Category: poetry

Spirited Gods

On this “Earth Day,” a salute to Earth’s finest life form. ~

Spirited Gods

Spirited gods of body and mind,
Cleaving the earth and taking the find,
Arranging the atoms above in a bend,
Beneath which to dine, to dance, and attend
To desirable ends and needful things,
Burning the coal, inventing the wings
Upon which to soar like winged beasts do,
While raising fat herds for the savory stew,
Weaving silk threads, carving bone combs,
Harvesting timber for warm and dry homes,
Gathering the knowledge to hold in one hand,
On tablets of plastic and metal and sand,
Harnessing horses and nuclear parts;
Rocket plumes rise over rickety carts;
From building mud huts to high towers of glass,
From warring with spears to debating with class,
Climbing from caves to the moon and to Mars,
Masters of nature, eyeing the stars.

~ Quent Cordair
“Spirited Gods,” My Kingdom, 2019

“Lunch Break,” Quent Cordair, 1996. Oil on canvas.

Limited-edition prints available.

The Black-Holed Soul

In anticipation of the spectacle to come this evening, this poem of mine, from the same time last year, has been at the top of my mind. ~

The fawning of a million stars
Won’t sate the black-holed soul;
The unfilled need for self-esteem
Devours its diamonds whole.

The brightest suns are fed feet first,
Into the maw they go,
While vacuum’s vice slow-squeezes life
From those prostrating low.

The fearful ones come proffering praise,
So desperate for reprieve,
Some dragging offerings to the mouth,
While swearing they believe.

But in they go by ones or tens,
Sucked in without a kiss,
Around the tongue and swallowed down,
Into the void’s abyss.

~ Quent Cordair

“The Black-Holed Soul,” 3/2/2025

Don’t Tell Me

See below for how “Don’t Tell Me,” came to be, on very short notice ~

Don’t tell me what to think—I can’t;
My mind can think for only me;
Don’t tell me what to do—I won’t;
My body is my employee—
My only one, through every breath,
Through every dance, from birth till death.

Don’t tell me what to say or not,
My voice must voice my mind’s true thought,
The thought on which my life depends,
My only life, so dearly bought;
Without my speech, my mind is mute,
I’ll die unheard, leaf to root.

Don’t draw your lines to fence me in;
Don’t force me where to stay or go;
My course I set as I deem best,
My destination, mine to know,
Around the world or round the bend,
My choice to start, my right to end.

Don’t tell me what to trade with whom,
Or dictate price for beets or bread;
The dearness of my coin in hand
Is mine to weigh for boots or bed;
What rate for labor, mine to ask;
What labor hired, mine to task.

Don’t tell me whom to love or loathe,
Or whom to praise or whom to rake;
The measure of my friends and foes
Is something only I can take;
I’ll walk with whom I’ll walk today;
For good or ill, I’ll find my way.

Don’t brandish now your gun or blade,
In threat of harm against my will,
As surely as my lungs must breathe,
I’ll think my thoughts, I’ll speak my fill;
I’ll do as I think best; I vow
That, by my life, to none I’ll bow.

~ Quent Cordair
2026

How this poem came to be: “Last night, the poet Quent Cordair did the impossible. I was rushing to release the inaugural newsletter for our new organisation, the Australian Centre for Objectivism, and asked Quent to write a commission poem. He came back eight hours later (1am in his timezone) with a brilliant six-stanza poem that matched our February theme, “The Evil of the Initiation of Force”. This gives me great confidence; with allies of his calibre, our success is assured. Thank you, Quent.” ~ Maxim Bishev

The March

The March

How meekly march the millions
To the statist’s steady drum;
How passively they plod along,
All singing the same song:
Left, right, left, right,
To glory days ahead;
Left, right, left, right,
We’ll go where we are led.

How malleable are the masses
Melted in the master mold,
All tribal tied, wings kept clipped,
From cradle to the crypt:
Left, right, left, right,
We won’t stray out of line;
Left, right, left, right,
Together we’ll be fine.

How blind they go with blinders,
Seeing only what they’re shown;
How deaf they go to strident clones
With scripts and megaphones:
Left, right, left, right,
Divided we would fall;
Left, right, left, right,
Each one is one for all.

