Dr. Burke

You've heard of potters' wheels and potters' hands.         I had a dream that told the human tale         As well as potters' wheels or potters' hands.         I saw a great hand slopping plasmic jelly         Around the low sides of a giant bowl.         A drop would fly upon the giant table,         And quick the drop would twist up into form,         Become homonculus and wave its hands,         Brandish a little pistol, shoot a creature,         Upspringing from another drop of plasm,         Slopped on the giant table. Other drops,         Flying as water from a grinding stone,         Out of the giant bowl, took little crowns         And put them on their heads and mounted thrones,         And lorded little armies. Some became         Half-drooped and sickly things, like poisoned flies.         And others stood on lighted faggots, others         Fed and commanded, others served and starved,         But many joined the throng of animate drops,         And hurried on the phantom quest.          You see,         Whether you call it potter's hand or hand         That stirs, to no end, jelly in the bowl,         You have the force outside and not inside.         Invest it with a malice, wanton humor,         Which likes to see the plasmic jelly slop,         And rain in drops upon the giant table,         And does not care what happens in the world,         That giant table.         All such dreams are wrong,         My dream is wrong, my waking thought is right.         Man can subdue the giant hand that stirs,         Or turns the wheel, and so these visions err.         For as this farmer, lately come to town,         Picks out the finest corn seeds, and so crops         A finer corn, let's look to human seed,         And raise a purer stock; let's learn of him,         Who does not put defective grains aside         For planting in the spring, but puts aside         The best for planting. For I'd like to see         As much care taken with the human stock         As men now take of corn, race-horses, hogs.         You, Coroner Merival are right, I think.         If we conserve our forests, waterways,         Why not the stream of human life, which wastes         Because its source is wasted, fouled.             Perhaps         Our coroner has started something good,         And brought to public mind what might result         If every man kept record of the traits         Known in his family for the future use         Of those to come in choosing mates.         Behold,         Your moralists and churchmen with your rules         Brought down from Palestine, which says that life         Though tainted, maddened, must not be controlled,         Diverted, headed off, while life in corn,         And life in hogs, that feed the life of man         Should be made better for the life of man -         Behold, I say, some hundred millions spent         On paupers, epileptics, deaf and blind;         On feeble minded, invalids, the insane -         Behold, I say, this cost in gold alone,         Leave for the time the tragedy of souls,         Who suffer or must see such suffering,         And then turn back to what? The hand that stirs,         The potter's hand? Why, no - the marriage counter         Where this same state in Christian charity         Spending its millions, lets the fault begin,         And says to epileptics and what not: -         "Go breed your kind, for Jesus came to earth,         And we will house and feed your progeny,         Or hang, incarcerate your murderous spawn,         As it may happen."             And all the time we know         As small grains fruit in small grains, even man         In fifty matters of pathology         Transmits what's in him, blindness, imbecility,         Hysteria, susceptibilities         To cancer and tuberculosis. Also         The soil that sprouts the giant weed of madness -         There's soil which will not sprout them, occupied         Too full by blossoms, healthy trees.             We know         Such things as these - Well, I would sterilize,         Or segregate these shriveled seeds and keep         The soil of life for seeds select, and take         The church and Jesus, if he's in the way,         And say: "You stand aside, and let me raise         A better and a better breed of men."         Quit, shut your sniveling charities; have mercy         Not on these paupers, imbeciles, diseased ones,         But on the progeny you let them breed.         And thereby sponge the greatest waste away,         And source of life's immeasurable tragedies.         Avaunt you potter hands and potter wheels!         God is within us, not without us, we         Are given souls to know and see and guide         Ourselves and those to come, souls that compute         The calculus of beauties, talents, traits,         And show us that the good in seed strives on         To master stocks; that even poisoned blood,         And minds in chemic turmoils, mixed with blood         And minds in harmony, work clean at last -         Else how may normal man to-day be such         With some eight billion ancestors behind,         And something in him of the blood of all         Who lived five hundred years ago or so,         Who were diseased with alcohol and pork,         And poverty? But oh these centuries         Of agony and waste! Let's stop it now!         And since this God within us gives us choice         To let the dirty plasma flow or dam it,         To give the channel to the silver stream         Of starry power, which shall we do? Now choose         Between your race of drunkards, imbeciles,         Lunatics and neurotics, or the race         Of those who sing and write, or measure space,         Build temples, bridges, calculate the stars,         Live long and sanely.          Well, I take my son,         I could have prophesied his eyes, through knowing         The color of my mother's, father's eyes,         The color of his mother's parent's eyes.         I could have told his hair.          There's subtler things.         My father died before this son was born;         Why does this son smack lips and turn his hand         Just like my father did? Not imitation -         He never saw him, and I do not do so.         Refine the matter where you will, how far         You choose to go, it is not eyes and hair,         Chins, shape of head, of limbs, or shape of hands,         Nor even features, look of eyes, nor sound         Of voice that we inherit, but the traits         Of inner senses, spiritual gifts, and secret         Beauties and powers of spirit; which result         Not solely by the compound of the souls         Through conjugating cells, but in the fusion         Something arises like an unknown X         And starts another wonder in the soul,         That comes from souls compounded.          Coroner         You have done well to study Elenor Murray.         How do I view the matter? To begin         Here is a man who looks upon a woman,         Desires her, so they marry, up they step         Before the marriage counter, buy a license         To live together, propagate their kind.         No questions asked. I'll later come to that.         This couple has four children, Elenor         Is second to be born. I knew this girl,         I cared for her at times when she was young -         Well, for the picture general, she matures         Goes teaching school, leaves home, goes far away,         Has restlessness and longings, ups and downs         Of ecstasy and depression, has a will         Which drives her onward, dreams that call to her.         