Is It For Freedom? Words and Music by Sara Thomsen Rulers of the nations as you fuss and fight Over who owns this or that and who has the right, To design, build, sell and store and fire All the bombs and guns to defend your holy empire There are children hungry, children sick and dying There are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers crying They.re only pawns in your play of power and corruption. Slowly starve them, your new weapons of mass destruction. And prove to me America, that you care And prove to me America that you.re aware Who.s dying for your freedom in this land Who pays the cost for the liberties you demand. Is it for freedom or for comfort and convenience? Is it to profit for big business we pledge our allegiance? Are we prisoners in the land of the brave and bold Held by indifference or hearts grown hard and cold? And prove to me America, that you care And prove to me America that you.re aware Who.s dying for your freedom in this land Who pays the cost for the liberties you demand. Children of the world you have the right To sing and dance, run and play, let your dreams take flight As the innocent die you rulers carry the shame And if we stand idly by we share the blame. And oh America do we care? And on America are we aware? Who.s dying for our comfort in this land? Who pays the cost for the convenience we demand? Children of the world you have the right To sing and dance, run and play, let your dreams take flight
Is poetry descrptive of their world simply MISSING from the so-called "right," or simply missing from the lives/interest of those comprising the so-called "right" on this board at this time? I mean, I know that the WH poetry forum to be hosted by Laura Bush had to be canceled, the WH felt, after some of the poets indicated that they would stand fast against against the (at that time) upcoming war on Iraq, but come on; where's the poetry that eloquently embraces at least the thinking behind the current state of affairs? I'd like to read it / hear it / experience it.
Shut your scuzzy mouth, fat body, and listen up. I am going to give you the straight skinny, because you are the biggest sh!tbird on the planet. Your job is to stand around and stop the bullet that might hit someone of importance. In Viet Nam nice guys do not finish at all and monsters live forever. We are teenaged Quasimodos for the bells of hell and we are as happy as pigs in ******** because killing is our business and business is good. The only virtue of the stupid is that they don't live long. The Lord giveth and the M-79 taketh away. If you're lucky, you'll only get killed. There it is. Welcome to the world of zero slack. We hump through a defoliated rain forest that is too dead even to smell dead. Ancient trees stand stark and black and stripped of leaves. The black trees are hung with limp windblown flowers that are parachutes from illumination shells. Later we see trees that are as white as bone, sun-bleached skeletons of the great hardwoods, white trees with black leaves. The trunks and branches of the trees are warped by unnatural cancerous growths that look like human faces and human hands and human fingers growing out of decaying wood. In the poisonous fields of the defoliated rain forest we see monsters, freaks, and mutants. We see a water rat with two heads and as big as a dog, birds with extra feet coming out of their backs, Siamese-twin bullfrogs joined at the stomach. The bullfrogs scurry for cover with clumsy and desperately frantic movements horrible to see, finally sinking into oozing slime inhabited by shadows that are alive and best never seen by human eyes. There are a lot of stories about the Phantom Blooper. Below Phu Bai the Phantom Blooper is a black Marine Lieutenant who inspects defensive positions at bridge security compounds. The next night, they get hit. North of Hue City the Phantom Blooper is a salt and pepper team of snuffy grunts who guide the Marine patrols into L-shaped ambushes set by the Viet Cong. Force Recon claims a probable kill for shooting the Phantom Blooper in the Ashau Valley. The Phantom Blooper was a round-eye, tall and white, with blond hair, wearing black pajamas and a red headband, and armed with a folding-stock AK-47 assault rifle. Recon swears that—and this is no ********—the round-eyed Victor Charlie was the honcho, the leader, of the gook patrol. The Phantom Blooper has many names. The White Cong. Super-Charlie. The American VC. Moon Cusser. The Round-Eyed Victor Charlie. White Charlie. Americong. Yankee Avenger. But whatever name we use, we all know in our hearts the true identity of the Phantom Blooper. He is the dark spirit of our collective bad consciences made real and dangerous. “Go home,” the Phantom Blooper says, every night. And we want to go home, we really do, but we don’t know how. “Go home,” the Phantom Blooper says, without mercy, over and over, again and again, punctuating his sentences with explosions. -Gustav Hasford
I Came From A Place I Forgot I Woke Up In A Parking Lot Far From A Meal & A Cot On The Corner Where All The Streets Got The Same Name Maybe My Brain is On The Brink Of (Insane) Pain Between The Papers While Sleepin On The Train This The Land Of Milk And Honey Know What I’m Sayin The Invisible Man Times Three Black, Down & Out Out Standing On A Corner No Doubt Now A Nation Of Homeless Sleepin In Bus Stations Another Win For The Pilgrims Who Said "No More Haitians!" As I Proceed Someone To Feed Me Is What I Need Through Three Blocks Of Dealers Tryin To Hit Me Off With Some Weed Avenue & Boulevard Hungry As A (M-Fvcka) Hope To Get A Ride From A (Trucka) Everybody Know I Ain’t No (Sucka) Everyone Used To Drop 30 At The (Rucker) Away From Crazy Kids In Generation-Wrekked Dissin' Pyramids While Praisin' Projects Walk Past Old Folks Gettin' No Respect Callin' Young Folks A Bunch A No Good Rejects And I Walk On... Actually, it's not that bad; trying to turn in a first draft of my thesis...soon, soon...
