My studies have given me a legacy of interest in many and wide-ranging social, moral and ethical fields and concerns, as well as the politics of power. This piece is a manifestation of that legacy.
"The world is splitting open at my feet like a ripe, juicy watermelon." Sylvia Plath.
On her gravestone: “Even amidst fierce flames, the golden lotus can be planted.” Wu Ch'Eng-En.
“Come join us,” the bearded sage persisted,
“you're our kind of fellow, but remember this:
don't invest in your own land or people, do not be tested
there; be as patient as a painted smile, or kiss.
Remember the gardener's creed: ideas planted in early spring
lie dormant, in wait for the earthy warmth that summers bring,
then burst free with effortless empires of life, crystalline colours that sing
the songs that tyrants neither understand, nor can ever quite dismiss.
“Please don't misconstrue my invitation,” artless, he smiled:
“It's no proto-demagogue you see, but a humble 'Ideas Man,' revealed
in a country where courage has died; where her soldiers, reviled,
wracked by disdain and guilt, find ageing comrades far from healed.
Unlike a mother, your priest, the law, we want from you no compliance,
nor promise of redemption for identities submerged. We place no reliance
on assurance or belief (decide for yourself the simple facts of science).
We'll help, of course - guide you to futures where your fate's unsealed.”
(I care nothing for the usual suspects, who between them avoid the whip,
nor organised religion, its savage estates and atrocious deeds.
Surely you've found that the shallower the lie, the stronger its grip
on the weak, the frightened, the gullible, the corruptly freed.
All are victim, all connive in conspiracies of deceit; condone
with Nelsonian eye the dissolute, the users, waxed fat on grain sown
not for the harvest reaped, but in want of a venal crop, grown
tall in fields of presumed free will.)
The heretics will ever strive for the seeds.