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John Donne
If faithful souls be alike glorified
As angels, then my fathers soul doth see,
And adds this even to full felicity,
That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:
But if our minds to these souls be descried
By circumstances, and by signs that be
Apparent in us, not immediately,
How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?
They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,
And vile blasphemous conjurers to call
On Jesus name, and Pharisaical
Dissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,
O pensive soul, to God, for he knows best
Thy true grief, for he put it in my breast.
You never marveled, dullards of Spoon River,
When Chase Henry voted against the saloons
To revenge himself for being shut off.
But none of you was keen enough
To follow my steps, or trace me home
As Chase’s spiritual brother.
Do you remember when I fought
The bank and the courthouse ring,
For pocketing the interest on public funds?
And when I fought our leading citizens
For making the poor the pack-horses of the taxes?
And when I fought the water works
For stealing streets and raising rates?
And when I fought the business men
Who fought me in these fights?
Then do you remember:
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appalls,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
I write letters to some other sea,
who lay long in bed—
one formerly and now again
to be employed as the sea—
about the admiral, an old hypocrite.
I don’t appreciate that language,
Don’t appreciate that tone,
As I utter numerous profanities,
As I scream and yell,
You must be more loyal,
Must be more honest,
As I exit the hotel with my mistress,
Having told my wife I was out of town,
You shouldn’t smoke or drink,
Addiction is for the weak,
Smoking my second pack of the day,
Two weeks removed from AA,
Gossip shows a lack of maturity,
It shows a lack of respect,
Did you hear about what’s his name?
How can he live with himself?
Kind and thoughtful,
Overjoyed by my presence,
Warm and caring,
All words and actions genuine,
The smile on her face when she sees me,
The loving look in her eyes,
The warm embrace she gives,
Me believing there’s nothing to hide,
As she walks away from me,
The smile transforms into a scowl,
The look in her eyes cold and bitter,
The seeming joy and warmth nothing but a lie,
Her friend’s phone rings,
The earlier event is then shared,
Negative words emanate from her mouth,
Falsities and rumors are spread,
Being a Man of God
and a child of flesh and blood
my soul thirsting for truth
and my body hungering for eat and drink
realizing that the satisfaction of one
depended upon the survival of the other
and this could best be done
by preserving the Second Baptist Church
and that on the sisters
depended such preservation
you can understand
why the congregation stuck together
and why, when I died
the sisters mourned
and why so many children
will likewise search for truth
Death sneaked up and took you,
my friend.
She found the door open,
and you lying there alone,
To the mill of hate
we had gone
grinding our tricks and our defamations
against each other.
Too many people had come to your funeral
my friend.
All of them downhearted, blubbering.
‘Why did you leave us, our friend?
Ah, man, you were too young to pass away.’
Friend,
if we really loved you that much
while you were still alive,
You praise my self-sacrifice, Spoon River,
In rearing Irene and Mary,
Orphans of my older sister!
And you censure Irene and Mary
For their contempt for me!
But praise not my self-sacrifice.
And censure not their contempt;
I reared them, I cared for them, true enough!—
But I poisoned my benefactions
With constant reminders of their dependence.
If you in the village think that my work was a good one,
Who closed the saloons and stopped all playing at cards,
And haled old Daisy Fraser before Justice Arnett,
In many a crusade to purge the people of sin;
Why do you let the milliner’s daughter Dora,
And the worthless son of Benjamin Pantier
Nightly make my grave their unholy pillow?
Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens,
When my estate was probated and everyone knew
How small a fortune I left?—
You who hounded me in life,
To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor,
To the village!—me who had already given much.
And think you not I did not know
That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church,
Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes,
Who broke and all but ruined me,
Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?
Did you ever hear of Editor Whedon
Giving to the public treasury any of the money he received
For supporting candidates for office?
Or for writing up the canning factory
To get people to invest?
Or for suppressing the facts about the bank,
When it was rotten and ready to break?
Did you ever hear of the Circuit Judge
Helping anyone except the “Q” railroad,
Or the bankers? Or did Rev. Peet or Rev. Sibley
Give any part of their salary, earned by keeping still,
Or speaking out as the leaders wished them to do,
To the building of the water works?
But I—Daisy Fraser who always passed
Along the street through rows of nods and smiles,
And coughs and words such as “there she goes.”