These are our strength, who strike against history.
These whose corrupt cells owe their new styles of weakness to our diseases;
these carrying light for safety on their foreheads
descended deeper for richer faults of ore,
drilling their death.
These touching radium and the luminous poison,
carried their death on their lips and with their warning
glow in their graves.
poet and political activist (1913–1980)
Muriel Rukeyser (15 December 1913 – 12 February 1980) was an American poet and political activist, most famous for her poems about equality, feminism, social justice, and Judaism.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Plague summer in London : and an increase of over 1000 deaths a week. Ralegh tried to kill himself the day after he was imprisoned, but the table knife with which he stabbed himself in the right breast left only a painful wound. During the fortnight in which he was healing, he could hear the bells ringing for plague victims. The bells never stopped tolling. In the streets, people with running sores could be seen, in hatred trying to infect others by strewing contaminated gloves, handkerchiefs, ruffs. Families took their bedding and went out into the country. The court of justice was removed to Winchester. One out of every six in the City was sick or dying of the plague. Infected ale-houses were not shut up. Londoners went out to the outlying towns, and died under the hedges; in Hampstead, they would fall in the yards and out-buildings, and there were barns around London where many would run to die. The jails were infected. There was an outbreak of 30 prisoners in Southwark; they were caught and put under stricter custody.
At the end of July, Ralegh was well and asking for Hariot.
only my fingers in your hair, only, my eyes
splitting the skull to tickle your brain with love
in a slow caress blurring the mind,
kissing your mouth awake
opening the body’s mouth and stopping the words. — Muriel Rukeyser, from “Three Sides of a Coin,” Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser. (University of Pittsburgh Press May 10th 2014)
In this moment when we face horizons and conflicts wider than ever before, we want our resources, the ways of strength. We look again to the human wish, its faiths, the means by which the imagination leads us to surpass ourselves.
If there is a feeling that something has been lost, it may be because much has not yet been used, much is still to be found and begun.
Everywhere we are told that our human resources are all to be used, that our civilization itself means the uses of everything it has — the inventions, the histories, every scrap of fact. But there is one kind of knowledge — infinitely precious, time-resistant more than monuments, here to be passed between the generations in any way it may be: never to be used. And that is poetry.