‘A Song of Liberty’

Artist - Emmet Moriarty

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.