Our Poets by Alyce Anders Our poets spoke of love, not spiritual, not carnal, but a universal love. Peace and understanding. Tolerance and acceptance. They spoke of revolution, a revolution of mind and spirit. They urged us all to join the revolution, not to battle each other, not to shed blood, but rather to unite and become one. They came from the barren deserts, the scorched earth, the wind blown farms where the crops refused to grow. They sought out the Promised Land, only to find that the promise was just an illusion. They watched us starve while immoral barons plundered our Eden, and they spoke out against the injustice. They came from the northern mining towns, cold and desolate, seeking warmth and shelter in the frigid city. They had no need for pen and paper, for they cried out their poems in a ragged voice so loud and penetrating that even the deaf could hear their message of freedom and equality. Our poets wrote not in meter, but rather to the beat of the drum. Their words were like mirrors, and for the first time, we were able to see ourselves as others saw us. Our poets unlocked the doors and opened our minds, then lost their minds to their own, self-inflicted demons. Our poets died gently in the night, cleansing their souls in the lukewarm waters of hedonistic excess. And though they never slept, our greatest poets were dreamers. Theyre at rest now, struck down by the venomous sting of an assassins bullet. You can kill the dreamer, but not his soul, nor his dream. For they are immortal.
Posted on: Tue, 13 Jan 2015 19:23:54 +0000
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