Goes to the war at last to sacrifice         Her life in duty, and the root of this         Is masochistic (though I love the flower),         Comes back and dies. I call her not a drop         Slopped from the giant bowl; she is a growth         Proceeding on clear lines, if we could know,         From cells that joined, and had within themselves         The quality of the stream whose source I see         As far as grandparents. And now to this:         We all know what her father, mother are.         No doubt the marriage counter could have seen -         Or asked what was not visible. But who knows         About the father's parents, or the mother's?         I chance to know.         The father drinks, you say?         Well, he drank little when this child was born,         Had he drunk much, it is the nerves which crave         The solace of the cup, and not the cup         Which passes from the parent to the child.         His father and his mother were good blood,         Steady, industrious; and just because         His father and his mother had the will         To fight privation, and the lonely days         Of pioneering, so this son had will         To fight, aspire, but at the last to growl,         And darken in that drug store prison, take         To drink at times in anger for a will         That was so balked.             Well, then your marriage counter         Could scarcely ask: What is your aim in life?         You clerk now in a drug store, you aspire         To be a lawyer, if you find yourself         Stopped on your way by poverty, the work         Of clerking to earn bread, you will break down,         And so affect your progeny. So, you see,         For all of that the daughter Elenor         Was born when this ambition had its hope,         Not when it tangled up in hopelessness;         And therefore is thrown out of the account.         The father must be passed and given license         To wed this woman. How about the mother?         You never knew the mother of the mother.         She had great power of life and power of soul,         Lived to be eighty-seven, to the last         Was tense, high voiced, excitable, ecstatic,         Top full of visions, dreams, and plans for life.         But worse than that at fifty lost her mind,         Was two years kept at Kankakee, quite mad,         Grieving for fancied wrongs against her husband         Some five years dead, and praying to keep down         Desire for men. Her malady was sensed         When she began to wander here and there,         In shops and public places, in the church,         Wherever she could meet with men, one man         Particularly to whom she made advances         Unwomanly and strange. And so at last         She turned her whole mind to the church, became         Religion mad, grew mystical, believed         That Jesus Christ had taken her to spouse.         They kept her in confinement for two years.         The rage died down at last, and she came home.         But to the last was nervous, tense, high keyed.         And then her mind failed totally, she died         At eighty-seven here.          Now I could take         Some certain symbols A and a, and show         Out of the laws that Mendel found for us,         What chances Elenor Murray had to live         Free of the madness, clear or in dilute,         Diminished or made over, which came down         From this old woman to her. It's enough         To see in Elenor Murray certain traits,         Passions and powers, ecstasies and sorrows.         And from them life's misfortunes, and to see         They tally, take the color of the soul         Of this old woman, back of her. Even to see         In Elenor Murray's mother states of soul,         And states of nerves, passed on to Elenor Murray         Directly by her mother.         But you say,         Since many say so, here's a woman's soul         Most beautiful and serviceable in the world         And she confutes you, in your logic chopping,         Materialistic program, who would give         The marriage counter power to pick the corn seed         For future planting:          No, I say to this.         What does it come to? She had will enough,         And aspiration, struck out for herself,         Learned for herself, did service in the war,         As many did, and died - all very good.         But not so good that we could quite afford         To take the chances on some other things         Which might have come from her. Well, to begin         Putting aside an autopsy, she died         Because this neural weakness, so derived,         Caught in such stress of life proved far too much         For one so organized; a stress of life         Which others could live through, and have lived through.         The world had Elenor Murray, and she died         Before she was a cost. - But just suppose         No war had been to aureole her life -         And she had lived here and gone mad at last         Become a charge upon the state? Or yet,         As she was love-mad, by the common word,         And as she had neurotic tendencies,         Would seek neurotic types therefore, suppose         She had with some neurotic made a marriage,         And brought upon us types worse than themselves;         Given us the symbol double A instead         Of big and little a, where are you then?         You have some suicides, or murders maybe,         Some crimes in sex, some madness on your hands,         For which to tax the strong to raise, and raise         Some millions every year.             Are we so mad         For beauty, sacrifice and heroism,         So hungry for the stimulus of these         That we cannot discern and fairly appraise         What Elenor Murray was, what to the world         She brought, for which we overlook the harm         She might have done the world? Not if we think!         And if we think, she will not seem God's flower         Made spotted, pale or streaked by cross of breed,         A wonder and a richness in the world;         But she will seem a blossom which to these         Added a novel poison with the power         To spread her poison! And we may dispense         With what she did and what she tried to do,         No longer sentimentalists, to keep         The chances growing in the world to bring         A better race of men.          Then Doctor Burke         Left off philosophy and asked: "How many         Of you who hear me, know that Elenor Murray         Was distant cousin to this necrophile,         This Taylor boy, I call him boy, though twenty,         Who got the rope for that detested murder         Of a young girl - Oh yes, let's save the seed         Of stock like this!"             But only David Borrow         Knew Elenor was cousin to this boy.         And Merival spoke up: "What is to-day?         It's Thursday, it's to-morrow that he hangs.         I'll go now to the jail to see this boy."         "He hangs at nine o'clock," said Dr. Burke.         And Merival got up to go. The party         Broke up, departed. At the jail he saw         The wretched creature doomed to die. And turned         Half sick from seeing how he tossed and looked         With glassy eyes. The sheriff had gone out.         And Merival could see him, get the case.         Next afternoon they met, the sheriff told         This story to the coroner.