How silenced the dissenters
Shuffling towards the killing wall;
The gutters thick with viscous red
Are always needing fed:
Left, right, left, right,
Long trenches being filled;
Left, right, left, right,
Come spring we’ll all be tilled.

How deadly aim the rifles
From the towers high above;
The gates are locked, the keys are thrown,
But how could they have known?
Left, right, left, right,
Around the yard we turn;
Left, right, left, right,
When will we ever learn?

~ Quent Cordair
2025

The Black-Holed Soul

The fawning of a million stars
Won’t sate the black-holed soul;
The unfilled need for self-esteem
Devours its diamonds whole.

The brightest suns are fed feet first,
Into the maw they go,
While vacuum’s vice slow-squeezes life
From those prostrating low.

The fearful ones come proffering praise,
So desperate for reprieve,
Some dragging offerings to the mouth,
While swearing they believe.

But in they go by ones or tens,
Sucked in without a kiss,
Around the tongue and swallowed down,
Into the void’s abyss.

~ Quent Cordair
3/2/2025

Out of the Blue

Out of the blue and into the red;
Bureaus are razed for czardoms instead;
Infidels flung on the flag-draped pyre;
Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Yesterday’s profiteers lined on the wall;
Blindfold executives jeered as they fall;
Cronies and troubadours flock to the court;
Poets and publishers shift to comport.

Tariffs for all who won’t dance for the clown;
Papers are checked by the new tribe in town;
A republic unkept, one best kiss the ring;
The president’s dead, long live the king.


~ Quent Cordair

Silenced

From the river to the sea, they cried,
This land it must be free.
From the river to the sea, they screamed,
What we demand must be.

The Jordan’s banks will overflow
With crimson current high,
Awash with dead unto the Dead,
Till Galilee runs dry.

From the river to the sea, they cried,
We righteously require
That those within who dare to stand
Against us must expire.

For others bound to other books
Can tolerate no choice;
They must be free to kick and kill,
To throttle every voice.

And so it was, it came to pass,
From the river to the sea,
Once champions of the gunning thugs
Were marched and put to knee—

Lined on the shore, the silenced cried,
Bowed down, awaiting shot—
The river fed, the sea turned red,
The floating left to rot.

~ Quent Cordair

“Silenced,” Copyright 2024, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

The Village Dogs

FeaturedThe Village Dogs

Let the dead bury the dead,
Let the wounded heal behind,
Let the cowards run from courage,
Let the deaf lead on the blind.

Leave the schemers to their scheming,
Leave the plotters to their plots,
Leave the sheep to follow shepherds,
Leave the spiders spinning knots.

Leave the gullible to liars,
Let the liars fear the truth,
Leave the power-hungry preying
On each other, claw and tooth.

Leave the tribal drummers drumming,
Cannibals to eat themselves,
Leave conspiracists conspiring
With the cans on empty shelves.

Leave the fantasies to mystics,
Let the preachers point with scorn,
Leave the critics to their picking
While the clowns keep shucking corn.

Leave subjectivists judgmental,
Leave intrinsicists their airs,
Leave the dreamers to their dreaming,
But invite the one who dares.

Fix your eyes on the horizon,
Take your bearing, plot your course,
Set the village dogs to barking,
Load your gun, spur your horse.

~ Quent Cordair
Copyright 2023

Afghanistan

FeaturedAfghanistan

Again comes the cry, again comes the mourn,
Clutched fingers in hair over flowers forlorn;
Candles all lit till the night wetly glows,
Coffins wrapped neatly in black satin bows.

Shadows beg mercy where mercy’s unknown,
Prayers and peace offerings all fruitlessly sown,
The desperate prostrations all fail to suffice
For those taking no less than blood sacrifice.

There’s left but one answer to those who love death,
Whose sword demands kneeling until the last breath,
Those blinded to reason, faith shrouding their eyes
Till torn from their skulls as their creed’s final prize.

There’s left but one choice, for those who love life,
In answer to those sworn to murder and strife:
When faith-deafened minds every argument shun,
When no word can turn what no logic has won,
When pleas have been met every time with a gun—
Swift granting of death is the deed sooner done.

~ Quent Cordair

image: The Monteverde Angel, Giulio Monteverde