The Laughter of the King

Final draft on 12/5/2013

I will make no habit of mentioning such things with regularity, but the title here is far too obscure, lacking an epigraph, to be puzzled out by anyone. In brief, I had written a first draft in February of 2013, most of the text being as above, but had struggled mightily with multiple different (and differently awkward and frankly bad) titles. I set the poem aside; then, before Christmas that year, I was at a reading of G. K. Chesterton’s The Ballad of the White Horse, which I had never read or heard before—though it had long been highly recommended. Having heard it (indeed, taken a turn or two as the reader to the group), I knew what title this poem needed. Had I only taken up the practice back then of adding epigraphs, I wouldn’t have had to spend the last twenty minutes here thinking through and typing up this note.

When we are hurt or impotent or scared,
We turn our rage upon the ones we love
Like chastened children beating at a doll.
It’s hard to blame us—always an excuse
Of misbehavior, villainy, or shame
Is ready on our lips if we are challenged.

In our hearts, somewhere, we know
Precisely what we’re doing: salving at our
Consciences with acid-balm to numb them;
Girding up in cardboard armor to slay
Paper dragons who, defeated, say
That cruelty alone can reap reward.

Some turn in despite upon themselves—
Justify thereby their each oppressor—
So re-sembling some sense for sorrow.

So broken, desperate, and sad,
This apex of Creation; one might think
That we were made for suffering.