In Distrust Of Merits

Strengthened to live, strengthened to die for

medals and positioned victories?

They're fighting, fighting, fighting the blind

man who thinks he sees,-

who cannot see that the enslaver is

enslaved; the hater, harmed.

American Cemetery at Normandy

Colleville-sur-Mer

Normandy, France

 O shining O firm star, O tumultuous

ocean lashed till small things go

as they will, the mounatinous

wave makes us who look, know depth.

Lost at sea before they fought!

O Star of David, star of Bethlehem,

O black imperial lion of the Lord-emblem

of a risen world-be joined at last, be joined.

There is hate's crown beneath which all is death;

there's love's without which none is king;

the blessed deeds bless the halo.

A contagion of sickness makes sickness,

contagion of trust can make trust. They're

fighting in deserts and caves, one by one,

in battalions and squadrons;

they're fighting that I

may yet recover from the disease, my self;

some have it lightly, some will die.

"Man's wolf to man?"

And we devour ourselves?

The enemy could not have made

a greater breach in our defenses.

One piloting a blind man can escape him,

but Job disheartened by false comfort knew,

that nothing is so deafening

as a blind man who can see.

O alive who are dead, who are proud

not to see, O small dust of the earth

that walks so arrogantly,

trust begets power and faith is

an affectionate thing. We

vow, we make this promise

to the fighting-it's a promise-"We'll

never hate black, white, red, yellow, Jew,

Gentile, Untouchable." 

 We are not competent 

 to make our own vows. 

With set jaw they are fighting,

fighting, fighting,

-some we love whom we know,

some we love but know not-that

hearts may feel and not be numb,

It cures me; or am I what

I can't believe in? 

 Some in snow, some on crags, 

some in quicksands,

little by little, much by much, they

are fighting, fighting, fighting, that where

there was death there may be life.

 "When a man is prey to anger,

he is moved by outside things; when he holds

his ground in patience, patience, patience,

that is action or beauty," the soldier's defense

and hardest armor for the fight.

 The world's an orphan's home. Shall

we never have peace without sorrow?

without pleas of the dying for

help that won't come?

 O quiet form upon the dust, I cannot

look and yet I must. If these great patient

dyings-all these agonies

and woundbearings and blood shed-

can teach us how to live, these

dyings were not wasted.

Hate-hardened heart, O heart of iron,

iron is iron till it is rust.

There never was a war that was

not inward; I must fight till

I have conquered in myself what

causes war, but I would not believe it.

I inwardly did nothing.

O Iscariot-like crime!

Beauty is everlasting

and dust is for a time.

"In Distrusts Of Merits"

Marianne Craig Moore

(1887-1972)

American poet and editor