But am I free? Can I be truly free When that which lives within me is repressed, When my true self in vain from deep within Doth clamor for the right of self-expression? What hideous mockery of freedom this! Put me in jail, put me in jail for life, Let bread and water be my only fare, Make rats and spiders my associates. But have the light into my dungeon pour From overhead and give me clay, Oh, give me lots of clay--the tender flesh, The oily, tender flesh of mother earth, Responsive as a mistress to the touch, And I will have a feast no king e'er knew, And taste of pleasures that the gods would envy. And I will make unto myself a world, A world of which myself would be the God, A world in which my every dream and thought, My every feeling and my every passion Would find embodiment in plastic form. Oh, for a prison where I could be free! ON SEEING THE GARMENT STRIKERS MARCH I see a hundred thousand marching by. I also see as many, many millions That are in spirit also marching by. And lo! methinks this is but a rehearsal For the Exodus from the Land of Bondage-- And I behold with my prophetic eyes God's chosen people crossing the Red Sea; The workers of the world, God's chosen people, Are crossing the Red Sea of Revolution. And I behold the Industrial Commonwealth, The Promised Land of plenty and of peace, Where each one, under his own fig-tree seated, Shall sing his praises to the Lord of Life. THE TOILERS Crouching they cling like vermin to the earth And with their bleeding fingers scrape the earth But for a little dust, their sustenance, A little dust mixed with the sweat of brow, The blood of fingers and the tears of pain. 'Tis not for them the sun shines gloriously, The flowers bloom, the fruit hangs on the tree, 'Tis not for them the birds and poets sing, Or lovely women smile. They have to crouch and cling and sweat and scrape But for a little dust--their sustenance. PANEROTICISM I love all women's smiling eyes, I love all women's tempting lips, I love all women's loving hearts, I love all women's tender skin, I love all women's glowing flesh, I love all women's weakness, I love all women's strength. I love! I love! I love! APHRODITE I've seen a Venus not of marble carved By some great sculptor's hand in ancient Greece, Unearthed in a mutilated state By archaeologists in quest of ruins And pedestaled in temple of fine art. The Venus I have seen was made of flesh, Of ordinary, living, human flesh, More beautiful than statue e'er could be. She stands behind a counter in a store From morning until night dispensing wares-- A living Venus at five dollars per. THE TYRANNY OF RHYME