Despite knowing several poets personally, and even writing some (terrible) poetry myself, I’ve never been a big poetry reader.  Sometimes it speaks to me, though, and this poem is one of those that did.  And still does.   I first heard part of it from a colleague on Twitter.  I asked for the whole poem, and she obliged.  I could talk about what it means to me, and why I keep rereading it, but I won’t.  I’ll let it stand on its own.

Here it is:

 

The Low Road

 

What can they do

to you? Whatever they want.

They can set you up, they can

bust you, they can break

your fingers, they can

burn your brain with electricity,

blur you with drugs till you

can’t walk, can’t remember, they can

take your child, wall up

your lover.  They can do anything

you can’t stop them

from doing.  How can you stop

them? Alone, you can fight,

you can refuse, you can

take what revenge you can

but they roll over you.

 

But two people fighting

back to back can cut through

a mob, a snake-dancing file

can break a cordon, an army

can meet an army.

 

Two people can keep each other

sane, can give support, conviction,

love, massage, hope, sex.

Three people are a delegation,

a committee, a wedge.  With four

you can play bridge and start

an organization. With six

you can rent a whole house,

eat pie for dinner with no

seconds, and hold a fund raising party.

A dozen make a demonstration.

A hundred fill a hall.

A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;

ten thousand, power and your own paper;

a hundred thousand, your own media;

ten million, your own country.

 

It goes on one at a time,

it starts when you care

to act; it starts when you do

it again after they said no,

it starts when you say We

and know who you mean, and each

day you mean one more.

 

–Marge Piercy

Copyright 2006, Middlemarsh, Inc