Martyrs and Other Visionaries

A martyr sits on a sloping rock and watches
sheep gnaw quietly on scrub. No shepherd,
he's the black sheep of this respectable world.

One of those black sheep that plants its craggy toes
on a granite cliff and looks out at the sun, tips
forward and takes a leap away from the chewing masses.

Gabriel, or something like him, swings out from behind
a slender cypress. Trumpets blare. The white sheep look up
and blink. “I have a cause, I think might interest you,”

says Gabe from on high. So the martyr is called
to sacrifice, like a lamb to slaughter, only this deal's
more solid than that. “I would die, or give a limb,

at least, for my god…” my art, my love, my most Exalted
Thing, says martyr. And the angel beats his wings and shoots
out to the clouds. And, so, Galileo was born and Solzhenitsyn

began and Joan of Arc set out on her short-lived career
(as is the nature of any martyr’s position). The return for risk,
or death in the worst case, is a place in paradise. Fame.

Glory.

There is, like in any business, a hierarchy
of martyrdom. The greats, the knowns, the unknowns.
And the rewards are doled out accordingly.

Although Gabe didn’t mention that, or whoever it was
that paid a visit—Los, The Muse, The Guilty Conscience.
So it’s vital that sacrifice be recognized by an audience

of a decent size. Another thing to know—the visioning racket
may take a toll on the personal life, on the pocket
book, in the short term. But the benefits come later

after you die on the cross, in the psych ward, in the gulag,
on the minefield.

Haleh Hatami