Read Ebook: Bars and Shadows: The Prison Poems of Ralph Chaplin by Chaplin Ralph Nearing Scott Author Of Introduction Etc

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INTRODUCTION

Ralph Chaplin is serving a twenty year sentence in the Federal Penitentiary, not as a punishment for any act of violence against person or property, but solely for the expression of his opinions.

Chaplin, together with a number of fellow prisoners who were sentenced at the same time, was accused of taking part in a conspiracy with intent to obstruct the prosecution of the war. To be sure the Government did not produce a single witness to show that the war had been obstructed by their activities; but it was argued that the agitation which they had carried on by means of speeches, articles, pamphlets, meetings and organizing campaigns, would quite naturally hamper the country in its war work. On the face of their indictments these men were accused of interfering with the conduct of the war; in reality they were sent to jail because they held and expressed certain beliefs.

As a member of the Industrial Workers of the World, Ralph Chaplin did his part to make the organization a success. He wrote songs and poems; he made speeches: he edited the official paper, "Solidarity". He looked about him; saw poverty, wretchedness and suffering among the workers; contrasted it with the luxury of those who owned the land and the machinery of production; studied the problem of distribution; and decided that it was possible, through the organization of the producers, to establish a more scientific, juster, more humane system of society. All this he felt, intensely. With him and his fellow-workers the task of freeing humanity from economic bondage took on the aspect of a faith, a religion. They held their meetings; wrote their literature; made their speeches and sang their songs with zealous devotion. They had seen a vision; they had heard a call to duty; they were giving their lives to a cause--the emancipation of the human race.

When the war broke out in Europe, with millions of working-men flinging death and misery at one another, men like Chaplin, the world over, regarded it as the last straw. Was it not bad enough that these exploited creatures should be used as factory-fodder? Must they be cannon-fodder too? Why should they fight to increase the economic power of German traders? of British manufacturers? The war was a capitalist war between capitalist nations. What interest had the workers in these nations? in their winnings or in their losses? So ran the argument.

Technically, Ralph Chaplin and his comrades had conspired to obstruct the war. Actually, they had lined themselves up solidly against the present economic order, of which the World War was only one phase. This was their real crime.

Ralph Chaplin was guilty of the most serious social offense that a man can commit. While living in an old and shattered social order, he had championed a new order of society and had expounded a new culture. Socrates and Jesus, for like offenses, lost their lives. Thousands of their followers, guilty of no greater crime than that of denouncing vested wrong and expounding new truths, have suffered in the dungeon, on the scaffold and at the stake.

Not because he and his fellows conspired to obstruct the war, but because they denounced the present order of economic society and taught the inauguration of a better one, are they still held in prison more than three years after the signing of the armistice; after the proclamation of peace and the resumption of trade with all of the enemy countries; after the repeal or the lapse of the Espionage Act and the other war-time laws under which they were convicted; and after German agents and German spies, caught red-handed in their attempts to interfere with the prosecution of the war, have won their freedom through presidential pardon.

The most dangerous men in the United States, during the years 1917 and 1918, were not those who were taking pay to do the will of the German or the Austrian Governments, but those who were trying to convince the American working people that they should throw aside a system of economic parasitism and economic exploitation, should take possession of the machinery of production and should secure for themselves the product of their own toil. In the eyes of the masters of American life, such men are still dangerous, and that is the reason that they are kept in prison.

The culture of any age consists of the feelings, habits, customs, activities, thoughts, ambitions and dreams of a people. It is a composite picture of their homes, their work, their arts, their pleasures and the other channels of their life-expression.

The culture of each age has two aspects. On the one hand there is the established or accepted culture of those who dominate and control,--the culture of the leisure or ruling class. This culture is respected, admired, applauded, and sometimes even worshipped by those who benefit from it most directly. Civilization--even life itself seems bound up with its continuance. When the advocates of the established culture cry "Long live the King!" they are really shouting approval of royalty, aristocracy, landlordism, vassalage, exploitation and of all the other attributes of divine right. The world as it is becomes in their minds, synonymous with the world as it should be. For them the old culture is the best culture.

On the other hand there is the new culture, comprising the hopes, beliefs, ideas and ideals of those who feel that the present is but a transition-stage, leading from the past into the future--a future that they see radiant with the best that is in man, developing soundly against the bounties that are supplied by the hand of nature. These forward looking ones, impatient with the mistakes and injustices of to-day, preach wisdom and justice for the morrow. So imperfect does the present seem to them, and so obvious are the possibilities of the future, that they look forward confidently to the overthrow of the old social forms, and the establishment, in their places, of a new society, the embryo of which is already germinating within the old social shell.

