Chapter VI

The poems which appear in this volume are a contribution to the propaganda and the art of the new culture. "Above all things," writes Chaplin, "I don't want anyone to try to make me out a 'poet'--because I'm not. I don't think much of these esthetic creatures who condescend to stoop to our level that we may have the blessings of culture. We'll manage to make our own--do it in our own way, and stagger through somehow. . . . These are tremendous times, and sooner or later someone will come along big enough to sound the right note, and it will be a rebel note." It is that note which Chaplin has sought to strike, and that he has succeeded will be the verdict of anyone who has read over the poems.

Chaplin's work speaks for itself. Some of the poems were written in Leavenworth Prison and published in the prison paper. Others were written during the tedious months of the Chicago trial, when the men were kept in the Cook County jail. Chaplin has had ample time to work them out. Christmas, 1921, was the fifth consecutive Christmas that he has spent in prison. The poems bear the impress of the bars, but they ring with the glad vigor of a free spirit that bars cannot contain.

The reader of Chaplin's prison poems unavoidably makes three mental comments:

1. When poems so reserved, so vigorous; so penetrating, so melodious, so beautiful, come from behind jail bars, it is high time that thinking men and women awoke to the fate that awaits bold dreamers and singers under the present order in the United States.

2. Men are not silenced when steel doors clang behind them. Free spirits are as free behind the bars as they are under the open sky. The jail, as a gag, is impotent. While it may master the body, it cannot contain the soul.

3. The new order in America is already finding its voice. Although it is so young, and so immature, it is speaking with an accent of gifted authority.

Chaplin is not a dangerous man--except as his ideas are dangerous to the existing order of society. His presence in the penitentiary, under a twenty year sentence, indicates how dangerous those ideas are considered by the masters of American public life. Rich those masters are--fabulously rich; and strong they may be, yet so insecure do they feel themselves that they are constrained to hold in prison this dreamer and singer of the new social order.

Chaplin, in prison, like Debs in prison, is doing his work. He is resisting the encroachments of those jail demons--hate, bitterness, revenge; he is holding his mind on the goal--a newer, better social order; he is keeping his vision of nature, of humanity, of brotherhood, of courage, of love, of beauty,--clear and bright. Chaplin, the man, is in jail; but Chaplin the poet and singer is roaming wherever books go; wherever papers are read, and wherever comrades repeat verses to one another in the flickering light of the evening fire.

SCOTT NEARING.

MOURN NOT THE DEAD

Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie--
Dust unto dust--
The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die
As all men must;

Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell--
Too strong to strive--
Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell,
Buried alive;

But rather mourn the apathetic throng--
The cowed and the meek--
Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong
And dare not speak!

TAPS

The day is ended! Ghostly shadows creep
Along each dim-lit wall and corridor.
The bugle sounds as from some faery shore
Silvered with sadness, somnolent and deep.
Darkness and bars . . . God! shall we curse or weep?
Somewhere a pipe is tapped upon the floor;
A guard slams shut the heavy iron door;
The day is ended--go to sleep--to sleep.

Three times it blows--weird lullaby of doom--
And then to dream while fecund Night gives birth
To other days like this day that is done. .
But Morning . . . does it live beyond the gloom--
This deep black pall that hangs above the earth--
He fears the dark who dares to doubt the sun!

NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE

Tier over tier they rise to dizzy height--
The cells of men who know the world no more.
Silence intense from ceiling to the floor;
While through the window gleams a lone blue light
Which stabs the dark immensity of night.
Felt shod and ghostly like a shade of yore,
The guard comes shuffling down the corridor;
His key-ring jingles . . . and he glides from sight.

Oh, to forget the prison and its scars,
And face the breeze where ocean meets the land;
To watch the foam-crests dance with silver stars,
While long green waves come tumbling on the sand . . .
My brow is hot against the icy bars;
There is the smell of iron on my hand.

PRISON SHADOWS

Like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies
They flood our cells and seem to fashion there
I know not what dim landscapes of despair;
All day we feel them lurking in our eyes.
At night they fall like crosses, sombre-wise,
Upon the shameful uniforms we wear,
Upon the brow, the face, the hand, the hair;
And on each heart their shadow always lies.

O heart of mine, why throb with futile rage
And beat and beat against these hopeless bars?
For, though you break in life's last deadly swoon,
You cannot pierce beyond this iron cage
To see the pulsing splendor of the stars
Or feel the blue-green magic of the moon!

PRISON REVEILLE

Out through the iron doorway, bolted strong,
I see the night guard's shadow on the wall.
The bugle sounds its thin, white silver call,
Awake! awake! O world-forgotten throng!
And then the sudden clanging of the gong,
And . . . silence . . . aching silence . . . over all;
While through the windows, steel-barred, stern and tall,
Pale daylight greets us like a plaintive song.

