I lived in the first century of world wars. <br />Most mornings I would be more or less insane, <br />The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories, <br />The news would pour out of various devices <br />Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen. <br />I would call my friends on other devices; <br />They would be more or less mad for similar reasons. <br />Slowly I would get to pen and paper, <br />Make my poems for others unseen and unborn. <br />In the day I would be reminded of those men and women, <br />Brave, setting up signals across vast distances, <br />Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values. <br />As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened, <br />We would try to imagine them, try to find each other, <br />To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile <br />Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other, <br />Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means <br />To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves, <br />To let go the means, to wake. <br /> <br />I lived in the first century of these wars.<br /><br />Muriel Rukeyser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-58/
