Selected Works of Voltairine de Cleyre. Voltairine De Cleyre

Can they weight thee now with the heaviest stone?

       Can they lay aught on thee with "Be alone,"

       That hast conquered breath?

      Lo, "it is finished"—a man for a king!

       Mark you well who have done this thing:

       The flower has roots;

       Bitter and rank grow the things of the sea;

       Ye shall know what sap ran thick in the tree

       When ye pluck its fruits.

      Requiem, requiem, requiem,

       Sleep on, sleep on, accursed of them

       Who work our pain;

       A wild Marsh-blossom shall blow again

       From a buried root in the slime of men,

       On the day of the Great Red Rain.

      Philadelphia, July, 1901.

WRITTEN—IN—RED[A]

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      (To Our Living Dead in Mexico's Struggle.)

      Written in red their protest stands,

       For the Gods of the World to see;

       On the dooming wall their bodiless hands

       Have blazoned "Upharsin," and flaring brands

       Illumine the message: "Seize the lands!

       Open the prisons and make men free!"

       Flame out the living words of the dead

       Written—in—red.

      Gods of the World! Their mouths are dumb!

       Your guns have spoken and they are dust.

       But the shrouded Living, whose hearts were numb,

       Have felt the beat of a wakening drum

       Within them sounding—the Dead Men's tongue—

       Calling: "Smite off the ancient rust!"

       Have beheld "Resurrexit," the word of the Dead,

       Written—in—red.

      Bear it aloft, O roaring flame!

       Skyward aloft, where all may see.

       Slaves of the World! Our cause is the same;

       One is the immemorial shame;

       One is the struggle, and in One name—

       Manhood—we battle to set men free.

       "Uncurse us the Land!" burn the words of the Dead,

       Written—in—red.

[A] Voltairine de Cleyre's last poem.

      [Pg 76][Pg 77]

ESSAYS

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      [Pg 78][Pg 79]

The Dominant Idea

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      In everything that lives, if one looks searchingly, is limned the shadow line of an idea—an idea, dead or living, sometimes stronger when dead, with rigid, unswerving lines that mark the living embodiment with the stern, immobile cast of the non-living. Daily we move among these unyielding shadows, less pierceable, more enduring than granite, with the blackness of ages in them, dominating living, changing bodies, with dead, unchanging souls. And we meet, also, living souls dominating dying bodies—living ideas regnant over decay and death. Do not imagine that I speak of human life alone. The stamp of persistent or of shifting Will is visible in the grass-blade rooted in its clod of earth, as in the gossamer web of being that floats and swims far over our heads in the free world of air.

      Regnant ideas, everywhere! Did you ever see a dead vine bloom? I have seen it. Last summer I trained some morning-glory vines up over a second-story balcony; and every day they blew and curled in the wind, their white, purple-dashed faces winking at the sun, radiant with climbing life. Higher every day the green heads crept, carrying their train of spreading fans waving before the sun-seeking blossoms. Then all at once some mischance happened—some cut-worm or some mischievous child tore one vine off below, the finest and most ambitious one, of course. In a few hours the leaves hung limp, the sappy stem wilted and began to wither; in a day it was dead—all but the top, which still clung longingly to its support, with bright head lifted. I mourned a little for the buds that could never open now, and pitied that proud vine whose work in the world was lost. But the next night there was a storm, a heavy, driving storm, with beating rain and blinding lightning. I rose to watch the flashes, and lo! the wonder of the world! In the blackness of the mid-Night, in the fury of wind and rain, the dead vine had flowered. Five white, moon-faced blossoms blew gaily round the skeleton vine, shining back triumphant at the red lightning. I gazed at them in dumb wonder. Dear, dead vine, whose will had been so strong to bloom that in the hour of its sudden cut-off from the feeding earth it sent the last sap to its blossoms; and, not waiting for the morning, brought them forth in storm and flash, as white night-glories, which should have been the children of the sun.

      In the daylight we all came to look at the wonder, marveling much, and saying, "Surely these must be the last." But every day for three days the dead vine bloomed; and even a week after, when every leaf was dry and brown, and so thin you could see through it, one last bud, dwarfed, weak, a very baby of a blossom, but still white and delicate, with five purple flecks, like those on the live vine beside it, opened and waved at the stars, and waited for the early sun. Over death and decay the Dominant Idea smiled: the vine was in the world to bloom, to bear white trumpet blossoms dashed with purple; and it held its will beyond death.

      Our modern teaching is that ideas are but attendant phenomena, impotent to determine the actions or relations of life, as the image in the glass which should say to the body it reflects: "I shall shape thee." In truth we know that directly the body goes from before the mirror, the transient image is nothingness; but the real body has its being to live, and will live it, heedless of vanished phantoms of itself, in response to the ever-shifting pressure of things without it.

      It is thus that the so-called Materialist Conception of History, the modern Socialists, and a positive majority of Anarchists would have us look upon the world of ideas—shifting, unreal reflections, having naught to do in the determination of Man's life, but so many mirror appearances of certain material relations, wholly powerless to act upon the course of material things. Mind to them is in itself a blank mirror, though in fact never wholly blank, because always facing the reality of the material and bound to reflect some shadow. To-day I am somebody, to-morrow somebody else, if the scenes have shifted; my Ego is a gibbering phantom, pirouetting in the glass, gesticulating, transforming, hourly or momentarily, gleaming with the phosphor light of a deceptive unreality, melting like the mist upon the hills. Rocks, fields, woods, streams, houses, goods, flesh, blood, bone, sinew—these are realities, with definite parts to play, with essential characters that abide under all changes; but my Ego does not abide; it is manufactured afresh with every change of these.

      I think this unqualified determinism of the material is a great and lamentable error in our modern progressive movement; and while I believe it was a wholesome antidote to the long-continued blunder of Middle Age theology, viz.: that Mind was an utterly irresponsible entity making laws of its own after the manner of an Absolute Emperor, without logic, sequence, or relation, ruler over matter, and