Before John sat an array of people, both young and old, men and women, children and adults. No matter the variety, each person’s response was the same: Attentive. Each had their own reasons to be here, some wished to exact vengeance on the men that had slaughtered their families, others wanted to simply hide. Yet, they all shared one common need, and that was to learn. John knew this, at one point, perhaps, he would have called himself arrogant for believing men 20 years his senior would ever look to him as a modern Socrates; however experience over these few months had shown him differently. He could no longer question whether or not he deserved to lead, for that line of thought was futile. A heavy mantle of responsibility had been lowered onto his shoulders, and only one option remained, accept role and do the best he possibly could. John laughed to himself, perhaps God has a strange sense of humor.
John’s hand rose to stroke the grizzle growing along his chin, buying his eyes the time they needed to wander the room and search the souls of those gathered here. It was never difficult to sort the serious fighters from those who terrified of their very shadow yet desperate to appear strong. “What is poetry?” His eyes moved ceaselessly, gauging any reaction.
A chair turned over as a young teenage boy hastily stood. Those eyes, he was a fighter. John knew he should care for all of his students the same, yet he also was well aware of his bias. The warriors occupied a special place in his heart, because they would be the men and women who carried the rebellion with him to the heart of this country. These few would be the brothers in arms that bled with him… his breath caught, as it always did upon this revelation… that would very likely die with him. “Magic!” A dark and eager smile touched the boy’s lips as he yelled. The room broke into subdued chuckles, and the young boys face turned a vibrant red. Unlike most that age he did not cower beneath the scorn, instead his hand balled into fists and his chin punched upwards. John smiled even wider, spirit is always a rare commodity under the heel of tyranny.
“What, pray tell, would you seek to do with this power? This, magic, Andrew?” The boy’s name came back to him suddenly, along with the tragedy that dropped him at John’s doorstep. His parents were stoned to death in the town square while he was forced to watch, he survived by ripping up and burning the tiny journal in which he had begun experimenting with his gift. John couldn’t imagine the overwhelming anger, and guilt, that Andrew had to feel. Johns gut wrenched as he pictured it, for he knew all too well this child’s pain. Not so long ago his wife and child had been ripped from his arms and burned for using a simple verse to make flowers to bloom.
Stop. John locked down his emotions. The past would be avenged, and there would be no grieving until the fires of hell rose to swallow the attackers in their hot embrace.
“Dante, I would kill all of the soldiers, and I would make Poetry legal.” The boy betrayed no hint that he realized his naivete. Oh how John envied his youth and exuberance.
“I wish that it were as simple as you make it sound son,” John, Dante, softly responded, his strong hands gripped the edge of the mahogany writing desk which supported him. “More than that though, I wish it was so easy to erase the hurt which fuels our mutual hate.” Andrew’s eyes fell, and his shoulders trembled while his conscious mind fought between the equal responses of despair and fury. Dante’s heart broke for him, a small tear formed at the crease in his eye. Andrew righted his chair and slowly sat down, his head raised to make eye contact with Dante. Those brown eyes pleaded for so much, yet the heaviest request was for relief. John could never give him that, nor could he give it even to himself.
“Poetry, my friends, is the manifestation of the soul.” He pushed off the desk and began to pace throughout the room. “Poetry takes your deepest inner feelings, your wishes, and gives them life.” Fervor began to build in his voice. “Do any of you understand the power which you hold, and, more importantly, the responsibility? A corrupt soul could destroy the world, yet a righteous one could bring about endless prosperity” Dante stopped to gather his calm.
“You may question ‘Why then are large works of magic so few and far between’, by asking this you have made your first mistake. That is believing Poetry is a horse to be harnessed and bent to your will. This could not be farther from the truth. Poetry is beautiful, even in its most terrifying form, true verse will stagger you with its emotion even as it devours your life.” His voice came smooth now, passionate and enticing.
“Herein lies the basic secret of poetry. To birth forth beauty and power you must be broken, your pain or ecstasy must flow in and around you. Logic will never birth more than cheap side show tricks.” Dante flicked his hand to the side dismissively. “Poetry is impulsive, alive”.
Dante returned to the center of the group, bringing his hands behind his back. “This is simultaneously Poetry’s greatest strength, and weakness. The destruction of Japan showed us what a broken, however poorly trained, poet can do. He can destroy a country as easy as swatting a fly” John prayed the seriousness was setting in.
“The two parts of effective poetry are Brokenness and Expression. Each are equally difficult to master, but I will teach you as best I can.”
Brokenness, oh how he knew of that bitter lover. In fact, the city which burned his girls knew of it too. With brokenness and expression Dante had slowly cooked each villainous bastard from the inside out. Unlike his family, they were not given the mercy of losing consciousness due to the smoke, no no, they felt every agonizing touch. Their screams did not haunt Dante, though the comfort they brought his did.
“Now to business.” Dante paused, feeling his presence draw them in “Some of you have wondered why I am called Dante. Just as my Father in Name was gifted a vision of hell, I also have seen hell. I have gazed into to mouth of the beast and seen flames spew forth, and in those flames I have glimpsed burning cities. I have watched nations march armies against us in desperation only to fall before the wrath of our words. Oh yes, my friends, I have seen hell, yet unlike my predecessor I do not come to warn the world of its future doom. NO! I come to bring that hell to this vile and twisted people. I swear to you, they shall look upon us, and as their crimes flash before their eyes they will know us for what we are. The Harbingers of Justice. Justice demands their blood, so we shall deliver it.”
Word would now spread faster than ever before, and both friend and foe would flock to him as moths to flame.