Amir & Anna Amir can't sleep. He dives under his bed. Anna is afraid of everything. Parked cars, moving buses. Anna is afraid of toast. Their names begin with "A", contain the same number of letters. They live one mile apart. No one has given them what they deserve. Around both their houses, all the Arab and Jewish houses, red poppies sleep beneath dirt and stones. What do they know? In March green spokes with fluttering heads sprung by the secret spool of time rise and rise on every side. -- Naomi Shihab Nye
What you saw was a bunch of trenches with arms sticking out, plows mounted on tanks combat earth movers Defiant Buried Carefully planned and rehearsed When we went through there wasn't anybody left Reporters banned Not a single American killed Bodycount impossible For all I know thousands said Colonel Moreno What you saw was a bunch of buried trenches with people's arms and things sticking out Secretary Cheney made no mention Every single American was inside the juggernaut impervious to small-arms fire I know burying people like that sounds pretty nasty said Colonel Maggart, But . . . His force buried about six hundred and fifty in a thinner line of trenches People's arms sticking out Every American inside The juggernaut I'm not going to sacrifice the lives of my soldiers Moreno said it's not cost-effective The tactic was designed to terrorize Lieutenant Colonel Hawkins said who helped devise it Schwartzkopf's staff privately estimated fifty to seventy thousand killed in the trenches Private Joe Queen was awarded a Bronze Star for burying trenches with his earthmover Inside the juggernaut Impervious A lot of the guys were scared he said but I enjoyed it A bunch of trenches People's arms and things sticking out Cost- effective.
JERICHO You are a dreamer of dreams walking a lonely shore Dream if you want but remember there are iron laws However much you seek to solve this mystery No one ignores the iron vice of history All those gone before dreamed to escape Trying to fly over the palisades Standing at the gates This is Jericho And the walls reach up to the stars Outside we were singing psalms Such a strange strange place For we are the prisoners Of the prisoners we have taken Sing me the songs of a world that I once knew Recall the legends once so proud and true My people used to live here not so long ago But they fled into the night and I was left alone I guard this walls for you and me Dream on, sail on, my memory Standing at the gates This is Jericho And the walls reach up to the stars Outside we were singing psalms Such a strange strange place For we are the prisoners Of the prisoners we have taken And the prophets' dreams are now forsaken ---------------------------------------------- Johnny Clegg, on the album Cruel, Crazy, Beautiful World.
Barbara Fritchie Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach trees fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord to the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!" the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!" out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word; "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, and the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! And let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!
And here is a favorite of mine, from John Kerry's favorite poet, Pablo Neruda: To be men! That is the Stalinist law! . . . We must learn from Stalin his sincere intensity his concrete clarity. . . . Stalin is the noon, the maturity of man and the peoples. Stalinists, Let us bear this title with pride. . . . Stalinist workers, clerks, women take care of this day! The light has not vanished. The fire has not disappeared, There is only the growth of Light, bread, fire and hope In Stalin's invincible time! . . . In recent years the dove, Peace, the wandering persecuted rose, Found herself on his shoulders And Stalin, the giant, Carried her at the heights of his forehead. . . . A wave beats against the stones of the shore. But Malenkov will continue his work. (I am sure it sounds better in Spanish than English. Anyway, I now am fighting the urge to go out and execute a counterrevolutionary kulak Stravkite or something like that )
THE SHADOW OF PINOCHET A leaf could not rustle in the wind without him knowing. All whispers in the dark could be heard by him even from far away where he collected human ears, so they wouldnt hear the whispers anymore so he could only hear the leaves rustling in the wind He laughed at his country saluted poets then served them human heads roasted in wine and garlic he told them, "Now you can write about that"! But the poets did not write about "that" because they wanted to keep their hands so no words were written no whispers were heard except by him when the leaves rustled in his shadow in the wind. Randolph Ouimet, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manner of thine own Or of thine friend's were. Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.
Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, - a people starved and stabbed in the untilled field. -Percy Bysshe Shelley
The Republican Occupation - Paul Watsky Rain since yesterday, its early drops new speckles on the mildewed window sill; this morning hard spatters against a background of creekgush, no respite. My more intelligent friends have cancelled their newspapers, funnies and all. I misheard a cheerful man say, One hell freezes over,... in my mind added, while another ignites, but he meant merely When-without political implications, guns yet to steal his butter, sons, his lovely gasoline. Or mine. What ends the book? Death? Birth? A barrage of redundancies? For me, a dream vision. We parachute into poetry. Below us people are dying. A lecture is in progress, Lawrence Britt on fascist universals. Let's eavesdrop: Bigtime Religion climbs in bed with Political Power, while Business scoots over on the mattress, bumping Organized Labor and Intellectuals into the toilet. The State buffers itself by fear-mongering, acclimating us to police rule, torture. Cliques hijack government, rig elections, scream nationalism, distribute flags, piss on human rights, ferret out scapegoated Enemies, exalt the military, institutionalize sexism, down gays, demonize abortion. Hot stuff! I grow enlightened, omniscient. Just like (your god's name here) I perceive everything, the future, too, and laugh out loud, for it is written I can make you smart. Want to know what happens with Iraq? Squinch up your eyes. Cogitate. Correct. But the real question is when, and I will tell you. Not soon. Think decades. Quite right, you also apprehend profits, bucks galore, shitloads! Next: fascismwise what do we lack right here at home? If you answered, really natty uniforms for the ruling class, give yourself a hug, a gold-plated spangled-banner pin, an armored SUV. Relax. The Lord's on our side, on everybody's side, and Heaven's no democracy. Never was.
American girls, and American guys We'll always stand up and salute We'll always recognize When we see old glory flying There's a lot of men dead So we can sleep in peace at night when we lay down our head My Daddy served in the army Where he lost his right eye But he flew a flag out in our yard until the day that he died He wanted my mother, my brother My sister and me To grow up and live happy In the land of the free Now, this nation that I love has fallen under attack A mighty sucker punch came flyin in from somewhere in the back Soon as we could see clearly Through our big black eye Man, we lit up your world like the Fourth of July Hey, Uncle Sam put your name at the top of his list And the Statue of Liberty started shakin her fist And the eagle will fly And there's gonna be hell When you hear Mother Freedom start ringin her bell And it'll feel like the whole wide world is rainin down on you Hey, brought to you courtesy Of the red, white, and blue. Oh, justice will be served and the battle will rage This big dog will fight when you rattle his cage You'll be sorry that you messed with the U.S. of A. Cause, we'll put a boot in your ass It's the American way Hey, Uncle Sam put your name at the top of his list And the Statue of Liberty started shakin her fist And the eagle will fly And there's gonna be hell When you hear Mother Freedom start ringin her bell And it'll feel like the whole wide world is rainin down on you Hey, brought to you courtesy Of the red, white, and blue.
"The Taliban Song" "I'm just a middle-aged, middle-eastern camel herdin' man I got a little, 2 bedroom cave here in North Afghanistan Things used to be real nice and they got out of hand when they moved in They call themselves the Taliban (ooooo yeah the taliban) (taliban baby) Now I ain't seen my wife's face since they came here They make her wear a scarf over her head that covers her from ear to ear She loves the desert and the hot white sand But man she's just like me, nah she can't stand The Taliban (ooo taliban baby) You know someday soon we're both gonna saddle up and it'll be Ride Camel Ride My old lady she'll be here with me, smilin right by my side We should do just fine out around Palestine or maybe Turkmenistan We'll bid a fair adieu and flip the finger to the Taliban (oh yeah the taliban) Now they attacked New York City cause they thought they could win Said they would, stand and fight until the very bloody end Mr Bush got on the phone with Iraq and Iran and said "Now, you sons-of-bitches you better not be doin any business with the taliban" (Taliban baby) So we prayed to Allah with all of our might Until those big U.S. jets came flyin one night They dropped little bombs all over their holy land And man you should have seen em run like rabbits, they ran (the taliban) You know someday soon we're both gonna saddle up and it'll be Ride Camel Ride My old lady she'll be here with me, smilin right by my side We should do real fine out around Palestine or maybe Turkmenistan We'll bid a fair adieu and flip a couple fingers to the Taliban (oh yeah, taliban) we'll bid a fair adieu and flip a big boner to The Taliban
ITN's Major Points a haiku by Yossarian, June 23, 2005 flag burning is bad question not the patriot suckle the bush teet
Awww shyt fvck c0cksucker, that's what people say everyday, when they try to believe a motherfvckin' word, democrats and republicans say!! -Bullworth-