Somewhere the dawn breaks laughing o'er the sea
To splash with gold the cities' domes and towers,
And countless men seek visions wide and free,
In that alluring world that is not ours;
But no one there could prize as much as we
The open road, the smell of grass and flowers.

PRISON NOCTURNE

Outside the storm is swishing to and fro;
The wet wind hums its colorless refrain;
Against the walls and dripping bars, the rain
Beats with a rhythm like a song of woe;
Dimmed by the lightning's ever-fitful glow
The purple arc-lamps blur each streaming pane;
The thunder rumbles at the distant plain,
The cells are hushed and silent, row on row.

Fall, fruitful drops, upon the parching earth,
Fall, and revive the living sap of spring;
Blossom the fields with wonder once again!
And, in all hearts, awaken to new birth
Those visions and endeavors that will bring
A fresh, sweet morning to the world of men!

THE WARRIOR WIND

Once more the wind leaps from the sullen land
With his old battle-cry.
A tree bends darkly where the wall looms high;
Its tortured branches, like a grisly hand,
Clutch at the sky.

Grey towers rise from gloom and underneath--
Black-barred and strong--
The snarling windows guard their ancient wrong;
But the mad wind shakes them, hissing through his teeth
A battle song.

O bitter is the challenge that he flings
At bars and bolts and keys.
Torn with the cries of vanished centuries
And curses hurled at long-forgotten kings
Beyond dim seas.

The wind alone, of all the gods of old,
Men could not chain.
O wild wind, brother to my wrath and pain,
Like you, within a restless heart I hold
A hurricane.

The wind has known the dungeons of the past
Knows all that are;
And in due time will strew their dust afar,
And singing, he will shout their doom at last
To a laughing star.

O cleansing warrior wind, stronger than death,
Wiser than men may know;
O smite these stubborn walls and lay them low,
Uproot and rend them with your mighty breath--
Blow, wild wind, blow!

TO FREEDOM

Out on the "lookout" in the wind and sleet,
Out in the woods of fir and spruce and pine,
Down in the hot slopes of the dripping mine
We dreamed of you and Oh, the dream was sweet!
And now you bless the felon food we eat
And make each iron cell a sacred shrine;
For when your love thrills in the blood like wine,
The very stones grow holy to our feet.

We shall be faithful though we march with Death
And singing storm the barricades of Wrong,
For life is such a little thing to give.
We shall fight on as long as we have breath--
Love in our hearts and on our lips a song--
Without you it were better not to live!

THE VISION MAKER

To EUGENE VICTOR DEBS

Christ-like he spoke. While angry cannon roared,
His vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies,
Men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries,
The heavens seemed to open at his word.
Give us a victim, shouted Caesar's horde,
From his black pyre red warnings shall arise,
The vision perishes, the prophet dies. . .
His truth is far more deadly than our sword!

And deadlier his dream--a quenchless flame,
For which no dungeon fastness can be built . . .
You have but made the convict half divine,
Crowned Truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame;
Not he, but you are branded deep with guilt;
His cell is holier than your highest shrine.

DISTANCES

Above the moist earth, tremulous and bright,
The stars creep forth--stars that I cannot see;
And to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly
The dewy fragrance of a summer night!
All wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight,
Stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free,
My friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me,
Splashing the paths I loved with silver light.

Oh loveliness! why do you torture so
With such keen beauty till the day appears?
Why touch to life things buried long ago,
Whose aching cries trouble the heart to tears;
Ghostly--like wind tossed sea gulls calling low
Out of the poignant vistas of the years?

PHANTOMS

Ghost of a mountain
And ghost of a moon;
Night birds sink droopingly
Over the dune

Clouds drifting hazily
Stars blurring through;
Darkness come close to me--
Darkness and you.

Mist on the water
And mist in the sky;
Netted with silver
The waves ripple by.

_Ghost of a solitude_
_Lit with dead stars._
_You have your memories_
_I have my bars!_

SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS

Beyond the deep-cut window
The bars are heaped with snow,
And seven little sparrows
Are sitting in a row.

Fluffy blur of snowflakes;
Dappled haze of light;
The narrow prison vista
Is all awhirl with white.

Seven little sparrows
Ruffled brown and grey
Snuggled close against the bars--
And this is Christmas day!

SALAAM!

Serene, complacent, satisfied,
Content with things that be;
The paragon of paltriness
Upraised for all to see;
With loving pride he cherishes
His mediocrity!

The smirking, ass-like multitudes
Cringe down at his command.
With wagging ears and blinded eyes
They do not understand.
With pride they show each shackled wrist
And on each brow the brand.

