THE HIDDEN FACES (A Poem)

When I was recently re-reading some of the writing I had done in the early nineteen-seventies, when my political philosophy first began to take shape, I came across this poem. It was written on December 28, 1973, in the midst of the Watergate crisis, and clearly shows the influence of Burnham and Orwell. Soon after I wrote it, I was to enter a period of escapism, first studying history in college, and then writing about it. By the time I came out of my ivory tower and began to take a serious look at the world around me once again, in 1990, I found that another scandal of far more serious proportions than Watergate (Iran-Contra) had taken place, the direction of the ship of state had become clear and more sinister than ever, and at least one of the "faceless ones" had emerged from obscurity, into the Oval Office... but more about that in my next blog.

The world
is swirling around me--
momentous events are occurring--
battles being fought,
battles that will change
the shape of the world
for the next thousand years.

Many voices I hear
from familiar names and faces
scratching and clawing--
calling each other names.
Panting after the sceptre,
they fight like hounds--
They lie,
and connive
And rend the world in pursuit of their game.

This ship is off course,
wildly careening,
and where is the ship's captain?
In the cabin, playing a life-or-death
game of poker with the mates--
they rock the ship with their angry cries.
And yet, the ship still moves.

And I sit
Here in my living room
amid worried voices
and wonder silently,
who does run this ship?
Who mans the controls
while our captain plays his deadly game?
Our ship moves crookedly,
swerving and swaying--
but it moves.

Whose hand is on the steering wheel?
Whose mind runs the machinery
that keeps the ship
from halting in mid-ocean?
There must be many minds--
and how silent they all are.
They do not play in our captain's card game,
but keep their minds on their machines.
They do not stop to sling mud
For if they did, all that machinery
would grind to a halt.

Who are these men?
Where lies the power?
I feel a vast network about me,
an impenetrable system of steel and concrete.
And yet,
I cannot identify the minds
that are behind it all.
Frustration I feel--
no one knows, no one knows.
We, the people of the nation
are being led down a road
that is not of our own making--
destination unknown.
Confused are we, and helpless
For we cannot fight a power
whose face we cannot see.

Who shall win the card game?
Or does it really matter?
While the players tear at each other's throats,
The men in the control room
(who never entered the game)
quietly smile.

An iron fence
is closing about my heart.
Across the city,
the clank of hammers upon steel
mourn the passing of a world,
And I greatly fear what will become of us.