The old culture relies on tradition, custom, and the normal conservatism of the masses of mankind, The new culture relies on concepts of justice, truth, liberty, love, brotherhood. Eighteenth century, Feudal France was filled with the prophecies of a form of society that would supplant Feudalism. Nineteenth century Russia, in the grip of a capitalist bureaucracy, proved to be the centre for the revolutions of the early twentieth century. The new culture, growing at first under the shadow of the old, gradually assumes larger and larger proportions until it takes all of the sunlight for itself, throwing the old culture into the shadow of oblivion.

Each ruling class knows these facts,--knows that the old must give place to the new; knows that the living, ruling culture of to-day will be the history of the day after tomorrow, yet because of the vested interests which they rely upon for their power, and because they are satisfied to have the deluge come after them, they oppose each manifestation of the new culture and strain every nerve to make the temporary organization of the world permanent. The more vigorously the new culture thrives, the more eagerly do the representatives of the old order strive to destroy it.

During three eventful centuries, the part of North America that is now the United States has witnessed two fierce culture-survival struggles. In the first of these struggles--that between the American Indians and the whites, the culture of Western Europe supplanted the culture of primitive America. In the second struggle--that between the slave holders of the South and the rising business interests of the North, the slave oligarchy was swept from power, and in its place there was established the new financial imperialism that dominates the public life of the nation at the present time. Despite the extreme youth of the capitalist system in the United States, there are already many signs that those who profit by it must be prepared to defend it at no distant date. The Russian Revolution of 1917 sounded the loudest note of warning, but even before that occurred, the industrial capitalists had entered upon a struggle which they believed to be of the greatest importance to their future.

The old culture was joining battle with the new. "America is the land of opportunity. It was good enough for my father: it is good enough for me" was the slogan of the capitalists. "The world for the workers," answered the vanguard of the exploited masses.

The advocate of a labor state is as unpopular in a capitalist society as the abolitionist was in the Carolinas before the Civil War. He sees a vision that the stalwarts of the existing order do not care to see; he speaks a language that they cannot comprehend; he represents an interest that is as hateful to them as it is alien to their privileges.

At the outset, while the old order is still relatively strong, and the new relatively weak, the spokesmen of the old order can afford to ignore the champions of the new. But as the established order grows more senile and the new order more vigorous, the defenders of the old order, by force or by guile, set themselves to root out the new, even though they should be compelled to destroy themselves in the process. Then there ensues a savage struggle in which wits are matched against wits and force against force. Families are divided; the community is split into factions; civil war rages; society is torn to its foundations. At times the struggle reaches the military phase, but for the most part it instills itself into the lives of the people until it becomes an accepted part of the day's work.

Then it is that the real test comes between the old world and the new. The old world holds power--economic, social, political. It holds in its hands income, respectability and preferment, with which it seeks first to buy, and later to destroy all who oppose its will.

Buying is the easiest, the safest, and in the long run the cheapest method of gaining the desired end.

Most men and women go where income promises and social preferment beckons. But not all! There are some whose love of justice, truth and beauty; whose yearning for betterment and increased social opportunity, outweighs the tempting bait of ease and respectability. Them the established order smites.

The strength of the old order is measured superficially by the extent of its control over the means of common livelihood and by the generalness of the satisfaction or discontent with which the masses receive its administration. Fundamentally its strength is determined by the direction in which its life is tending. The structure of the Roman Empire was apparently sound before it buckled and disintegrated. The French aristocracy was never surer of itself than in the gala days that preceded 1789. The old order may undergo a process of gradual transformation. In that case the change is slow, as it was when Feudalism gave place to Capitalism in England. Again, the old order may be exterminated as it was when Feudalism gave place to Capitalism in France. In one case the masters of life loosens the reins of power to ease the straining team; in the other case the masters hold the reins taut till they are jerked from their hands, as masters and team go together over the precipice.

The strength of the new order, at any stage in its development may be gauged by the solidarity of its organization, the efficacy of its propaganda, and the tone of its art. These forms of expression are necessary to the maintenance of any phase of culture, old or new, and by the last of the three, the esthetic expression of the culture, its morale may best be judged. It is for this reason that artists, musicians, dramatists and poets are so important a part of any order of society. They voice its deepest sentiments and express its most sacred faiths and longings. When the time arrives that a new social order can boast its permanent art and music and literature, it is already far advanced on the path that leads to stability and power.

The poems which appear in this volume are a contribution to the propaganda and the art of the new culture. "Above all things," writes Chaplin, "I don't want anyone to try to make me out a 'poet'--because I'm not. I don't think much of these esthetic creatures who condescend to stoop to our level that we may have the blessings of culture. We'll manage to make our own--do it in our own way, and stagger through somehow. . . . These are tremendous times, and sooner or later someone will come along big enough to sound the right note, and it will be a rebel note." It is that note which Chaplin has sought to strike, and that he has succeeded will be the verdict of anyone who has read over the poems.