The young, the old, the great, the small
Give homage--all supine.
Fond parents bring their children there
As to some holy shrine.
And every one the Beast transforms
From human into swine!

Well praised are they--rewarded well--
Who on their shoulders bore
The gilded Thing that all the mob
Fawned in the dust before.
And each that did obeisance there
Was naked like a whore.

The poet with his teeming song,
The wise his deep-delved lore,
The maiden with her tender flesh,
The strong his sturdy store:
Each yielded all he had to give;
No harlot could do more.

Is there not one to share with me
The shame and wrath I own?
Is there not one to curse that Thing
Or pick up stones to stone--
To rend and wreck and raze to earth--
Or do I stand alone?

Raise high the swine-like incubus,
Obediently bow!
Shatter the flame on rebel lips
And wreath that brazen brow!
So blaze the banners, ring the bells,
Apotheosis now!

My kind but scorn your dull "success"--
Your subtle ways to "win,"
We eat our hearts in solitude
Or sear our souls with "sin";
Yet we are better men than you
Who fit so smugly in.

Go! grovel for the shoddy goods
And plod and plot and plan,
And if you win the paltry prize
Go prize it--if you can,
But I would hurl it in your face
To hold myself a man!

I will not bow with that mad horde
And passively obey.
I will not think their sordid thoughts
Nor say the things they say,
Nor wear their shameful uniforms,
Nor branded be as they.

Nor can they bend me to their will
Though black their numbers swell,
Nor bribe with hopes of paradise
Nor force with fears of hell;
Me they may break but never bend,--
I live but to rebel!

I go my way rejoicingly,
I, outcast, spurned and low,
But undreamed worlds may come to birth
From seeds that I may sow.
And if there's pain within my heart
Those fools shall never know.

So let me stand back silently,
The pageant passes by,
And live my life with these new Christs
Whom you would crucify,
And laugh with mirth to see the mob
Do homage to a Lie!

THE WEST IS DEAD

What path is left for you to tread
When hunger-wolves are slinking near--
Do you not know the West is dead?

The "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed
Along the trails of yesteryear--
What path is left for you to tread?

Your fathers, golden sunsets led
To virgin prairies wide and clear--
Do you not know the West is dead?

Now dismal cities rise instead
And freedom is not there nor here--
What path is left for you to tread?

Your fathers' world, for which they bled,
Is fenced and settled far and near--
Do you not know the West is dead?

Your fathers gained a crust of bread,
Their bones bleach on the lost frontier;
What path is left for you to tread--
Do you not know the West is dead?

UP FROM YOUR KNEES

(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years")

Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men!
What have ye gained by whines and tears?
Rise! They can never break our spirits
Though they should try a thousand years.

CHORUS

A thousand years, then speed the victory!
Nothing can stop us nor dismay.
After the winter comes the springtime;
After the darkness comes the day.

Break ye your chains, strike off your fetters;
Beat them to swords, the Foe appears.
Slaves of the world arise and crush him--
Crush him or serve a thousand years.

Join in the fight--the Final Battle,
Welcome the fray with ringing cheers.
These are the times our fathers dreamed of,
Fought to attain a thousand years.

Be ye prepared, be not unworthy,
Greater the task when triumph nears.
Master the earth, O men of labor;
Long have ye learned--a thousand years.

Out of the East the sun is rising,
Out of the night the day appears;
See! at your feet the world is waiting,
Bought with your blood a thousand years.

THE EUNUCH

(To those who fight on the side of the Powers of Darkness)

Once a Eunuch by the palace
In the sunset's fading glow
Felt the soft warm breezes blow;
Watched the fair girls of the Harem
Idly saunter to and fro.

Saw he beauty young and lavish--
Fierce to lure man's every sense--
(Grim the Eunuch stood and tense)
Laughingly the sparkling fountain
Mocked his bleak incompetence.

Came the Sultan from his hunting
Flaming with the zest of life;
(Laid aside were spear and knife)
Came for wine and song and feasting,
Came to seek his fairest wife.

Opened then the marble portals.
Fragrant incense filled the air,
(Sandalwood and roses rare)
While the girls with red-lipped languor
Scattered flowers everywhere.

Far away the fabled mountains,
(Like some paradise of old)
Glowed with lavender and gold.
Tense the Eunuch stood and silent--
Tense and sullen, tense and cold.

Now a quick impotent fury
Lashed him like a bronze-tipped cord.
Sprang he at the youthful lord,
Sprang again with blade all bloody . . .
(Famished lust and dripping sword.)

* * * * *

Night crept on all chill and ghastly,
Jackals trotted forth to bark,
(Murder shuddered, still and stark . . .)
By the palace ceased the fountain
And the whole grey world grew dark.