War and soldiering, victory and defeat, belong not just to the troops, the generals, the political leaders. They belong to the Poets. Poets to protest the cost of the violence, Poets to remind that freedom – the touch of the divine – must sometimes be freed from the touch of man.
Today we gather in our Colloseums of decadence, our fevers pitched higher than we care to admit. We want the battle. We want a good fight. There are no observers, no outsiders; not even those who refuse to watch can claim immunity. Warriors, yes it is the day of the Warriors. Yet in every era, the tale of the Warriors is told by those who step aside to observe, those whose feet, if they ever touched the battlefield, lived to stumble home.
Today we are willing Spectators to our current day Gladiators. The vitality of wild horses will meet the stealth and skill of the hawks. May it be a battle worthy of the highest that is human. May the loser take the knee and bow with nobility so that even defeat is elevated.
Today we inhabit the realm of the 12. We are no longer a 12th man, singular, but the 12th tribe. The number 12 shines through from office buildings, hangs on flags outside our homes, homes that won’t fly the American flag, not even on Memorial Day or the 4th of July. We have tables full of snacks. Bars filled elbow to shoulder with people who finally, finally, in this freeze-out of a town, are willing to make small talk, willing to build community. And what community do we build? One where we prefer the victory of the elegant bird of prey over the spirit of the wild, half-tamed horse. We will, despite our higher selves, gloat in the missteps, errors, maybe even the injuries the others suffer.
Today we satisfy our blood thirst with the spill of orange. We will soar – or crash – on Osprey wings. We will search vainly for the higher valor as we reach for another corn chip, scoop up the guacamole, food from a formerly conquered people whose story is no longer told in poetry, and bind our fate with our neighbors.
Today we support this battle with more time and energy than the ongoing fight for democracy and the protection of human rights. Twelve tribes, 12 apostles, 12 gates of Heaven guarded by 12 angels, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 months of the year, Gilgamesh preserved on 12 clay tablets. We are no longer one; we are 12.
Which, if any, of our lifetime’s battles will be taught 500 years from now? What is our generation’s Odyssey? In a time when every conflict is broadcast worldwide, when every action is documented by blog or tweet, when every sexual craving can be indulged instantaneously, when every canvas shows impossible beauty, when every memoir details impossible horrors, where is our Epic poetry? Will the heroes we worship today be worthy of worship in the next generation? Whose name will my grandchildren utter with awe and reverence? No one can utter the name of the person who wrote Beowolf, nor Gilgamesh. We revere many, but the lifespan of reverence has shortened.
Today we join in solidarity – or reluctance – behind the pageantry, while others are caught in the Bowl’s consumer frenzy (Did the Collosseum’s spectators buy overpriced ales and snacks? Did they wear the winning colors of their favorite gladiator school? Did they take home souvenirs?).
Perhaps today an unnamed Poet is casting the tale of our time in words that will last for generations, the one that describes the Heroes who fought the real battles, bested and bloodied the oppressors whose unchecked greed threatened more than the lives of horses and hawks. Surely someone’s work will survive.