by Herbert Martin 

The Arrows,
ate into Saint Sebastian’s fresh
like liquid acid,
like something
applied to antiques
to preserve them,
or prepare them
for a market that
will pay millions
of dollars, or lire
or Deutch Marks
for believers and
 non-believers alike.
There is no accounting
for desire: an economy,
a market, or a myriad
of government offices
seeking to survive
an easy exit.

This Poem Will Name Itself
This pen is used to create and compose
with those amalgamated hairs of a brush
that refuses to say no but rather is willing
to paint and shape all necessary canvases
before turning to clay; this wheel is the
first shape of something visible or that
something that is rarely perceived with
the naked eye before we had begun to
use fire to solidify it into something
that will always be perceived by viewers
who having seen will be amazed.
We are, therefore, makers in the best
sense of creativity, of politician’s laws,
lords of civility, of words, oxygen,
electricity, the waves of floods, and
the natural earth, for the sake of
humanity’s right to endure;
we offer and sing what must be rightly
sung, so that a richly endowed justice
prevails, both night and day, and unfurls
as the daylight does from east to west
according to the motion of this planet
and in accordance with the eyes of men
and women who pay watchful attention
to how events are governed and raises
their voices to testify to what is good
and righteous as well as to that which
must be guarded and given lasting

About the Author:

herbert martin

Herbert Woodward Martin was Professor of English at The University of Dayton.
There, he taught Creative Writing (Poetry) as well as African American Literature.
He excelled in the reading of Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poetry and has made a first
recording of William Grant Still’s Symphony No.1 “The Afro-American with The
Dayton Philharmonic. Martin has authored nine volumes of his own poetry, and
continues to write.