Considering John Brown
Yes, Olâ Cloudsplitter was
twitchy as a guillotine;
felt called to loose psychotic,
Old Testament, âGod told me toâ bloodshed.
The man produced homely crimes;
Caucasian historians eye him with cold Disgust
because he preached âBlackâ Liberation
was prophecy as irrefutable as sunlight.
So, John Brown earned repulsive Prestige:
He canted against a Federal army
as ridiculously as Don Quixote
assaulted Spanish windmills.
He got cut down, right with his boys,
because he couldnât destroy everything
and kill everyone
Still, his Harpers Ferry raid was
nothing so vile as Frivolity.
His failed onslaught was no Kindergarten
of corpses bitten into, gnawed, mauled,
sprawled akimbo like toddlersâ crayons.
Brown saw Stagnation, Malaise;
The refusal to advance Emancipation
was, surely, he believed, Malice.
His murders were not for Murderâs sake.
While others could Slavery condone;
John Brown wanted it long gone.
Yes, he wanted to touch off Civil War â
involuntary cannibalism â
and sought out âliberatorsâ as energetic
as the guillotines Robespierre oversaw.
They prepared in well-equipped woods â
under garlands of sun or moon
He had svelte pamphlets, a stout Bible.
He could see through even starless trees.
His shoes kept time:
Don em as the day dawns;
doff em to bathe or to sleep.
Yes, his was a private âfiring upon,â
but for republican purpose;
his very sons wear sooty shirts,
crimson in spots.
Someone had to tender
tinder and dynamite;
it was he.
He got dragged to the gallows
and hanged in the wind;
now we drag ballads up
for a man
hanging close to Heaven.
[London (Ontario) 13 novembre mmxiv]
George Elliott Clarke is the E.J. Pratt Professor of Canadian Literature at the University of Toronto, and the Poet Laureate of Toronto, 2012-2015. His newest book of poetry is Traverse.