I promised a poem of work. It’s buried in books and boxes from my moving. So for now, this…by Brian Faulkner, in which he tells me, “I am enclosing a few more poems which you may enjoy and perhaps read to others.”
At that time, I had read a poem of his (see “Our Factory”) to an audience of about 200. I also invited that audience to see, “Ayn Rand – A Sense of Life.” (The movie/documentary when it first opened).
The following poem isn’t about “work” as much as it is about the human temple and proper worship.
Brian Faulkner kindly sent this to me, Aug. 26 1998.
He looked at each person and saw the face of God.
Each God lay on the floor, starving, thirsting, emaciated.
As he broke the last bar of his self-made prison window
He felt their papery hands praying him back, impotent.
He knew as they did, just what they wanted.
But he didn’t care; he was walking free upon the sand,
Wind in his hair, sun on his body,
Alone at last,
And now there’s another like himself, afar,
Making his way, striding the earth.
They stop; they wave; they speak.
“Glad-eyed, light-shouldered, self-determined, Man!”
“Yea! Lover of wisdom too!”
“Yea! And of Beauty, Strength, Pride!”
“Yea! And above all, I!”
“But where, now, are you bound?”
“To the high mountains, to reshape them, to fly them o’er the sea,
To carry gold and stones, and books of my making, for I’ll be
Working, thinking, judging, working, writing, endlessly mastering!”
“And I’m now just seeing things; there’s so much!”
They stride straight swiftly on, singing the new song,
Each in his new-found way;
Lifting up, from cliff to cliff, leaning out, from shore to shore,
Then round the royal world, in man-voiced pleasure hurled
and whirled and swirled:
“Life is my mastery, pride of ability,
Profiting endlessly, now I am free!”
Then, from the singer of selfish kind, Ayn Rand,
“Have you found your temple?”
“Yes. Right here. My mind.”
“And what is it built upon, do you see?”
“Yes. The one eternal foundation, Reality!”