Poems
GOD! GOD! GOD!
From the depths of slumber,
As I ascend the spiral stairway of wakefulness,
I whisper:
God! God! God!
Thou art the food, and when I break my fast
Of nightly separation from Thee,
I taste Thee, and mentally say:
God! God! God!
No matter where I go, the spotlight of my mind
Ever keeps turning on Thee;
And in the battle din of activity my silent war-cry is
ever:
God! God! God!
When boisterous storms of trial shriek
And worries howl at me,
I drown their noises, loudly chanting:
God! God! God!
When my mind weaves dreams
With threads of memories,
On that magic cloth I do emboss:
God! God! God!
Every night, in time of deepest sleep,
My peace dreams and calls: Joy! Joy! Joy!
And my joy comes singing evermore:
God! God! God!
In waking, eating, working, dreaming, sleeping,
Serving, meditating, chanting, divinely loving,
My soul constantly hums, unheard by any:
God! God! God!
P.Y.
Illusion
God and I in space alone
And nobody else in view.
"And where are the people, O Lord," I said,
"The earth below, and the sky o'erhead
And the dead whom once I knew?"
"That was a dream, "God smiled and said-
"A dream that seemed to be true.
There were no people, living or dead,
There was no earth, and no sky o'erhead:
There was only myself- in you."
"Why do I feel no fear," I asked,
"Meeting you here this way?
For I have sinned I know full well?
And is there heaven, and is there hell,
And is this the judgment day?"
"Say those were but dreams," the Great God said,
"Dreams, that have ceased to be.
There are no such things as fear or sin,
There is no you- you never have been-
There is nothing at all but Me."
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Voice of the Voiceless
I am the voice of the voiceless:
Through me, the dumb shall speak;
Till the deaf world’s ear be made to hear
The cry of the wordless weak.
From street, from cage and from kennel,
From jungle, and stall, the wail
Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin
Of the mighty against the frail
Oh shame on the mothers of mortals
Who have not stopped to teach
Of the sorrow that lies in dear, dumb eyes,
The sorrow that has no speech.
The same Power formed the sparrow
That fashioned man-the King;
The God of the whole gave a living soul
To furred and to feathered thing.
And I am my brother’s keeper,
And I will fight his fight;
And speak the word for beast and bird
Till the world shall set things right.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
A Paradox
'Tis strange how women kneel in church
and pray to God above,
Confess small sins and chant a praise
and sing that He is love;
While coats of softly furred things
upon their shoulders lie -
Of timid things, of tortured things,
that take so long to die...
'Tis strange to hear the organ peal
- "Have mercy on us, Lord"
The benediction - peace to all
- they bow with one accord
While from stained windows fall the lights
on furs so softly warm,
Of timid things, of little things,
that died in cold and storm.
Edward Breck, 1925
Secret Thoughts
I hold it true that thoughts are things
Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings,
And that we send them forth to fill
The world with good results- or ill.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The World's Need
So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind
Is all the sad world needs.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Kinship
Oh, never a brute in the forest
and never a snake in the fen
Or ravening bird, starvation stirred,
has hunted its prey like men.
For hunger and fear and passion
alone drive beasts to slay,
But wonderful man, the crown of the plan,
tortures and kills for play.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Grace
To pray for animals, the Bishop vows,
Is not canonical. Who prays for cows?
But prey upon them - that's the road to take.
Behold the Bishop blessing his beefsteak!
Henry S. Salt (1851-1939)
Mr Facing Both ways
When the Huntsman claims praise for the killing of foxes,
Which else would bring ruin to farmer and land,
Yet kindly imports them, preserves them, assorts them,
There's a dicrepance I fain understand.
When the Butcher makes boast of the killing of cattle,
That would multiply fast and the world over-run,
Yet so carefully breeds them, rears, fattens and feeds them -
Here also, methinks, a fine cobweb is spun.
Hark you, then, whose profession or pastime is killing!
To dispel your benignant illusions I'm loth;
But be one or the other, my double faced brother,
Be slayer or saviour - you cannot be both.
