The Rhythm of Time [View All]

At a recent NYRAD (New York Residents Against Drilling) meeting, one of the topics of interest to the majority of people concerned public speaking. This includes debating the pro-fracking people attend public hearings; talking to journalists at these hearings – especially when television cameras are rolling; and even how to best write a letter-to-the-editor of a local newspaper.

There was a time when I could not get up and speak in public. Part of this was, I believe, a result of growing up in poverty. My family was too poor to be able to provide adequate dental care; I suffered from a condition that left me with few teeth early in childhood, and could not pronounce words properly. I was the silent poor kid at the back of the classroom.

As I've mentioned before, I did like to box. I could fight in front of a crowd of 5,000 people, and find pleasure in showing off my skills. But to get up in front of a classroom of my peers was an intimidating experience. Hence, books became my best friends, and the written word my favorite form of communication.

I especially enjoyed spending time with “The Autobiography of Malcolm X.” There was a section where Minister Malcolm sought advice from Elijah Muhammad, about debating “experts” in public. Elijah told Malcolm that so long as he was speaking the truth, he had no reason to fear any man who was attempting to defend a lie, no matter what their level of education.

I also remember hearing Jesse Jackson say that an audience will relate far more to a nervous but sincere speaker, than to an overconfident, insincere one.



Roibeárd Gearóid Ó Seachnasaigh (Bobby Sands) wrote the following poem, “The Rhythm of Time” about the power of fighting for what is right.)

There's an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
> It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.

It was born when time did not exist,
And it grew up out of life,
It cut down evil's strangling vines,
Like a slashing searing knife.

It lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the mind of man,
Tempering leandened hearts to steel,
From the time that time began.

It wept by the waters of Babylon,
And when all men were a loss,
It screeched in writhing agony,
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.

It died in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly word was 'Spartacus'
Along the Appian Way.

It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor,
And frightened lord and king,
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare,
As e'er a living thing.

It smiled in holy innocence,
Before conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of the deathly power of gold.

It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets,
And stormed the old Bastille,
And marched upon the serpent's head,
And crushed it 'neath its heel.

It died in blood on Buffalo Plains,
And starved by moons of rain,
Its heart was buried at Wounded Knee,
But it will come to rise again.

It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes,
As it was knelt upon the ground,
And it died in great defiance,
As they coldly shot it down.

It is found in every light of hope,
It knows no bounds nor space
It has risen in red and black and white,
It is there in every race.

It lies in the hearts of heroes dead,
It screams in tyrants' eyes,
It has reached the peak of mountains high,
It comes searing 'cross the skies.

It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is 'the undauntable thought', my friend,
The thought that says 'I'm right!'