Why do I see history in every word I read
every line of poetry is alive,
in need of a television to picture what my mind sees
as the verse flows by, as the senses plea
for meaning, sense, coherence; for clarity.
I was there with Tennyson’s lost souls
riding to my death, on the promise of goals,
There was reason to this race, a bloody end,
a glorious end to this adventure that challenges
decisions made in haste, incorrectly ended.
I was at Seeger’s barricade, in a sweet red spring
I met Death and felt the meadow flowers grow
on my grave. I gave my word, my values, my ring
of faithfulness, to the cause, in a flaming town,
a battled hill, or a scarred slope. My word, my faith
to everyone who will not fail the rendezvous.
In Foss’s house, by the side of the road, I have lived.
Watching men go by, being a friend to man.
The good, the bad, the cynic, the hopeful.
I watch them all.
Because, I am them all. I am History.
I am a friend to man, because I am man.
I rejoice in all, pain, hate, passion, and love.
I rode with Sheridan into Winchester, to save the battle’s day.
My breathless cavalry steed trying to stave off disaster.
I passed the beaten soldiers, the ragged lines
of blue, and saw hoplessness.
Then, Sheridan arrives, and the forces rally.
Hooray! Hooraw! I saw honor again, even in death!
I was in Flanders fields. I still am.
I am a Belgian caretaker of heroes, crosses,
row upon row. Is death heroic? The poet
lies here, as should I. We are peaceful now.
A bit earlier than dreamed, but peaceful, nevertheless.
We do not kill, hate nor love, anymore.
I slept, and woke again. I woke on the banks
of the Gitche Gumee, near the Big Sea Water.
I saw our death, and the warriors who led us
to our future. The stars, the comets,
the white road of heaven, ghosts and shadows
of our life.
Nokomis saw. He heard the owls, the squirrels,
the beavers, as they thought us all away.
Nokomis saw, and spoke to
Hiawatha’s brothers, as we faded away
into history, into dreams.
With Horatius I ran, and heard the Consul cry
Lars Porsena will soon be upon us, the bridge!
Horatio cried, I, and three, will hold the bridge. I
was one of the three. Yes, I saw death, early,
but I saw history. Of course, I died, again.
I died before Horatio, and thus,
no man saw
his honor, his fight, his death, his history.
He died alone.
There is no poetry for the death of today. No
reason,
no meaning, no history.
Death with honor, reason, value, makes a poet’s
task simple.
But a poet cannot simplify death today without
history.
There has to be something, within us all, to make
death worthwhile.
Because, if death is worthwhile, then life
is worth so much more.
-FRITZ CRYTZER
Thanks to:
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
“Hiawatha’s Childhood”
Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) “Charge of the
Light Brigade”
Alan Seeger (1888-1916) “I Have a Rendezvous
with Death”
Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911) “The House by
the Side of the Road”
Thomas Buchanan Read (1822-1872)
“Sheridan’s Ride”
LTC John McCrae (xxxx-1918) “In Flanders
Fields”
Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859)
“Horatius”