‘A Song of Liberty’
A Song of Liberty
I
America, resting in the arms of heaven—
Her blinking honking forever-bustling city traffic
sounds serenade me,
Her locomotives and pickup trucks haunt me,
Her beauty and glory torment me,
Her stories and songs are in me,
Her soft lips and glistening fractal-eyes make me
wistful,
She is irresistible, all-consuming, evil.
America, I’m sure you know your power over me.
America, I am kneeling on your velvet
Floor spreading thousands of miles,
My curious fingers caress the exclusive rope beside
And my heart is aching for you to let me in.
Mother, I have your wide smile and crazy laugh.
You raised me good, Mama.
Murder, violence, so horrific!
But what once rattled and shattered earth
Is now banal, normal, embedded
Within the concrete on which we walk, wetted
By the blood of homeless men and women.
See hopeless eyes of starving children,
We pass by, and are forgiven.
Beauty, love, so terrific!
But what once changed, upheaved tradition
Has now grown weary, judgmental, jaded,
The lights of stars and moon have faded
Neither black nor white prevail at present
But grey, grey, so effervescent!
I wish to look away and hide.
I could sit upon a cliff and listen
To the pounding of my heart in rhythm,
And I would hear a sound the same
As the ticking of a clock
Or the flicking of a flame,
But were I then to turn my head,
And close my eyes,
And go to bed,
And listen to my thoughts, unending,
I would hear the sound of my heart rending.
The cries of mothers muffled by
The silence of the night—
The serenity of countryside
Is covering this fright.
The sun is sinking like a ship
The moon is rising slow,
Children wail and wail and wail
With nothing to do
And nowhere to go.
But should I from these truths
Draw false conclusions
Of nations lost
In novel confusions?
Should I, then, embrace the past?
Is that the solution,
Found at last?
No, I shall not bend my principles
For comfort of tradition.
II
America, it is getting hard to live.
My friends are homeless and drifting; going and
going without ever reaching a destination.
My eyes are dry from crying,
My sons are poor and malnourished,
My daughters are overwrought and sick.
My enemies are your friends: pollution,
destruction, death.
You are not who I thought you were.
America, I am becoming fearful of you.
America, I have seen how you treat your own.
I have seen you build dams on sacred waterways
And bulldoze entire neighborhoods.
I have seen you strike your child’s hands
outstretched.
Father, please scatter my ashes over Katahdin!
My soul’s gone all the way to the valley.
The earth is breathing heavily;
She is sickly and pale as a ghost.
We must love her
And care for her.
This question then arises:
“What will be our sacrifices?”
For we cannot live the way we do
If we wish our promises to be true
For our children here to come
And for every living thing
Underneath the sun.
I was awakened by a loud BOOM!
’Twas the dead of night,
And I was confronted by Death,
With whom I fought endlessly—
An infinite struggle arisen and resolved
All within the night.
Tradition is the mode of reproduction of despair.
What is rational of despair?
It is tradition to kill, steal, pollute.
It is uncomfortable to challenge tradition.
But when tradition is not examined,
And by tradition, to no avail,
We try our best to live our lives,
Only reaction can prevail.
The men who subsist on the slop of poorhouses
Are sympathetic to Mother Earth.
III
America, Russia stopped at Berlin;
We kept going, past Louisiana, Texas, New
Mexico, all the way to Eden: California.
We murdered, stole, torched, raped, exterminated.
We displaced millions, forced them to uproot.
We are not natives here, America.
We are Europeans, America. This is no new world.
America, why are we here?
Our love is in vain.
America, I think I hate you.
America, they are saying things about you:
“Your industrial power is fading.”
“Your highways are no longer free.”
America, how will you answer?
Brother, my love of land is dwindling,
I must go to the sea and rest.
War: performance!
Great thief of life!
War, the drums do not cease, the
Sporadic bass and wailing guitar, the
Eccentric frontman and incomprehensible lyrics!
It is beyond horror!
I saw a mother
Weep for her child taken
From her strong arms by an angel,
Death!
But what of the mechanics of war?
What of the indifferent cruelty and the routine?
I am paid time-and-a-half if I do not report
civilian casualties (a nice word for victims).
Even the most radical of us are sentimental about
the innocence of American soldiers—
Righteous killers!
They have no agency!
They have no control!
Prison is far too dismal a fate for our young boys!
The war is evil, but I do not dare criticize those
who fight it;
Many of them had no choice,
They were just following orders.
We are no strangers to struggle.
We must fight endlessly—
An infinite struggle resolved
All within the night.
I cannot smell the stew steaming.
Outside the fire is raging, consuming.
My mother’s face was melted off—
I am a young girl.
IV
America, the atom bomb is always on my mind.
It is nighttime in the east; in Los Angeles the
light is still fading, I see pink!
I was born in Massachusetts,
I am of your kind, your spirit, your history.
I am still here, America.
I arrived on your massive shore, famished, begging
for entrance and shelter.
You took me in, fed me, and gave me home.
America, I will not forgive you.
America, I mourn what should have been.
I weep over the death of this wild land untamed.
Ah, your hunger!
It is endless as your lust!
Sister, take care of Ma.
She is lonesome and tired, like our country.
America, sing for me!
America, I feel my troubles melting away.
America, the fog is lifting.
America, I can see through the haze.
America, when will you collapse?
Close your eyes and go to sleep,
Sweet little angel child.
The light is within you,
As within every tiny pebble
And every great mountain—
The whole world is a manifestation of His love!
Sing me to sleep, sweet angel!
Sing me to sleep tonight!
I may not live another day
But tonight I feel alright!
Sing me to sleep, sweet angel!
Sing me to sleep right now!
I hear the voice of infant Christ
Crying so very loud!
Sorrow is joy!
Death is life!
All is not lost—
There is hope for us!
We were born with the strength to move
mountains,
So we shall move them.
The liberation of humanity is drawing near!
Come to me, lover.
Lie with me and let the poetry wash over us.
Emmet Moriarty is a 19-year-old poet, songwriter, and aspiring filmmaker from southern New Hampshire. They are a recent high school graduate moving to Los Angeles, California to work and pursue a career in literature/music/film. They are influenced by poets such as Allen Ginsberg, Claude McKay, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, songwriters such as Bob Dylan, Nina Simone, Patti Smith, Neil Young, Gillian Welch, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, and filmmakers such as Ingmar Bergman, Paul Schrader, Carl Theodor Dreyer, Ousmane Sembène, and Sergei Eisenstein. Emmet has been writing poetry as a passion for many years and has been developing a distinct voice/style.