In Chains Revised: Hey, Two in One Week!

In Chains

I hate to sound like I am saying this about every poem from Atheists and Empty Spaces that I revise, but, once again, this is one of my favorite poems. Not only does it have some cool rhythm and rhymes, but it has neat breaks in the rhythm. It clearly is not conversational, yet its subject makes more sense not sounding like conversation because it must be a form of interaction of a higher degree. What is that high-falutin' subject? Well, let me tell you. People tend to think that in the good ol' USA we live as free as can be imagined when, in fact, as the philosopher Sartre noted years ago, we only have the illusion of freedom. We are born constrained by our biology and our genes, we are constrained by our environment and our ability to manipulate that environment, we are constrained by the influences of our parents, our social groups and social standing, our communities, our laws, and governments, and we are constrained by the intelligence of those who made us, surround us, and govern us. As a poet, if I want to publish, I have to be accepted by groups with whom I do not share the same ideas. I am not free to write as I want if I want to be able to be free to write. In other words, I am not free to choose writing poetry as my "job" unless I choose to follow the rules of certain groups with whom I have no agreement on what poetry is just as I am not free to "worship" as I please when I am forced to respect the brand of "worship" of those with whom I do not agree what "worship" is. (For me, religion and politics should not mix at all!"

Anyway, this poem represents some of my most deeply held beliefs, beliefs, by the way, which I do not often talk about and never try to impress upon others. I would challenge my readers to try and think the same way though I will do absolutely nothing to force your opinion or acceptance of my beliefs. You are FREE to disagree.

As always, ENJOY!

In Chains

Can Poets find an inspired Path

That is not bare from wear

Or meet an Artist from the Past

Who has not come from there?

What traceless Space can still exist

Above well-traveled Ground?

And, once below, what random Hope,

Or unique Dream, or novel Thought

Has not been shared all ‘round?

And yet the pious Critic still complains

When any Poet binds its Art in Chains

And claims its Heart is only free in Chains.

‘Tis true, the Wind will never die

Though airy Words fade out,

And while the Sun may always burn,

Quite clearly, so will Doubt.

Some Ignorance must be preserved

To ensure Faith is blind,

But new Religions must be built

For saintly Fools to find

That Freedom is aberrant to their Brains,

And every Sinner goes to Hell in Chains,

And every Saint ascends to Bliss in Chains.

These People move about this World

Believing they are free,

As if cavorting without Bounds

Gains immortality.

They think they’ve met with Choices

That seal a rigid Past

Or endorse a certain Future

That cannot come too fast.

They think, they move, they laugh, they cry,

They believe they are all free, and then they die.

Each day, the artful ballerina trains

While every Dancer’s forced to dance in Chains

And every Poet writes these Words in Chains.