People Before Profit blog

Peace Dividend

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:16:00 +0000

Peace Dividend

11/9: When the "Evil Empire"

Ended, warlords swore

There would be a

"Peace Dividend," but

Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...

Cold war with old war?

Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...

Enemy of the month,

Threat of the week,

Operation of the day,

War around the world,

War around the clock—

War for evermore?

Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...

Surges of war profiteers

Soliciting no-bid contracts,

Like packs of pedophile

Priests, volunteering for

Blacked-out Boys Clubs?

Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...

Hearings to hear lies

Looped like capitalist

Politicians' promises, with

Pharmaceutical side effects—

Hearings asking questions

Answered already by bloody,

Broken, bodies of babies, their

Farmer fathers, mothers, their

Grandmothers, grandfathers and

Neighbors, all commodified as

Collateral damage?

Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...

Eternal terms of Strom Thurmond and

Scoop Jackson—the Senator from Boeing—

Disguised as Di-Fi down to her New York

Stock Exchange ticker, wig concealing

Her warhead, fresh fragrance of death,

Plutonium breath, from a mouth moving

Like other GE, General Dynamics, Northrup-

Grummond-Lockheed-Martin marionettes

Over-populating capitalist hill—

Pushing up shares on the NASDAQ?...

11/9: When the "Evil Empire"

Ended, warlords swore

There would be a

"Peace Dividend," but

Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end...
Did it end... Did it end?...

Raymond Nat Turner (c) 2013 All Rights Reserved

To Martin, Ilyich, Hani, Che

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:03:00 +0000

My love is a red red flag and a bright star

My hope is a brown black yellow white people

My life is a gray slate black room packed full of roar

My blood is high Wil swings the sledge the core drives

My muscles sing we swing the roll white as heat

My bones jar the roll falls home we tape it on

The units thunder as the slow night wears on

These men dirty with oil ink sweat are a star

There is no letup neither in cold nor heat

There is the dance, we dance for we are people

That which we know we do, the pattern drives

The floor trembling Ding cleans rollers in the roar

Perry shouts toothless words sucked into the roar

Mel and me jog Steve straps tosses the lift on

The paper skims over the folding board drives

Onto the knife the folder hammers a star

Into each. Wil whips one flat: the news people

Will read tomorrow. His hands feel its birth heat

. . . .

It is unusual, this silence, though the heat

Still rises waves the air but the machine's roar

Is gone. We sit and eat. Past the dock people

Going in to work look up say hi move on

Wil smokes. Perry laughes we laugh. Above a star

Struggles to shine. The sun soon blazes and drives

Across the bridge in silence, sleepy, Steve drives

Workers, banners, papers piled in back. Heat

Already soaks us my stomach is a star

That throbs: for blocks away we can hear the roar

We park unload hands grab the bundles and on

We march to join and are lost among people

Our flag is red we shout for we are people

We stand our ground when the cops and horses drive

The hoses slam then with their clubs they come on

Wil falls Ding shields Perry with his back. A heat

Lifts me up my voice an unexpected roar

Justice justice justice my people my star

Martin, Ilyich, Chris, Che, people: in mine's heat

Or city's cold, thirst drives us forward we roar

Past our dead we press on: justice, banner, star

Mychal Simonian

author's note: It might help to know the following jargon:

jog: (verb) to straighten printed matter out when it exits an automated folder

lift: (noun) a bundle so jogged, usually 25, 50 or 100 units

strap: (verb) to tie up a bundle of lifts using a strapping machine

GHOST DANCE

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 15:36:00 +0000

POEM: Dee Allen, GHOST DANCE

[ SONG-LYRICS ]
______________

As long as the bright sun rises
And the gentle wind blows
As long as the old tree rises
And the green grass grows

These sacred grounds are ours always
Core of our long-held belief
But strangers come to take it all away
Return to us as we glide our feet

CHORUS 1: Ancestors
You are our only salvation
Ancestors
Shield us from devastation
Ancestors
Deliver us from their debasement
Ancestors
Shield us from forced displacement

Now we need you more than ever
Your spirits will protect us
From wasi'chu* who wish to sever
Our lifeways and disrespect us

Lakota-----sustainers of these lands-----
Shunkawakan**, lakes, earth we nurture
Our feet shall move with you in this [ round ] dance
To spare our people, save our future

[ REPEAT CHORUS 1 ]

Mother of the World

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 15:04:00 +0000

*Mother of the world

Don't ask me to grieve
for these children only
ask me to grieve for them all.

Ask me to grieve for the 16 million
who go to bed hungry
every night
ask me to grieve for them all.

Ask me to grieve for the 1.6 million
who go to sleep without a home
every night
ask me to grieve for them all.

Ask me to grieve for the six million
around the world who die from hunger
every year
or the 176 killed by US drones in Pakistan
ask me to grieve for them all.

You don't have to ask me to mourn
for these innocents
for I mourn all the children of this world
always
and I am ashamed
and I am grieving.*

--
Sarah Page
www.outofour.com

OUT OF RESPECT (A poem)

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 14:57:00 +0000

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Out of respect for the children
let us not speak of gun control.
Let us grieve in silent outrage
lest one of those small figures
carrying memories of fearful
moments, cupboard cuddled,
waiting with a teacher for an
end to either deadly shootings
or themselves think this horror
might have been averted
had we all been willing, even once
to dream beyond heroic violence
to the far more challenging, more
courageous, more inspiring vision
of heroic peace.