Chaplin's work speaks for itself. Some of the poems were written in Leavenworth Prison and published in the prison paper. Others were written during the tedious months of the Chicago trial, when the men were kept in the Cook County jail. Chaplin has had ample time to work them out. Christmas, 1921, was the fifth consecutive Christmas that he has spent in prison. The poems bear the impress of the bars, but they ring with the glad vigor of a free spirit that bars cannot contain.

The reader of Chaplin's prison poems unavoidably makes three mental comments:

Chaplin is not a dangerous man--except as his ideas are dangerous to the existing order of society. His presence in the penitentiary, under a twenty year sentence, indicates how dangerous those ideas are considered by the masters of American public life. Rich those masters are--fabulously rich; and strong they may be, yet so insecure do they feel themselves that they are constrained to hold in prison this dreamer and singer of the new social order.

Chaplin, in prison, like Debs in prison, is doing his work. He is resisting the encroachments of those jail demons--hate, bitterness, revenge; he is holding his mind on the goal--a newer, better social order; he is keeping his vision of nature, of humanity, of brotherhood, of courage, of love, of beauty,--clear and bright. Chaplin, the man, is in jail; but Chaplin the poet and singer is roaming wherever books go; wherever papers are read, and wherever comrades repeat verses to one another in the flickering light of the evening fire.

SCOTT NEARING.

MOURN NOT THE DEAD

Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie-- Dust unto dust-- The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die As all men must;

Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell-- Too strong to strive-- Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell, Buried alive;

But rather mourn the apathetic throng-- The cowed and the meek-- Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong And dare not speak!

TAPS

The day is ended! Ghostly shadows creep Along each dim-lit wall and corridor. The bugle sounds as from some faery shore Silvered with sadness, somnolent and deep. Darkness and bars . . . God! shall we curse or weep? Somewhere a pipe is tapped upon the floor; A guard slams shut the heavy iron door; The day is ended--go to sleep--to sleep.

Three times it blows--weird lullaby of doom-- And then to dream while fecund Night gives birth To other days like this day that is done. . But Morning . . . does it live beyond the gloom-- This deep black pall that hangs above the earth-- He fears the dark who dares to doubt the sun!

NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE

Tier over tier they rise to dizzy height-- The cells of men who know the world no more. Silence intense from ceiling to the floor; While through the window gleams a lone blue light Which stabs the dark immensity of night. Felt shod and ghostly like a shade of yore, The guard comes shuffling down the corridor; His key-ring jingles . . . and he glides from sight.

Oh, to forget the prison and its scars, And face the breeze where ocean meets the land; To watch the foam-crests dance with silver stars, While long green waves come tumbling on the sand . . . My brow is hot against the icy bars; There is the smell of iron on my hand.

PRISON SHADOWS

Like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies They flood our cells and seem to fashion there I know not what dim landscapes of despair; All day we feel them lurking in our eyes. At night they fall like crosses, sombre-wise, Upon the shameful uniforms we wear, Upon the brow, the face, the hand, the hair; And on each heart their shadow always lies.

O heart of mine, why throb with futile rage And beat and beat against these hopeless bars? For, though you break in life's last deadly swoon, You cannot pierce beyond this iron cage To see the pulsing splendor of the stars Or feel the blue-green magic of the moon!

PRISON REVEILLE

Out through the iron doorway, bolted strong, I see the night guard's shadow on the wall. The bugle sounds its thin, white silver call, Awake! awake! O world-forgotten throng! And then the sudden clanging of the gong, And . . . silence . . . aching silence . . . over all; While through the windows, steel-barred, stern and tall, Pale daylight greets us like a plaintive song.

Somewhere the dawn breaks laughing o'er the sea To splash with gold the cities' domes and towers, And countless men seek visions wide and free, In that alluring world that is not ours; But no one there could prize as much as we The open road, the smell of grass and flowers.

PRISON NOCTURNE

Outside the storm is swishing to and fro; The wet wind hums its colorless refrain; Against the walls and dripping bars, the rain Beats with a rhythm like a song of woe; Dimmed by the lightning's ever-fitful glow The purple arc-lamps blur each streaming pane; The thunder rumbles at the distant plain, The cells are hushed and silent, row on row.

Fall, fruitful drops, upon the parching earth, Fall, and revive the living sap of spring; Blossom the fields with wonder once again! And, in all hearts, awaken to new birth Those visions and endeavors that will bring A fresh, sweet morning to the world of men!

THE WARRIOR WIND

Once more the wind leaps from the sullen land With his old battle-cry. A tree bends darkly where the wall looms high; Its tortured branches, like a grisly hand, Clutch at the sky.

Grey towers rise from gloom and underneath-- Black-barred and strong-- The snarling windows guard their ancient wrong; But the mad wind shakes them, hissing through his teeth A battle song.

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