I When my dreams showed signs of becoming politically correct no unruly images escaping beyond borders when walking in the street I found my themes cut out for me knew what I would not report for fear of enemies' usage then I began to wonder II Everything we write will be used against us or against those we love. These are the terms, take them or leave them. Poetry never stood a chance of standing outside history. One line typed twenty years ago can be blazed on a wall in spraypaint to glorify art as detachment or torture of those we did not love but also did not want to kill We move but our words stand become responsible for more than we intended and this is verbal privilege III Try sitting at a typewriter one calm summer evening at a table by a window in the country, try pretending your time does not exist that you are simply you that the imagination simply strays like a great moth, unitentional try telling yourself you are not accountable to the life of your tribe the breath of your planet IV It doesn’t matter what you think. Words are found responsible all you can do is choose them or choose to remain silent. Or, you never had a choice, which is why the words that do stand are responsible and this is verbal privilege V Suppose you want to write of a woman braiding another woman's hair-- straight down, or with beads and shells in three-strand plaits or corn-rows-- you had better know the thickness the length the pattern why she decides to braid her hair how it is done to her what country it happens in what else happens in that country You have to know these things VI Poet, sister: words-- whether we like it or not-- stand in a time of their own. No use protesting I wrote that before Kollontai was exiled Rosa Luxembourg, Malcolm, Anna Mae Aquash, murdered, before Treblinka, Birkenau, Hiroshima, before Sharpeville, Biafra, Bangla Desh, Boston, Atlanta, Soweto, Beirut, Assam --those faces, names of places sheared from the almanac of North American time VII I am thinking this in a country where words are stolen out of mouths as bread is stolen out of mouths where poets don't go to jail for being poets, but for being dark-skinned, female, poor. I am writing htis in a time when anything we write can be used against those we love where the context is never given though we try to explain, over and over For the sake of poetry at least I need to know these things VIII Sometimes, gliding at night in a plane over New York City I have felt like some messenger called to enter, called to engage this field of light and darkness. A grandiose idea, born of flying. But underneath the grandiose idea is the thought that what I must engage after the plane has raged onto the tarmac after climbing my old stairs, sitting down at my old window is meant to break my heart and reduce me to silence. IX In North America time stumbles on without moving, only releasing a certain North American pain. Julia de Burgos wrote: That my grandfather was a slave is my grief; had he been a master that would have been my shame. A poet's words, hung over a door in North America, in the year nineteen-eighty-three. The almost-full moon rises timelessly speaking of change out of the Bronx, the Harlem River the drowned towns of the Quabbin the pilfered burial mounds the toxic swamps, the testing-grounds and I start to speak again. -1983- ~ Adrienne Rich, “North American Time” Your Native Land, Your Life. New York: W. W. Norton, 1986.
Mel, I love ya, but this is awful poetry. It's an essay broken into lines. Really, there are few poets around who have betrayed their talent as much as Adrienne Rich has. Here's a good political poem that I've posted on this board several times in the past:
Unknown Citizen - W.H. Auden (To JS/07/M/378/ This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
Battle Hymn of the Republic, Brought Down to Date - Mark Twain (sung to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic) Mine eyes have seen the orgy of the launching of the Sword; He is searching out the hoardings where the stranger's wealth is stored; He hath loosed his fateful lightnings, and with woe and death has scored; His lust is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the Eastern dews and damps; I have read his doomful mission by the dim and flaring lamps-- His night is marching on. have read his bandit gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my pretensions, so with you my wrath shall deal; Let the faithless son of Freedom crush the patriot with his heel; Lo, Greed is marching on!" We have legalized the strumpet and are guarding her retreat;* Greed is seeking out commercial souls before his judgement seat; O, be swift, ye clods, to answer him! be jubilant my feet! Our god is marching on! In a sordid slime harmonious Greed was born in yonder ditch, With a longing in his bosom--and for others' goods an itch. As Christ died to make men holy, let men die to make us rich-- Our god is marching on. * NOTE: In Manila the Government has placed a certain industry under the protection of our flag. (M.T.)
Langston Hughes Let America Be America Again Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. (America never was America to me.) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed- Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above. (It never was America to me.) O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe. (There's never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.") Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek- And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one's own greed! I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean- Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today-O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years. Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That's made America the land it has become. O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home- For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa's strand I came To build a "homeland of the free." The free? Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we've dreamed And all the songs we've sung And all the hopes we've held And all the flags we've hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay- Except the dream that's almost dead today. O, let America be America again- The land that never has been yet- And yet must be--the land where every man is free. The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME- Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again. Sure, call me any ugly name you choose- The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath- America will be! Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain- All, all the stretch of these great green states- And make America again!