Out of respect for the victims
let us not speak of mental health
but rather, soothe the conscience
of a country with simplistic categories,
good guys, bad guys, innocent and
guilty, lest we lose to shades of gray
our mindfulness that a culture closed
to those who most need help,
who least are able to afford much-
needed meds, who cry and stamp and
tantrum, is not to blame, but only those
who once cast out and told they can’t
be saved return in blazing rage inhabit shadow
and all the rest the pious light.

Out of respect for the soldiers
let us not speak of peace.
For if a world of diplomatic, thoughtful
problem solving is a possibility, why then
how dare we send our loved ones out
to die, to strive in terror and privation,
to sacrifice their bodies and their minds,
their limbs and senses to explosive conflict
far away, outside the rules of civil conduct
where to kill is just as much a job as filing,
cleaning rooms or sliding cans
past bar-code scanners.

Out of respect for our history,
speak not of genocides committed,
of infected blankets given out,
of trails of tears and wounded knees,
of treaties broken, promises abandoned,
reservations cordoned off and redefined
as minerals emerged and unexpected
resources came to light and seemed
more valuable than earth or sky
or human beings.

Out of respect for tradition
let us not speak of change.
Out of respect for the dead
let us all still our tongues.
Out of respect for the past
let us never speak of the future.
Out of respect for the wealthy
let us not speak of the poor.
Out of respect for the poor
let us not speak of the economy.
Out of respect for the worker
let us not speak of unions.
I am out of respect.
Let us now observe
not a single moment of silence.

Herod's Descendants

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 08:24:00 +0000

herod's descendents

oklahoma city

newtown

colorado twice over

newtown

the uncounted of the 'hoods and barrios

newtown

abu ghraib

newtown

my lai

newtown

sand creek

newtown

wounded knee

newtown

the 38 indian chiefs hung in minnesota by abe lincoln

newtown

hiroshima

newtown

nagasaki

newtown

dresden and leipzig

newtown

the tens of thousands of nicaragua and el salvador and guatemala

newtown

the millions of congolese dead to make available the chips for the laptop on which this

poem is written

newtown

the tens of thousands in "fast and furious" mexico

newtown

and on and on and on.......

newtown has proven once more that

what's going around is coming around

and these twenty-eight slain are

twenty-eight more reasons

that i am a communist

calling for the indictments

the trials

the findings of guilty

the removal from our midst

of those who knowinglly

and willfully make available

for whatever the market would bear

the weapons of mass destruction

of our children the world over

the murder of adults who would

protect the children

indict! try! remove

the gangsters and

their organized crime

called capitalism

berkeley ca 12-19-2012

gary hicks

Cora

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 19:25:00 +0000

Jorge Argueta lives in San Francisco

CORA

Aquí en San Salvador
En el portal La Dalia
Un niño huele pega
Y su corazón tiembla

Como el rocío
Como una estrtella
Y de las cloacas
Se levanta un olor ahijillo

Y ni el volcán
el viento
o las nubes
lo ven o lo tocan

Aquí aun hay pintas de 1980
Y en algún lugar
De San Salvador
Florecen huesos de los
desaparecidos

Cantán en el Corazón de
nuestra Madre Tierra
Los inviernos y veranos
Que van y vienen en las
alas
De los azacuanes

Por las mañanas
Los mercados se levantán
Frescos
Brillantes como un rebozo

A lo lejos
El cerro San Jacinto
Sigue siendo
Hermoso como los amates y
los sueños

Aquí en las calles de San
Salvador
Las mujeres y los hombres
Los niños y las niñas
Predican coras

Coras de alegría
Coras de esperanza
Coras de dulzura
Veinticinco centavos de
abrazos

Coras
Coras de ajos
Coras
Coras de limomes

Coras
Coras
Coras se escucha
Como un lamento dulce y
tristón

Desde las gradas que
conducen
A los comedores del Mercado
Central
Los niños y las niñas
elevan pizcuhas
Coloradas y rosadas hacía
el cielo azul

Luego siguen vendiendo
coras de cebollas
Coras de tomates
Coras de bálsamo
Coras y coras y más coras

Veinticinco centavos que
apenas
Tocan sus manos
Veinticinco miserables y
alegres centavos
Que siguen volando como sus
voces

Coras de canto
Coras de flores
Coras de viento
Coras de besos

Yo pienso en los azacuanes
Que llevan y traen
Los inviernos y los veranos
En el corazón y en las alas

Aquí me quedo
En este país medio vivo
Medio muerto
Aquí me quedo

Junto al cerro San Jacinto
Cierro los ojos
Rezo como rezan los
guerreros
Los volcanes

El agua
El maíz
Las piedras y el sol cora
Corazón de un nuevo
amanecer

QUARTER

Here in San Salvador
In the market district
Of La Dalia
A young man sniff glue

His heart shivers
Like dew
Like star
And from the drainage rises

A rotten smell of the dead
Nor the volcano
The wind or the clouds
See or touch him

Here in San Salvador
There are still slogans
from the 80's
And some where
Bones of the disappeared
are blooming

