I first encountered Edmund Vance Cooke at a conference in 2003, when Everett Gross stood up at an “open mic” session and recited his poem “Uncivilized,” from memory. Some of his poems do not appeal to me in the least, but some catch my attention. This was published in “The Public,” December 1906, as a reprint from the Saturday Evening Post.

THANKSGIVING.

We thank Thee. Yea, in the even tone Of those who are glad of the goods they own. We thank Thee. Yea, that Thou hast preferred And blessed us more than the common herd. We thank Thee, part with the heart’s intention. But most, let us own, with the lip’s convention.

“We thank Thee.” Lord! what a selfish prayer. Thanks! — while a beggar’s breast is bare? Thanks that our own full feast is spread While another creature is lacking bread? Thanks that our full-fed blood runs warm, While a starveling baby breasts the storm?

Thanksgiving! The word is a godless taunt From the “House of Have” to the “House of Want.” Until I share my uttermost crust With sinner or saint, with jailed or just, I will not clamor to God and raise My complacent eyes — and call it praise.

Why, what am I, that Thou givest a feast Which Thou hast not shared with Thy worst and least? I look at the world and I see the yield For all from forest and mine and fleld. And because I have seized a share, shall I Cry out Thanksgiving — and only cry?

Thanks? Nay, for though I am cloyed, I know The taste of the hungering want. And though My limbs are whole, I can feel the crack Of the bloody bones on the torture-rack. I have looked in the pit and have not feared, But I know the shrink of the soul it seared.

Yes, yes; I am even as you — of those Who can not, or will not, heal these woes. I am what I am, but I will not be At one with the smug-lipped Pharisee Who praises his God for his earthly gain, While Misery stares through the window-pane.

—Edmund Vance Cooke in the Saturday Evening Post