The Hateful of Man

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem on human failures and history, the passing of fear and suspicion to the next generation. The poem's characters are somewhat "Ameri-centric" by necessity, as I have never lived anywhere else, and besides no short poem could possibly encompass all of human history.

Much of the poem is excercised in iambic pentameter, mostly with masculine endings, but the meter is variable (sext- and septameter) and much less strict than the rhyme.

This poem also speaks of a Song, sung since ancient times in the minds of all people of every race. The Song is a metaphor for history (and her story).

It is an unfinished song; and one, I think, not devoid of hope.

I hope as much that the reader will find it thought-provoking. r.w.

Submitted: August 13, 2009

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Submitted: August 13, 2009

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Prologue:

Each man must consider,
Near end of his days,
His history's doing.
The ‘politic' plays.

This happens. It must.
Young warriors grow old.
Great stories are written
To tell of the bold.

Our hist'ry is checked
All too-oft with sad wrong.
But ever did some heroes
Sing the right song?

Monologue:

Bold pioneer spirits
Plowed west, mills and shears.
But masses died "Injun" deaths…
Trail full of tears.

Conductors derailed
Awful Wrong of one plan;
A Deed on a person,
The hateful of man.

While my war-worn Dark Brothers
Gave more than their task,
But never one medal,
Nor accolade, asked --Filled
Graves just as well (and for le$$)
As the last-- and
Scarcely cried out as their blood mingled full
With “eight/fifths-weighted” white blood.
The politic fool.

What tell we the Child
Of our sinfullest past?
Forgetful of History
A frail metal cast?
Or grant Her the ken
Of our ultimate weakness?
The rotting-dust has- "bin",
Been hateful, of Man.

And sing loud our History,
Though many weren't right?
Don’t hide from our failures:
Less taste! Hist'ry Lite.

We learn from our sin,
Ancient Song keeping pace
(A Mother’s new soldier scoots
chair into napkin-set place, at
the gluttonous gin of
Man’s meat-grinding race.)

Those color-blind soldiers, and sailors,
Brave wives,
Fight on for a concept:
Expendable lives??
No!.. So
History is written by he who survives.
But the Writers, in writing,
Do nothing for wrong.
They’ve just tried to pen a few notes in the Song:

“…the perpetual gin of young
Heroes now gone, F sharp,
4/4 time, verse six-billion and one.”

Each man "must consider;"
But it's hard for the young
To take in the breadth of
The Song not full-sung.

War's "Old Guard" succumbs,
And the daughters who can...
Will have to make sense of
The Hateful of Man.

Epilogue:

The Hateful we spoke
Masquerades as a noun,
Adjectively owning
Earth’s war-weary frown.
New conflicts abide,
Sure as continents collide,
‘til Man re-considers
His politic clown.

Until we cast all of our foolishness down.

Conduct me now, Writer,
The years of my span.
My children inherit
The Hate, full of Man.


© Copyright 2019 Robert Wright. All rights reserved.

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