The Electro-Media Of Saint Anthony Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

Festering with gladness, deep within the mill-crowned town,
Where bold Saint Anthony commands the water's roaring crown,
I betroth the wisdom from the youth of steel and stone,
While Hill and Pillsbury forge an empire from the bone.

We mine adultress hours where the gantry stands,
And count the scarcity of time through labor's grip and hands.
Along the granite curb-stones where the commercial gutters run,
Beneath the Romanesque arcades that catch the northern sun,
The heavy facades rise in brownstone, brick, and iron trim,
With terra-cotta garlands carved around the windows dim.

Amidst the iron grid where Hill and Pullman roll their trains,
And towering titans bind the west in shining iron chains,
We yield incognitive conclusions to the turbine's roar,
Beside the silent clerks who tread the limestone river floor;
The unheard multitudes who keep the workshop and the mill,
Whose names are lost like sawdust when the evening air is chill.

Where Dakota and Ojibwe tread a dispossessed domain,
Surviving fractured treaties and a century of pain,
While Swisshelm's fiery spirit leaves a sharp and lasting trace—
Her ink an iron weapon raised against the chains of race—
And ancient lines of bitter hate and boundaries of law
Deny the equal human right, and keep the tyrant's maw.

The canary-yellow streetcars—Twin City Lines so bright—
Clang down the avenues of ice with sparks of electric light,
While overhead the trolley wires hum a metallic song,
And hurrying crowds of commuters push and surge along.
Beside the faithful yard dog and the parlor's slumbering cat,

The quiet life of humble folk who shared the neighborhood chat,
While local painters sketch the mist upon the river bend,
And parlor tunes of Sousa cross the dusk from end to end—
While downtown plazas boast new monuments of civic pride,
And progressive halls of justice house the reforms deep inside.

As crowds flock out to Falcon Heights where fairground banners fly,
To watch the grandstand fireworks blaze across the northern sky,
Then came the Great War's shadow, choking out the factory cheer,
With loyalty commissions driving whispers, doubt, and fear,
As steel mills forged the shells and mothers watched the troop trains roll,
And wartime frenzy tested every immigrant's free soul.

While labor blood runs down the street where heavy strikers tread,
And riot echoes shake the town for justice and for bread—
Where flying squadrons lock the trucks and face the baton's blow,
And iron guards and deputies meet fury in the snow—
We trace the deep impediments of survival day by day,
As northern winters gather in the frozen ancient gray,
Championed still by Hilyer's voice against the bitter stain,
And his crusade against the film of Birth of a Nation's reign.

Yet where the restless waters turn and scour the riverbed,
An ancient island watches while the centuries are shed,
Where quiet shores of wild rice sway beneath the amber light,
And whisper truths forgotten through the long Dakota night.

And through the gorge where Spirit Island guards the channel deep,
The frozen winter breezes past the limestone bluffs will sweep,
To breathe upon the silent woods where modern wheels must cease,
And fold the surging city in a wild, enduring peace.