Singing in the heart of our
Mother Earth
Winters and summers come
and go
In the wings
Of the Azacuanes birds

In the mornings
The markets awake fresh
Shiny
Like a shawl

Faraway
The San Jacinto hill
Continues to be
Wonderful like the amate
trees and dreams

Here in streets of San
Salvador
Man and woman
Boys and girls
Preach quarters

Quarters of happiness
Quarters of hope
Sweet quarters
A quarter of hugs

Quarters
A quarter of garlic
Quarters
A quarter of lemons

Quarters
Quarters
Is heard
As a sweet and sad lament

From the steps that lead to
the eateries
Of the main Market
Children fly purple and red
kites
Into the blue sky

Then go on selling quarters
of onions
Quarters of tomatoes
Quarters of balsam
Quarters and quarters and
more quarters

Twenty five cents that
hardly
Touch their hands
Twenty five happy and
miserable cents
That continue flying like
their voices

A quarter of songs
A quarter of flowers
A quarter of wind
A quarter of kisses

I think of the Azacuanes
birds
That take back and forth
The winter and the summer
In their hearts and wings

Here I stay
In this country half dead
Half alive
Here I'll stay by the San
Jacinto hill

Close my eyes
And pray
Like the warriors pray
The volcanos

The water
The corn
The stones and the sun
quarter
Sunshine of a new begining

In town x3

Thu, 06 Dec 2012 12:45:00 +0000

Poem by Amiri Baraka

In town x3

Something in the way of things
Something that will quit and won’t start
Something you know but can’t stand
Can’t know get along with
Like death
Riding on top of the car peering through the windshield for his cue
Something entirely fictitious and true
That creeps across your path hallowing your evil ways
Like they were yourself passing yourself not smiling
The dead guy you saw me talking to is your boss
I tried to put a spell on him but his spirit is illiterate

I know things you know and nothing you don’t know
’cept I saw something in the way of things
Something grinning at me and I wanted to know, was it funny?
Was it so funny it followed me down the street
Greeting everybody like the good humor man
But an they got the taste of good humor but no ice cream
It was like dat
Me talking across people into the houses
And not seeing the beings crowding around me with ice picks
You could see them
But they looked like important Negroes on the way to your funeral
Looked like important jiggaboos on the way to your auction
And let them chant the number and use an ivory pointer to count your teeth
Remember Steppen Fetchit
Remember Steppen Fetchit how we laughed
An all your Sunday school images giving flesh and giggling
With the ice pick high off his head
Made ya laugh anyway

I can see something in the way of our selves
I can see something in the way of our selves
That’s why I say the things I do, you know it
But its something else to you
Like that job
This morning when you got there and it was quiet
And the machines were yearning soft behind you
Yearning for that nigga to come and give up his life
Standin’ there bein’ dissed and broke and troubled

My mistake is I kept sayin’ “that was proof that God didn’t exist”
And you told me, “nah, it was proof that the devil do”
But still, its like I see something I hear things
I saw words in the white boy’s lying rag
said he was gonna die poor and frustrated
That them dreams walk which you ’cross town
S’gonna die from over work
There’s garbage on the street that’s tellin’ you you ain’t shit
And you almost believe it
Broke and mistaken all the time
You know some of the words but they ain’t the right ones
Your cable back on but ain’t nothin’ you can see
But I see something in the way of things
Something to make us stumble
Something get us drunk from noise and addicted to sadness
I see something and feel something stalking us
Like and ugly thing floating at our back calling us names
You see it and hear it too
But you say it got a right to exist just like you and if God made it
But then we got to argue
And the light gon’ come down around us
Even though we remember where the (light or mic?) is
Remember the Negro squinting at us through the cage
You seen what I see too?
The smile that ain’t a smile but teeth flying against our necks
You see something too but can’t call its name

Ain’t it too bad y’all said
Ain’t it too bad, such a nice boy always kind to his motha
Always say good morning to everybody on his way to work
But that last time before he got locked up and hurt, real bad
I seen him walkin’ toward his house and he wasn’t smiling
And he didn’t even say hello
But I knew he’d seen something
Something in the way of things that it worked on him like it do in will
And he kept marching faster and faster away from us
And never even muttered a word
Then the next day he was gone
You wanna know what
You wanna know what I’m talkin’ about
Sayin’ “I seen something in the way of things”
And how the boys face looked that day just before they took him away
The is? in that face and remember now, remember all them other faces
And all the many places you’ve seen him or the sister with his child
Wandering up the street
Remember what you seen in your own mirror and didn’t for a second recognize
The face, your own face
Straining to get out from behind the glass
Open your mouth like you was gon’ say somethin’
Close your eyes and remember what you saw and what it made you feel like
Now, don’t you see something else
Something cold and ugly
Not invisible but blended with the shadow criss-crossing the old man
Squatting by the drug store at the corner
With is head resting uneasily on his folded arms
And the boy that smiled and the girl he went with

And in my eyes too
A waving craziness splitting them into the jet stream of a black bird
With his ass on fire
Or the solemn NOTness of where we go to know we gonna be happyI seen something

I SEEN something
And you seen it too
You seen it too
You just can’t call it’s name name name name name name name.

