Re: The poetry of Philip Britts

THE HOUR ON WHICH WE LOOK

Now is the harvest of Death.
Now the red scythe-blade of slaughter
Sweeps through the children of Eve.
We stand in a circle of silence,
The wings of the Reaper are hissing--
And what could our speaking achieve?
 
And we, as we stand in our silence
Hear the laugh of the sower of fate,
Who scattered the seed in the hearts of the tribes
And who reaps now the hate.
 
Only the music of a wild wind in the trees,
Or the rumble of thunder, the roar of the rain,
The shouting of demons who ride on the storm-winds of wrath
Can tell of the tempest that howls like a wolf on the plain;
Where the earth carried wheat, and the waters were sweet,
But now stink with the blood of the slain.
 
Philip Britts, 1940


Bruderhof wrote:

> INSANITY
> 
> We see mad scientists watching tubes and flasks,
> Staring at fluids with the power of death;
> Mad engineers that work out guns of steel
> And make great bombs that carry poison breath.
> 
> We hear mad statesmen speak of peace thro' arms,
> We read wild praises of the power that rends;
> And in the pulpits of the Church of Christ
> Mad clergy tell us to destroy our friends.
>  
> We hear the drone of planes that townsmen build
> To scatter death and terror in the town;
> And hear the roar of tanks on country roads
> That will mow down our brothers, crush them down.
>  
> Lest this should happen, still more ships are launched;
> To ward off war, we spend more gold on arms,
> And lest the voice of Christ is heard to groan,
> We sound, more loudly, still more wild alarms.
>  
> Philip Britts
>