Back to the Thirties ?
(Marching Song for the Pilgrimage) Years when the struggle was decent, when the Individual, The Intellectual, talked continually like back-seat drivers, Expressed at conventions in the heart of the stricken country Their private scratching emendations to poems and Utopias.
When the voice by itself had power, or seemed to have it, And the semi-political play said solemnly : 'Judg- ment.'
The sweet-toothed gourmets feasted on jellies of conscience : But cartoonists' dummies were nursing their sickening armament.
Even then the decisions were made outside the cell in the tower Where under the spotlights the Writer spoke to his Soul: A dialogue he knew perfectly well to be censored, But with what flattering tact, and even a dole.
No-one gives a damn for him now, or even pre- tends it, And power is openly out in its fighting formations. And the experts in self, still making their vows about values, Pose like ridiculous statues, spattered with blood by the nations.
ROBERT CONQUEST
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