—Amiri Baraka

(This poem read at the Geraldine R Dodge Poetry Festival in October 2012, in Newark, NJ. Amiri Baraka opened the festival and a special event that commemorated the 45th anniversary of the Newark Uprising of 1967, in which his voice played a prominent role, with a powerful reading)

Homecoming

Sun, 18 Nov 2012 09:57:00 +0000

Dee Allen is an activist combatting homelessness and other forms of street-based opppression in San Francisco.

HOMECOMING..........Dee Allen

Back from the combatzones
Of the rest of Europe
And patriotic ticker-tape parades,
England's sons

Had no homes
To come back to
In the mid-1940s.

Military camps
Luxury flats
City hotels
Were abandoned.
Fears of air raids
By Nazi planes
Dropping bombs
Power outtages
Cities blown to the bare bricks
Sent everyone running.
Crisis followed crisis:
Housing shortage.

Under nightfall's
Thick velvety cover, like
An Army battalion onto an enemy fort,
The ex-soldiers of England
Saw vacant buildings,
Opened them up,
Took them over
And made them their own.

Huddling against a wall
In the dead cold
Wasn't an option.

Neither was languishing
For years on a public list, waiting
For the government to hand over a pre-fab cottage.

Legal paper
Fictions of "private property" & "leasing"
Never entered the equation

When the need for housing
Was greatest
Right there, right then.

Military camps
Luxury flats
City hotels
Filled in nicely
With veterans & civilians, 45,000 strong
In the post-war days.
They were better at
Re-organising society
Than Her Majesty's Kingdom,
As committees & collectives
Ran communal kitchens,
Provided first aid,
Repaired the barracks,
Ran makeshift clinics,
Opened up potential homes
For fellow dispossessed,
Defended newfound homes
From the danger
Of ejection
Back to constant wandering
And instability
Dreaded instability
On the street-----

England's sons
And Wales'
And later, Scotland's
Made good on a promise
To themselves:

Homes truly fit for heroes.
The homecoming any soldier needs.

NEW YORKER

Sat, 16 Jun 2012 08:29:00 +0000

Marriage equality bill passes in New York,
tonight the word spreads
from hand to hand like wildfire,
how quickly everyone knows.

Rainbow flags unfurl from windows,
car horns honk.

Thousands throng the streets
around the Stonewall,
32 years after
the rebellion.

But many straights in the City,
are also glad,
not stationed at the epicenter
of the celebration perhaps,

but a quiet satisfaction of a democratic task
accomplished, all the more momentous for that,
everyone in this city knows someone
who knows someone who knows someone,

who has walked down that long, lonely road,
and many are proud
to have played a role
in that budding coalition.

On TV they interview
a couple who have lived
together
30 years.

‘So many twists and turns
in the struggle,
so many anniversaries,
Karen and I thought we might
never get to see
this moment.

But it is finally here!
At long last gay and lesbian people
have the same legal rights
as other couples. “

Oh, America,
which has come this far,
which still has
such a long way to go.

When Obama
was elected president,
in Harlem Black people
danced.

Today
once again
I am proud
to be a New Yorker.

drones

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 18:07:00 +0000

Drones

Last night the Drones

Followed me home

They’d been hovering

Above the flat roof

Of the bar all evening

Chattering like the drunks inside

But they were alert enough

To trail me back

Through empty streets

Stopping when I stopped

Starting when the lights changed

So intent were we

The Drones & I

We failed to notice

On corners of the street

The tin-cup brigades

Of the redundant FBI

"Will Surveil for Food"

Their signs read

Michael Shepler 5/21/12

casserole

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 17:17:00 +0000

casserole

for laurie

remember that scene in malcolm x
where malcolm and the fruit of islam
descend upon the police station
and particularly that historico-cinematic
moment when malcolm's black- gloved
hand twists rightward and the fruit
does a left-face and marches away
along with all of the masses who came
to the police station?
do you remember that you asked me
if i was crying and i replied that
i had something in my eye?

well, i've always had this problem
of having eye-cinders at political moments
those specs just keep showing up!
the revolutionary peoples constitutional congress
philadelphia labor day weekend 1970
michael cetawayo tabor keynoting in
the indoor gym
the justice department may 1971 when the
d.c.'s black cops in total mutinous disobedience
to their white commanders refusing
to attack a nonviolent demonstration
the first legal martin luther king holiday
in san francisco with at least one hundred
and more likely two hundred thousand
marchers coming across the east bay bridge
from san jose on trains reserved by the unions.

it seems that i've had a goodly supply of eye-cinders
to cover my false-shame for disobeying the rule
that men don't cry and now here we are again
another film that of one half million quebecois
students and all of their allies banging pots and
pans and strumming any and all string instruments
and out numbering the total activist pool of occupy
in my country where on mayday in oakland
eye-cinders invaded again to the sight of a mere
seven thousand marchers.

so i'm resigned to having to keep in stock many many
eye-cinders because both rumor and official story
have it that i don't cry.

berkeley ca 6-2-2012

gary hicks

a sentence

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 19:57:00 +0000

a sentence

needs

at least one subject

and one verb

(though sometimes the subject

is unnamed it's understood

nevertheless

objects must be named)

...........Johannes Mehserle shot Oscar Grant III.

subject: Johannes Mehserle

verb: shot

object: Oscar Grant III

a sentence becomes sophisticated

when it includes complexity and detail

...........Johannes Mehserle shot Oscar Grant III who was...........restrained faced down

on the ground surrounded by three police officers.

subject: Johannes Mehserle

verb: shot

object: Oscar Grant III

...........A white police officer shot a black man faced down...........on the ground

and will spend less than two years in jail for his...........criminal conviction.

what is the object

of that sentence?

object? anyone?

