The Drummer

A Poem by Terry O'Leary

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud

as he beats of humanity wrapped in a shroud.

Well he beats of the rape and the killing of war

and the mind mangling sorrow we blithely ignore

and he beats of combatants who’re dying deceived

while the merchants of murder count profits received.

And he beats of civilians so savagely slain

and of bundles of bodies cast off in distain,

and he beats of the butch'ry that's feeding the flood,

clogging drains with our flesh, filling swamps with our blood.

And he beats of cadavers, by famine defined

that has ravished and plagued since the dawn of mankind,

and he beats of big biz letting oranges decay

while a child suffers scurvy and passes away.

He beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw

and his fingers are battered and bloody and raw

and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud

as he beats of abuse that we try to becloud.

Well he beats of the barons and princes and kings

who have broken broad backs with their clubs and their slings,

and he beats of the toll of divine royal rights

when the droit du seigneur sullied white wedding nights.

And he beats of the bribes that the powerful make

to the pale politicians who wax in their wake,

and he beats of the waifs bound by chains to machines,

and of slaves sporting nooses, and other such scenes.

And he beats of the tyrants in clerical garb

who have tortured with f*****s and thumbscrews and barb

and he beats of decrees claiming all men are free

while ignoring cowed thralls and their agonised plea.

He beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw

and his fingers are battered and bloody and raw

and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud

as he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud.

Well he beats of the spirit the rack couldn’t break,

and the fragrance of flesh that was burned at the stake,

and he beats of gray witches submerged in a pond,

being swum to nirvana and even beyond.

And he beats of the minds that could never be chained

by the faith that was living while ignorance reigned;

and he beats of bold battles when Spartacus rose

having tired of shackles and slavery’s woes.

And he beats of bent women who’ll fight to be freed

and will never give up till they finally succeed,

and he beats of their progress, belying the jeers,

overwhelming the pessimists' fatuous sneers.

He beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe

and his fingers are battered and bloody and raw

and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud

as he beats of the sights that he’s seen from a cloud.

Well he beats of the passion when lovers have lain

with their bodies entwined midst a field of fresh grain;

and he beats of the joy when a mother has smiled

while she’s nursing a baby, her newly born child.

And he beats of the sorrow upsurging inside

leaving shadows and ruins when loved ones have died.

Then he beats of an image that looms as a dream

of a time when compassion and love reign supreme.

And he beats of lush meadows pale yellow and green,

shining lakes in a woodland, a river serene.

Then he beats of a planet that dies in a sweat,

and of smirks of the dullards denying the threat.

He beats and he pounds till we see what he saw

and his fingers are battered and bloody and raw

and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

***

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud

And he beats of humanity wrapped in a shroud

And he beats of abuse that we try to becloud

And he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud

And he beats of the sights that he’s seen from a cloud.

And he beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw

And he beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw

And he beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe

And he beats and he pounds till we see what he saw.

And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw

And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

And his hands are all

broken

and bleeding

and raw.

© 2017 Terry O'Leary

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AliciaB

This is one of the most incredible and beautiful poems I have ever read. The historical allusions are gut-wrenchingly powerful, as is the repetition of the image of the drummer's hands. The rhyme scheme and rhythm are excellent - you can almost hear the beats of the drum in the cadence of the words. The last few stanzas and the way they tie everything together is also amazing - especially the last line. I am absolutely blown away by this poem. Excellent, excellent work.