Oh to be unconditionally loved when dead, division dissolved by the peaceful inevitable. Oh to the victory that made us one, the blood of battle and repair no longer questioned as worthwhile, immune to “what if?” in its sad reality, replaced by “what is” and “what was.” How, now, am I taught as hero, recalled as Honest Abe, Father Abraham, when then, about half a nation hated me? I, immortalized in paper and stone, I, honored as a lesson that even a simple man can become President— that is how I now know love. What blew this charge into storm, made me more than I ever could have been? What stone face could warrant the illusion that I was anything but terrified? Was it my own grand words or an accident of revisionism that made me out as martyr? Does no one suspect I bit my nails and swallowed, dashed a sallow candle to the floor, kicked the wall, told Mary she was unruly as my most ill behaved horse, ordered the oldest stable boy fired, three times placed a pistol on my desk yet failed to pull the trigger? I was neither star nor saint, nor did I ever intend to offer myself as an unblemished lamb, never considered myself more than ugly me, a twisted twig on a fig sapling pulled at the roots by torrential war. Yet, “hero” is how I am mostly remembered, so great is the need for idols. So be it. So be it my icon is revered by millions, that the awed infer from me that war within a nation bleeds a country down to ignorance, that agape is the only way we will survive one another, that injustice can only bring us together in a grave. But for me, the marble marks my most private moments— the time I laughed at a servant’s joke, that cloudy day when I told Mary I loved her, the second I understood I owned possibly the most comfortable pillow in the Union yet couldn’t sleep, that Sunday I locked myself in the pantry and cried for our country— no one knows about those. They only know what they are told, enough to suspect I was human, but plenty to believe in monuments. -Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright 2011, all rights reserved _____________________________________ *I can't exactly recall what this poem was for. I believe I wrote it and read it for an arts event in DC. The note in my archives says "For WMPA 360º October 16 and 30, 2011, Copland’s Lincoln Portrait." The poem might even be in one of my books, but I've lost track of everything I have written. (Pic is from here.) My point was to humanize Lincoln and shed light on the Civil War. I return to this piece now that we are approaching yet another divisive election, where one man (whose name I will not put on this page because I do not wish to attract that type of algorithm) will certainly make our nation bleed into ignorance again if he is re-elected. I can only hope that people will not vote for hatred, will not vote for injustice, will not for racism and the illusion of a common man running for President. He is definitely not a common man. He's a wealthy, dangerous maniac that has turned the Republican party - which used to have a modicum of wisdom - completely mad. I have lived through his decades of greed and megalomania, witnessed it even as a child. He is no Lincoln. He is no leader. And too many people are fooled. Side note, in case you are wondering. I do not believe in political parties. I believe candidates should run on their policies and platforms. Parties have not served us well, yet here we are. Again.
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse, Poetically Speaking