-Kevin Simmonds

Used by permission.

Kevin Simmonds is a San Francisco-based writer, musician and filmmaker originally from New Orleans. His books include the poetry collection Mad for Meat and two edited works: the poetry anthology Collective Brightness: LGBTIQ Poets on Faith, Religion & Spirituality and the late poet Carrie Allen McCray's Ota Benga under My Mother's Roof. He wrote the music for the Emmy Award-winning documentary Hope: Living and Loving with HIV in Jamaica and Voices of Haiti: A Post-Quake Odyssey in Verse, both commissioned by the Pulitzer Center. His genre-defying films, including feti(sh)ameand Singing Whitman, have screened internationally.

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What Must Be Said

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:27:00 +0000

What must be said

Why have I been silent, silent for so long?,
Our generals have gamed it out,
Confident the west will survive.
We people have not even been considered.

What is this right to “preventive war”?
A war that could erase the Iranian people.
Dominated by it’s neighbor, pulsing with righteousness
Smug in the fact that it is they, not Iran,
Who have the Bomb.

Why have I so far avoided to identify Israel by it’s name?,
Israel and it’s ever increasing nuclear arsenal,
Beyond reproach, Uncontrolled, uninspected.

We all know these things
Yet we all remain silent, fearful of being labeled:
anti-Semitic
hateful
worse

Considering Germany’s past these labels stick
So we call is “business”, “reparation” take your pick,
As we deliver yet another submarine.
As we provide to Israel the means to deliver annihilation.

I say what must be said.
What Must Be Said

Why did I stay silent until now?
Because I’m German, of course.
I’m tainted by a stain I cannot wash out
I’m silent because I want so badly to make it right
To put my sins in the past and leave them silently there.

Why did I wait to say it until now?
And write these words with the last of my ink?
Declaring that Israel threatens world peace?
Because it is true and it must be said,
Tomorrow will be too late.

We Germans now carry a new burden of sin on our shoulders
Through the weapons we have sold
We are helping to carry out this foreseeable tragedy
No excuse will remove our stain of complicity.

It must be said. I won’t be silent
I’ve had enough of the hypocrisy;

Please shed the silence with me,
The consequences are all too predictable.
It’s time to demand free and permanent control
of BOTH Israel’s nuclear arsenal
AND Iran’s nuclear facilities
enforced with international supervision.

It’s the only way, in a land convulsed with insanity,
Israelis, Palestinians, everybody, will survive.
And we too, will survive.

Gunter Grass

_______________________________________________________________

Germany - Aggrieved about Grass

Victor Grossman, Berlin Bulletin No. 41, April 11th, 2012

It’s rare that poems cause such anger and excitement. The only other case I can recall was Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” which once “awoke a perfect storm of derision and abuse”. That was a century and a half ago, but somehow Grass still awakens “derision and abuse”. But this time it’s Günter Grass, a Nobel Literature Prize winner, with his poem “What Must Be Said”. And the subject matter is war and peace.

Grass denies the right of any country – and he is courageous enough to name Israel openly– to wage a heavily-armed first strike against Iran based on the possibility that Iran might also acquire atomic weapons. He neither praises the Iran government in any way nor does he speak in any way against the people of Israel, for whom he stresses his lasting sympathy, but he does indeed warn of the terrifying imminence of war and points out that Israel already has atomic bombs, while Iran does not. He also denounces Germany’s sales of potentially atomic-armed submarines, one after the other, to Israel and calls for international inspection and control of all atomic weapons in the area, whether present Israeli ones or possible future Iranian ones, in the hopes of saving the entire region – or far more – from catastrophe. In a personal note, he admits his hesitance in issuing this warning earlier because of his own biography and because of the danger of being accused of anti-Semitism. But in his waning years, with his “last ink”, as he puts it, he finds it impossible to keep silent in the light of so much hypocrisy – and such a menacing situation.

Immediately after the poem was published, virtually the entire German media jumped on him - seemingly before some critics even bothered to read it. This ignorance of its contents or, more likely, an unwillingness to discuss them with a shred of open-mindedness or even fairness, led to attacks on both the poem and the poet for three main reasons.

Reason one: Grass is an old man. His last best-seller was some years ago; he now putters about with arts and crafts. He should sit by his hearth and mind his own business. His best days are past. A response to this is obviously difficult; he is undeniably 84.

Reason two (which recalled the old attacks against Walt Whitman): The poem was not really poetry; without either rhyme or meter it was really disguised prose. As if lyric quality really mattered – it was the content which counted. After all, Grass had already received the Nobel Prize and many other prizes (mostly for his prose) and was seeking no additional laurels for timeless literature. But he had something to say!

