1974
The river will eat the eye.
I saw them stumble in file
hand to hand, blind,
driven from the valleys
by worms of the black fly.
Lumps under ribcage
Larvæ in the pool of sight.
The river will eat the eye,
mud dry on marching feet,
these Africans die in droves
but not with meaning, as martyrs.
1913
It was such a lovely day,
the nicest crowd was out,
when the young lady
spilled King George's horse
and killed herself.
The King was quite concerned,
about the jock, of course,
and as for her, it's what she wanted,
the fame. What was her name?
1878
Vera Zasulich
was quite another case--
unluckiest martyr in the world.
She stood in line an hour
to petition General Trepov--the swine--
joined the queue and when time came
blasted with her pistol.
The General was astonished he was only wounded.
"Press criminal charges!
This was no political offense!"
And Vera, she was astonished too,
When she heard the jury's verdict: Not Guilty.
She had to take her martyr's juice
Alive and yet unspilt
To languish in Geneva:
Dull blood in a now mortal thing.
1591
Gellie was a pretty thing,
a witch, and quite the belle
of Haddingtonshire.
His mark found
upon the throat beefed up the torture,
and lo! she confessed cures wrought
with the devil's aid.
And her aides as well, Cunningham and Fian,
but chiefly Euphemia Macalzean
and Agnes Sampson.
Reams of paper,
and Agnes put to the pilliewinkis,
and Gellie twanking her Jew's harp
to King James the merry tune
enjoyed antecedently by the devil,
ah, Gellie,
he called you "extreme lyers" all,
and all twenty eight hanged nonetheless.
450
"uri, uinciri, uerberari, ferroque necari"
The hooded man with the axe
has never made a martyr.
The Christians
invented the act to bait the Romans.
Agape, hell, they were baying for death!
Burn us, behead us, feed us to your beasts--
roast us, toast us, serve us at your feasts.
One abashed proconsul told the wild crew
"Go hang and drown yourselves and ease the magistrate."
The Donatists made it a golden age of martyrs.
They bullied their way into courtrooms,
forced judges to call for the axe,
menaced public ways, ordered travelers
to do unto them before they did unto themselves,
and when all else failed, flung themselves from cliffs.
But somewhere lost the thread
of meaning. Augustine cleaved them from the church:
to be a martyr you must want to live
(though just a little bit).
1992
The impressionists I'm told
made a close study of light
in all its godlike variations.
But I have just seen Rembrandt's
painting of the descent from the cross
and there is no light
but from a torch held by a hand.
And the faces: disciples, mother, friends,
all in sorrow as they retrieve
their son of god.
Under the torchlight
it is the flesh of a tortured man.
Rembrandt saw light and was not dazzled--
I'd like to know what else he saw.