’d made a picnic with our families to see
burn up when we were being them.
Belief? Whatever we say on truck bumpers
or ink into our skin to keep faith forever
with, that’s what. We can wear
our ball caps backwards where’er we eat
or pray, but great nature yet knows
our true station. We are what we are.