Reason three, constantly alluded to, was his participation during World War Two in a unit of the Waffen-SS, a particularly nasty section of Hitler’s military forces. Most critics disregarded or dismissed the fact that he was only 17 when he was assigned to this military unit and was in it only from November 1944 until he was wounded in April 1945. He claims that he never fired a shot himself but did help load artillery shells. Frequently mentioned is the fact that he kept this secret until late in life, most probably due to shame. But it must be asked: Did this past secret disqualify him from uttering any political view for the rest of his life? Or didn’t his writings, most notably his famous novel “The Tin Drum” (filmed by Volker Schlöndorf), a dramatic, deeply engaged attack on the entire fascist structure and crimes of the Nazis, make good for those juvenile five months?

Then too, during all the decades since 1945 the very same media now attacking him so self-righteously almost totally “neglected” the fact that all West Germany was dominated to an amazing extent by former Nazi bigwigs - up until they finally died out. And not by such young recruits but by the bloodiest of generals who completely built and commanded the new army. A host of incriminated ex-Nazi diplomats represented the Bonn government abroad, the police departments, secret services, courtrooms, academic lecture rooms and government positions up to the topmost heights were heavily laden with truly guilty men. Indeed, the mighty giants behind the swastika flags, those who profited from the conquests and the slave labor, not the individuals but banks and corporations with names like Krupp, Siemens, Bayer, BASF and Deutsche Bank, still dominate the scene today. And not a few newspapers currently attacking Grass were built up after 1945 by editors who won their spurs as propagandists for Hitler. Unlike Grass, few of all these men ever confessed their former sins – or publicly regretted them.

Except in one question. The new ruling powers in West Germany found very quickly that all those sins, not just those of the past but present and future ones, were mildly overlooked if they loudly and stoutly rejected open anti-Semitism while embracing any and all policies of the Israeli government. This rule, carefully watched over, provided the entrance ticket for an ascent into the so rewarding ranks of the “western democracies”. And this strategy, at first more a mask than anything else, soon developed into a close bond between all ruling parties in Germany and the far right forces in Israel, up to and including the openly racist Foreign Minister Avigdor Lieberman and Premier Benjamin Netanyahu.

This largely one-legged posture explains why any questioning of the top-level German-Israeli alliance represents an earnest threat and must immediately be squelched. Over the years the taboo was rarely violated; this explains the malevolence of the attacks against Grass.

But there is now a new worrisome element explaining the vigor of such attacks against anyone undermining this status quo. In the face of recent Israeli actions - the terrible civilian casualties in the attack on Gaza, the fearful attack on the Mavi Marmara in the Mediterranean, a seepage of information about the oppression of Palestinian villages in the occupied areas, the refusal to suspend the expansion of Jewish settlement in these areas and, indeed, the construction of a Wall reminiscent of Berlin, have been having an effect on public opinion and, much delayed, even on a few public figures eager to win votes - or becoming simply honest.

Shortly before the Grass poem Sigmar Gabriel, head of the Social Democratic Party, wrote in Facebook after a visit to the West Bank city of Hebron that there was no justice for Palestinians there, that it was an “apartheid regime” for which there could be no justification. He, too, was immediately attacked but at least partially stood his ground. No, he had not meant to equate Israel and its government with the old apartheid regime in South Africa, he wrote, he was a friend of Israel, but he considered the Israeli settlement policy to be wrong. “The humiliating treatment of Palestinians in Hebron …is a cause of really great anger, even with someone like myself who supports Israel. This is what I tried to express.”

Such sentiments are undeniably on the increase. What makes this issue so much more complicated here is of course Germany’s unparalleled guilt against the Jewish people. This demands that any criticism of Israeli policy must scrupulously avoid any implied equation of the Netanyahus with the Jewish people, in Israel or anywhere else, especially since there is a numerically small but potentially dangerous pro-Nazi element eager to take advantage of any feelings against Israel to rationalize Hitler’s genocide. At the same time the present leaders of the Jewish community (or the official ones, in any case), while necessarily opposing real anti-Semitism, also use that same label in attacking any and every form of criticism of Israeli policy, especially if it comes from the left – or from even mildly leftish people like Günter Grass. (Strangely enough, some far-right Netanyahu fans suddenly find themselves on the same wagon with some neo-Nazis, who are down-playing anti-Semitism in order to attack the much larger, more vulnerable and far more easily identifiable target, the allegedly common enemy, the Muslims.)

At least one important Israeli fueled the fires in such an arrogant manner that they soon backfired. Interior Minister Eli Yishai proclaimed Günter Grass persona non grata and said he would not be welcome in Israel. This riled many in both countries who otherwise denigrated the Grass poem. Some journalists noted that Grass had no such travel plans anyway. Others, in Israel, pointed out that the very same views, the rejection of any “pre-emptive” military strike against Iran, have been stated over and over by many Israelis, including Meir Dagan, the former head of the Mossad espionage organization. Others worried that while someone like Grass or Noam Chomsky is barred from the country, vicious racists like the Dutch rabble-rouser Geert Wilders or the French neo-fascist presidential candidate Marie Le Pen are welcomed. And for German leaders, who have always demanded freedom of speech and press in Russia, East Germany and currently in Syria or Iran, such a ban because of a poem is embarrassing to say the least.

