Abou ben Adam

Abou ben Adam (may his tribe increase!)

awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight of his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

an angel, writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adam bold,

And to the Prescence in the room he said:

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?"said Abou, "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great awakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben adam's name led all the rest.

- Leigh Hunt

The Stone

"AND will you cut a stone for him,

To set above his head?

And will you cut a stone for him--

A stone for him?" she said.

Three days before, a splintered rock

Had struck her lover dead--

Had struck him in the quarry dead,

Where, careless of a warning call,

He loitered, while the shot was fired--

A lively stripling, brave and tall,

And sure of all his heart desired . . .

A flash, a shock,

A rumbling fall . . .

And, broken 'neath the broken rock,

A lifeless heap, with face of clay,

And still as any stone he lay,

With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to break the news to her:

And I could hear my own heart beat

With dread of what my lips might say;

But some poor fool had sped before;

And, flinging wide her father's door,

Had blurted out the news to her,

Had struck her lover dead for her,

Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,

Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,

And dropped it at her feet:

Then hurried on his witless way,

Scarce knowing she had heard.

And when I came, she stood alone--

A woman, turned to stone:

And, though no word at all she said,

I knew that all was known.

Because her heart was dead,

She did not sigh nor moan.

His mother wept:

She could not weep.

Her lover slept:

She could not sleep.

Three days, three nights,

She did not stir:

Three days, three nights,

Were one to her,

Who never closed her eyes

From sunset to sunrise,

From dawn to evenfall--

Her tearless, staring eyes,

That, seeing naught, saw all.

The fourth night when I came from work,

I found her at my door.

"And will you cut a stone for him?"

She said: and spoke no more:

But followed me, as I went in,

And sank upon a chair;

And fixed her grey eyes on my face,

With still, unseeing stare.

And, as she waited patiently,

I could not bear to feel

Those still, grey eyes that followed me,

Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,

Those eyes that sucked the breath from me

And curdled the warm blood in me,

Those eyes that cut me to the bone,

And cut my marrow like cold steel.

And so I rose and sought a stone;

And cut it smooth and square:

And, as I worked, she sat and watched,

Beside me, in her chair.

Night after night, by candlelight,

I cut her lover's name:

Night after night, so still and white,

And like a ghost she came;

And sat beside me, in her chair,

And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke,

And hardly stirred:

she never spoke

A single word:

And not a sound or murmur broke

The quiet, save the mallet stroke.

With still eyes ever on my hands,

With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,

My wincing, overwearied hands,

She watched, with bloodless lips apart,

And silent, indrawn breath:

And every stroke my chisel cut,

Death cut still deeper in her heart:

The two of us were chiselling,

Together, I and Death.

And when at length my job was done,

And I had laid the mallet by,

As if, at last, her peace were won,

She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,

Passed slowly through the open door:

And never crossed my threshold more.

Next night I laboured late, alone,

To cut her name upon the stone.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Punishment Central--the US of A

Adult, American, poor--book 'em, Dan-o!

According to Adam Liptak writing in the NY Times:

One out of every 100 adults in the United States is behind bars!

One out of every 36 Hispanic adults in the United States is behind bars!

One out of every 15 African American adults in the United States is behind bars!

While one of every 335 white women in the US is behind bars, one out of every 100 black women is incarcerated!


Today the NY Times tells us the US is planning a big new prison in Afghanistan!

What the hell kind of animals have we turned into? In a recent interview on NPR Adam Liptak reported that in the 19th century the US prison system was a model for the world, people came from all over to see how rehabiltative incarceration could be made to work. Nowadays no one comes, we have become the poster child for a different sort of prison system--one which punishes and gives no thought to rehabilitation.

We have become a nation that kidnaps, carries out renditions, tortures, warehouses, ignores due process, runs kangaroo courts, military tribunals (with mulligans), and warehouses millions for their addictions.

We have become addicted to vengeance, inured to cruelty. When will we try to be better?