Henry S. Salt (1851-1939)
The Sending of the Animals
For animals, you say were "sent"
For man's free use and nutriment.
Pray, then, inform me and be candid,
Why came they aeons before man did,
To spend long centuries, on earth
Awaiting their devourer's birth?
Those ill-timed chattels sent from heaven,
Were, sure, the maddest gift e'er given -
"sent" for man's use (can we believe it?)
When there was no man to receive it!
Henry S. Salt (1851-1939)
Make It Rare
Red Meat, so sweet to eat?
Environmental damage at our feet.
So much crude oil, oats, and wheat,
to make a pound of sweet red meat.
By eating much less
of that animal flesh,
our poor friends to the south
have more grain to dole out.
With less meat on our plate,
we'll delay our fate.
Our hearts will beat stronger,
we'll have friends much longer.
Butcher, chop your meat.
Millions daily is no easy feat.
We're coming, coupon in hand,
to contaminate our glands.
Burger, fries and shake,
will we consumers ever wake?
Perhaps when land and fuel are gone,
the light of wisdom will come on.
J.T. Wolfe, New York
Put down that calf, thou Man of Flesh,
Put down that veal, thou Bloody man,
God's creatures are the wheels that mesh,
And He will eat you when He Can.
Unfrock thyself, thou Man of Blood,
Thou art but meat, and so are these,
And have been since before the Flood:
Go down on thy unbasted knees,
And ponder on Eternal Fires
And battered fish and slaughtered lambs.
Restrain thy animal desires,
Be cured - or God will smoke thy hams!
Gavin Ewart (1916- )
[On seeing a Priest eating veal]
from New Statesman, 14 August 1964
Lines to be Said after Soup
With lentils, tomatoes and rice,
Olives and nuts and bread,
Why do I have to gnaw on a slice
Of something bloody and dead?
With honey, bananas and pear,
Oranges and corn and beet,
Why do I feel I must tear
Into some carcass meat?
How does my nose go astray?
What in my instinct warps,
That I have to ravish and slay
In order to feed on a corpse?
Henry Bailey Stevens (1891-1976)
The Bull Calf
Well, sonny! Come along,
Swinging your little tail!
This is the price you have to pay
For being born a male.
Moo, moo, old cow!
And start a hunger-strike,
Lots of us have to do
Things that we don't like.
Lots of us have to suffer;
Don't let it spoil your meal,
This is the price you have to pay;
Somebody wants some veal.
Don't take it too hard, old cow;
I'm sorry you've got so wild;
But somebody's got an appetite
And wants to eat your child.
Henry Bailey Stevens (1891-1976)
Living Graves
We are the living graves of murdered beasts,
Slaughtered to satisfy our appetites.
We never pause to wonder at our feasts,
If animals, like men, can possibly have rights.
We pray on Sundays that we may have light,
To guide our footsteps on the path we tread.
We're sick of war, we do not want to fight -
The thought of it now fills our hearts with dread,
And yet - we gorge ourselves upon the dead.
Like carrion crows we live and feed on meat,
Regardless of the suffering and the pain
we cause by doing so, if thus we treat
defenceless animals for sport or gain,
how can we hope in this world to attain,
the PEACE we say we are so anxious for.
We pray for it o'er hecatombs of slain,
to God, while outraging the moral law,
thus cruelty begets its offspring - WAR.
George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)
Trust
Eyes look up trustingly,
adoringly
Instincts suggest feeding
time
Hours spent caring like a
daughter
Fattening the trust
you send to the Slaughter.
Dennis Joseph Fallen
Cows
The cows graze in the field beside this house,
Gentle friends, I wish them the right to a natural death
In dignified old age.
Yesterday I saw a farmer who looked just like a cow,
But ugly for being human;
His poor, thick, red head stood out fatly,
His slow movements bespoke ponderous thoughts.
Later we talked of cows' heads offered by butchers;
I wonder if dogs would tear at his boiled head?
Or if fussy English people would relish
His nicely boiled and compressed pink tongue
Between slices of white bread
For tea on the lawn?
And if they did, would they know the difference?