While some noted personalities, especially those who have been waving the anti-Muslim banner most fervently, continue with their attacks, the effects of his clear and – for many – quite moving words have undoubtedly had an effect. His books, though usually best-sellers, were not too easily digestible except for intellectuals, but a recent poll showed that well over 50 percent of the population now support him, with a large number stating that they do not consider his words to be anti-Semitic. It seems undeniable: his poem has led not only to much controversy but with it to wide-spread thinking and re-thinking.

+++

Postscript. Although they tend to stress local issues, elections in May in Schleswig-Holstein and the key state of North-Rhine-Westphalia are already affected to a degree by the poem. Social Democratic leaders, with a few notable exceptions, have said they no longer wish any support from Grass, who in earlier years was a favored campaign speaker on their behalf. The other big party, the Christian Democrats, certainly will have nothing to do with him. But, aside from such leaves – or sharp blades – connected with Grass, both elections will be of special importance to the four smaller parties for other reasons. The Free Democrats, still members of Angela Merkel’s national coalition but internally split, are virtually fighting for their political survival. The Greens, though certain of remaining in the legislatures in both states, face the possibility that they will be shoved under the table at a wedding of the two main parties, as in Saarland after a recent election there. They may even be overtaken by the young new party, the Pirates, which hopes to break its way into both state legislatures and has good chances of becoming a new political factor nationally, although - aside from free internet use and political transparency - it remains vague on almost all major issues, national or international.

The Left Party, which has some seats in both legislatures, may well miss the 5 percent hurdle and lose them all due in great measure to its difficult internal situation in the past year – now complicated by the decision of Gesine Loetzsch to resign as co-president because of the illness of her husband and remain only as Bundestag delegate from her East Berlin election district. The Left too is affected by the Grass poem, for some leading members are basically pro-Netanyahu, while others active support secular and democratic Palestinian positions. But, as one drama follows the other, in Germany as elsewhere, I must leave these matters to future articles.

Sones del Zócalo

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:21:00 +0000

Mexico City sones terremoto blues
A Mexican Johnny Depp look-a-like
is condemned to play Edward Scissorhands on a street-corner
Another Mexican, with the square jaw of Michael Keaton
in full Batman regalia
poses for photographs with tourists and other passerby's

Unemployment is down by two.

We are all assigned to play a part in this great drama
Indian women at the bottom

They sit with plastic baskets
asking for spare change
everywhere it's the same
Indians at the bottom
Whites at the top
even if they're Mexicans who can pass for Hollywood stars.
Two young men with a boom-box
breakdance with fury
The polluted, thin air doesn't deter their hip-hopping
to techno
A man his skin rubbed in green
a verdant mime,
Plays an Indian
moves in synch to Bach symphony
He starts screaming platitudes every time he gets a donation
Another indian woman sprawled on the sidewalk her hand held upward
waiting for money to fall down
There is a hierarchy of skin color
The indian woman cannot play a hollywood
she's condemned to beg
Marcos was right
We are being condemned to become products in the shop windows of malls.
Who's playing Che? Who's playing Ramona? Who's playing Frida?

I noticed that all the white mannequins pose defiantly
they stand with the power pose of a chola
Except the real cholas who stand and walk defiantly
get arrested, criminalized.
Here the mannequin cholas display the latest fashions
that they'll never wear.

Who is playing the migrant?
Who is playing the drug dealer?
Who's playing the narcotraficante?
Who's playing the Mexican?
A jarocho strums and plucks a harp
playing the opening plucking notes of La bamba
He starts wailing "Para bailer la bamba ...."
I keep walking on
Mexico City sones to tell our history of survival.
Does anyone want a real change?
Graffitti proclaims: it's time for a real change
AMLO = +educación -muerte
MORENA
Where are the Indians?
Where are the Zapatistas?
Who's electing who?
What role will the new president play?
War on drugs or war on drug-users or candidates to drug use
to escape the drudgery of neoliberalism
The Zócalo is built over the Templo Mayor.
The metropolitan cathedral is tilting
the temple of Aztecs below are pushing their way up.
What will they see? Hollywood or Mexicans being Mexicans?

Arthritis is one thing, the hurting another

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:16:00 +0000

.............................for Adrienne Rich in 2006

The poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.

You are not required to understand.

This is not the year for understanding.

This is the year of burning women in schoolyards

and raided homes, of tarped bodies on runways and in restaurants.

The architecture of the poet's hands has turned upon itself.

This is not the year for palliatives. It is not the year for knowing what to do.

This is the year the planet grew smaller

and no country would consent to its defeat.

The poet's cup is filled too full, a weight she cannot carry

from the table to her mouth, her lips, her tongue.

The poet's hands are congenitally spoiled.

This is not one thing standing for another.

Listen, this year three ancient cities met their ruin, maybe more,

and many profited, but this is not news for the readers here.

Should I speak indirectly?

I am not the poet. Those are not my hands.

This is the year of deportations and mothers bereaved

of all of their sons. The year of third and fourth tours,

of cutting-edge weaponry and old-fashioned guns.

Last year was no better, and this year only lays the groundwork

for the years that are to come. Listen, this is a year like no other.

This is the year the doctors struck for want of aid

and schoolchildren were sent home in the morning

and lights and gas were unreliable

and, harvesters suspect, fruit had no recourse but rot.

