I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on the nature of humanity, the nature of empathy, and to what extent we are inherently selfish. This poem is the result of that thinking – and some recent reading about John Brown. Recent reading/listen topics include: the history of white supremacy in the US, Qanon, fascism, and theories of collectivism. The last of these is because I want to know what alternatives we have to exploitation and greed.

Say what you will about John Brown’s violence. I am no fan of violence myself, but the violence he committed was always in fierce, undying support of the oppressed. Most violence that I know of is an instrument of oppression. Surely these violences are not morally equivalent, and indeed the former is a moral imperative when witnessing the latter? That is, when faced with no other option? Or is it really better to look at oppression and say, “fuck you, got mine” while clinging desperately to our advantages, whatever they may be?

Obviously, the current political climate in the US is on my mind. But so is the pandemic, the miserable failings of global capitalism, and the catastrophic combination of the two. So completely symptomatic of this is the refusal of some to protect others from getting sick. This sort of selfishness, be it ideological or simple complacence, is visible, visceral, and impossible to ignore. It really makes you wonder: what is wrong with us? Why are we killing each other? What has always been wrong with us? 

Think of the poem as both allegorical and not, if you choose to think about it at all. 

(There are and have been plenty of people, in the US and elsewhere, to whom this poem absolutely does not apply. A lot of the recent activism around race in the US has been unprecedentedly effective. I don’t mean to dismiss you with my despair. Also, I hope my feelings of abject pessimism are wrong.)

John Brown’s Body

His mouth – bone

His eyes – sockets 

His bones – dust 

John Brown’s body is dust 

//

We may breathe it in 

From time to time

But his march is done 

As done as dust 

//

We may hear his song

From sea to sea 

But his song is sung

His letters lynched 

His bones for oil 

And then to dust 

//

Slaves, all of us 

Some high, some low

White, Black

A few 

Rich 

Most 

Poor 

And then 

To 

Dust 

//

The whites forgot to march

We refused to march

We refused what he taught 

The march that he taught

All for oil 

And then to dust