And if they did, would they, finally, care?
Rebecca Hall (1947 - )
Stupidity Street
I saw with open eyes
Singing birds sweet
Sold in the shops
For the people to eat,
Sold in the shops of
Stupidity Street.
I saw in vision
The worm in the wheat,
And in the shops nothing
For people to eat;
Nothing for sale in
Stupidity Street.
Ralph Hodgson, 1871-1962
The Enquiring Child
"Daddy, tell me why they drip
Acid on that puppy's lip,
Also in that monkey's eye,
Tell me daddy, why oh why?"
"Hush my little son, be brave -
They are testing aftershave."
E.S. Turner (1909 - )
Humanity
... If Power could live at ease with self-restraint!...
Then would ...
Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice;
And not alone harsh tyranny would cease.
But unoffending creatures find release
From 'qualified' oppression, whose defence
Rests on a hollow plea of recompense.
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Christmas
The lighted window shows the room
So warm and softly glowing,
The tree so tall with twinkling lights
And all the presents showing.
While just outside a starving cat
Stands shivering in the cold,
And down the street a stray dog limps,
So tired and sick and old.
The baby monkey in the lab
Lets out a cry of fear.
The thing he thought was mother
Shot out quills when he drew near.
The car speeds by, the puppy cries
And drags her broken leg.
The beaver in the leghold trap
Lifts pain-filled eyes that beg.
How can we speak of peace on earth
And know these things are so,
And say they don't concern us
And we ought to let them go?
How can we think we have the right
To torture needlessly,
When all the time we know so well
It shouldn't have to be.
Come join with us at Christmas time
And pledge ourselves anew.
They need our help so badly,
There's so much that we can do.
Don't turn your back upon their pain
Because it's hard to see.
They have no other place to turn,
They've only you and me.
Gila Manchester
They Called Him Rags
They called him Rags, he was just a cur
But twice on the Western Line,
That little old bunch of faithful fur
Had offered his life for mine.
And all he got was bones and bread
And the leaving of soldiers' grub,
But he'd give his heart for a pat on the head,
A friendly tickle or rub.
And Rags got home with the regiment,
And then, in the breaking away--,
Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went,
I am not prepared to say.
But we mustered out, some to beer and gruel,
And some to sherry and shad,
And I went back to the Sawbones School,
Where I was an undergrad.
One day they took us budding M.D.'s
To one of those institutes
Where they demonstrate every new disease
By means of bisected brutes.
They had one animal tacked and tied
And slit like a full-dressed fish,
With his vitals pumping away inside
As pleasant as one might wish.
I stopped to look like the rest, of course,
And the beast's eyes leveled mine;
His short tail thumped with a feeble force,
And he uttered a tender whine.
It was Rags, yes, Rags! who was martyred there,
Who was quartered and crucified,
And he whined that whine which is doggish prayer
And he licked my hand--and died.
And I was no better in part nor whole
Than the gang I was found among,
And his innocent blood was on the soul
Which he blessed with his dying tongue.
Well! I've seen men go to courageous death
In the air, on sea, on land!
But only a dog would spend his breath
In a kiss for his murderer's hand.
And if there's no heaven for love like that,
For such four-legged fealtly--well!
If I have any choice, I tell you flat,
I'll take my chance in hell.
Edmund Vance Cooke
The Finish
The thought of that last journey back to Him
When there is no more longing or desire
For anything but God left in my soul,
Shines in the distance like a great white flame.
I think the way will lead through golden clouds
Skirting the shores of seas of amethyst!
And winding gently upward; past old worlds,
Where body after body was outlived,
Past Hells and Heavens, where I had my day
With comrade spirits from the lesser spheres
And paid my penalty for every sin
And reaped reward for every worthy act:
Past Realms Celestial and their singing hosts
(Where once I chanted with the cherubim)
Out into perfect silence. Suddenly
An all enveloping vast consciousness
Of long, long journeys finished: one more turn
Then glory, glory, glory infinite
And selfhood lost in being one with God.
The ray once more absorbed into the Sun.
The Cycle done.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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