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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415245" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At the Executed Murderer's Grave</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why should we do this? What good is it to us? Above all,<br>how can we do such a thing? How can it possibly be done?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--Freud</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My name is James A. Wright, and I was born<br>Twenty-five miles from this infected grave,<br>In Martins Ferry, Ohio, where one slave<br>To Hazel-Atlas Glass became my father.<br>He tried to teach me kindness. I return<br>Only in memory now, aloof, unhurried,<br>To dead Ohio, where I might lie buried,<br>Had I not run away before my time.<br>Ohio caught George Doty. Clean as lime,<br>His skull rots empty here. Dying's the best<br>Of all the arts men learn in a dead place.<br>I walked here once. I made my loud display,<br>Leaning for language on a dead man's voice.<br>Now sick of lies, I turn to face the past.<br>I add my easy grievance to the rest:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>2.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doty, if I confess I do not love you,<br>Will you let me alone? I burn for my own lies.<br>The nights electrocute my fugitive,<br>My mind. I run like the bewildered mad<br>At St. Clair Sanitarium, who lurk,<br>Arch and cunning, under the maple trees,<br>Pleased to be playing guilty after dark.<br>Staring to bed, they croon self-lullabies.<br>Doty, you make me sick. I am not dead.<br>I croon my tears at fifty cents per line.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>3.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Idiot, he demanded love from girls,<br>And murdered one. Also, he was a thief.<br>He left two women, and a ghost with child.<br>The hair, foul as a dog's upon his head,<br>Made such revolting Ohio animals<br>Fitter for vomit than a kind man's grief.<br>I waste no pity on the dead that stink,<br>And no love's lost between me and the crying<br>Drunks of Belaire, Ohio, where police<br>Kick at their kidneys till they die of drink.<br>Christ may restore them whole, for all of me.<br>Alive and dead, those giggling muckers who<br>Saddled my nighmares thirty years ago<br>Can do without my widely printed sighing.<br>Over their pains with paid sincerity.<br>I do not pity the dead, I pity the dying.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>4.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I pity myself, because a man is dead.<br>If Belmont County killed him, what of me?<br>His victims never loved him. Why should we?<br>And yet, nobody had to kill him either.<br>It does no good to woo the grass, to veil<br>The quicklime hole of a man's defeat and shame.<br>Nature-lovers are gone. To hell with them.<br>I kick the clods away, and speak my name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>5.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This grave's gash festers. Maybe it will heal,<br>When all are caught with what they had to do<br>In fear of love, when every man stands still<br>By the last sea,<br>And the princes of the sea come down<br>To lay away their robes, to judge the earth<br>And its dead, and we dead stand undefended everywhere,<br>And my bodies--father and child and unskilled criminal--<br>Ridiculously kneel to bare my scars,<br>My sneaking crimes, to God's unpitying stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>6.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Staring politely, they will not mark my face<br>From any murderer's, buried in this place.<br>Why should they? We are nothing but a man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>7.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doty, the rapist and the murderer,<br>Sleeps in a ditch of fire, and cannot hear;<br>And where, in earth or hell's unholy peace,<br>Men's suicides will stop, God knows, not I.<br>Angels and pebbles mock me under trees.<br>Earth is a door I cannot even face.<br>Order be damned, I do not want to die,<br>Even to keep Belaire, Ohio, safe.<br>The hackles on my neck are fear, not grief.<br>(Open, dungeon! Open, roof of the ground!)<br>I hear the last sea in the Ohio grass,<br>Heaving a tide of gray disastrousness.<br>Wrinkles of winter ditch the rotted face<br>Of Doty, killer, imbecile, and thief:<br>Dirt of my flesh, defeated, underground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Arlington+Wright">James Arlington Wright</a><div class=q>
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how can we do such a thing? How can it possibly be done?

--Freud

1.

My name is James A. Wright, and I was born
Twenty-five miles from this infected grave,
In Martins Ferry, Ohio, where on..."></div>
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