Many are dying for want of a cure, and the poet is patient

and her hands cause the least of her pain.

-Camille Dungy

From Smith Blue (Southern Illinois University Press, 2011)

Used by permission.

Camille T. Dungy is the author of Smith Blue and two other collections and has edited three anthologies. Her honors include the 2011 American Book Award, two Northern California Book Awards, an NEA and two NAACP Image Award nominations. She is a professor in the Creative Writing Department at San Francisco State University. www.camilledungy.com

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London and Orwell

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:13:00 +0000

london and orwell

london and orwell
revolution on the rise
and beating retreat

london and orwell
intellectuals engaged
and then in despair

london and orwell
fanon's question of our tasks
fulfill or betray?

berkeley ca 3-8-2012

Reading Tranströmer in Bangladesh

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:03:00 +0000

.......for Meherunnessa Chowdhury, 1924-2010

In Grandmother's house,

we are each a room that

must remain locked. Inside

it, a prayer mat carelessly

folded on a low table, as

though hands that once

pressed down on it are not

below ground. Who has

stripped bare the white

walls of the black velvet

tapestry depicting Ka'bah,

house of God? I let in

the netherworld. Something

rose from underneath. I sit,

wait through my cousin's

sobs. This morning, another

sudden loss: a classmate's

death, she says. Sordid

details flare out like sails

of a ship: mother trapped

in an asylum, father weeping,

son's warm body cradled

in his arms, bone still lodged

in his young throat. To whom

would this not be an inelegant

death--a caught bone, too

much like one of our own?

ii.

We leave the city as

we entered it: cloaked

in fog, lightbulbs,

lanterns, blurred gold--

the rumbling traffic

on the highways,

and the silent traffic

of ghosts. I reach

for my mother's

hand like a child.

Here hang the years . . .

they sleep with folded

wings. Already my

body begins to shed

each jagged dirt road,

bodies jostled inside each

swerving car, trains draped

with bodies dangling

like writhing vines--

iii.

The cars, packed tight,

do not move. I saw

the image of an image

of a man coming

forward . . . sudden

as starlight, he lifts

an arm: mere bone,

wrapped in brown

skin, stem of an iris

rotting in water. He

taps the glass. I close

my eyes, see his arm

trapped in a young

boy's throat. It is still

beautiful to hear the heart,

but often the shadow

seems more real than

the body. How small

the distance between

the world and the world:

a few layers of muscle

and fat, a sheet wrapped

around a corpse: glass

so easily ground into sand.

-Tarfia Faizullah

Used by permission.

Originally appeared in The Missouri Review.

Tarfia Faizullah's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Passages North, New Ohio Review, Ploughshares, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. A Kundiman fellow and a graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University's creative writing program, she is the recipient of a Fulbright Fellowship, a Bread Loaf Margaret Bridgman scholarship, a Kenyon Writers Workshop Peter Taylor fellowship, and other honors. She lives in Washington, DC, where she helps edit the Asian American Literary Review and Trans-Portal.

Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Weekwidely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.

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202-787-5210

Poem of the Week - Trayvon

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 18:56:00 +0000

TRAYVON

is a story of steam,
rising like
a swarm of hornets,
singeing sight from eyes.
a parable of lava
moldering down a mountain
igniting all green to ash,
the song of a hit recorded,
number 1 with a bullet.

Is not a story
about "fucking coons"
that "always get away."

This is not a poem
about Emmet Till,
Amadou Diallo,
or James Byrd Jr.

It is not the tale of
a "suspicious" hoodie
in the wrong neighborhood
or a trigger finger with
a "squeaky clean record."
Is not a fable of a corpse
with a bullet hole
that was tested for drugs
or a hand freshly coated
with the back flash of phosphorus
that was not.
This is a story
that checks out,
so the only charges
will be on a credit card
for funeral services.

I did not write this poem
in anger,
I did not write this poem
in "Self-Defense."
I did not write this poem.
Because my pen is empty from
having already written & written this poem.

These words can be heard
only because
while facedown
on the concrete
of the righthand lane
at 10:37 AM
on April 15th, 1987
at 19067 Greenbelt Road
my name was not Gregory Habib,
my sternum
could stand the weight
of the knee between
my shoulder blades,
and the monomaniacal eye
at the back of my head
was a .38 revolver
with a 15 lb. trigger pull
and not the 8 lb pull
of a Glock 9mm.
Because it was all just

a misunderstanding
and have a nice day, Sir.

It is not true that
my eyes are red
as a bag of Skittles
as I write this,
and if my page is dotted
with drops, it is only
Arizona iced tea that is spilled.

This poem pertains to no crime,
contains no trees
with branches strong enough
to bear the weight of a black boy,
contains no rope (of any length),
contains not even a single slipknot.

But it does loop,
like a wandering moose,
a homeward goose,
or a four hundred year old
ruse.

-Joel Dias-Porter

Used by permission.

Joel Dias-Porter (aka DJ Renegade) was born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA, and is a former professional DJ. From 1994-1999 he competed in the National Poetry Slam, and was the 1998 and 1999 Haiku Slam Champion. His poems have been published in Time Magazine, The Washington Post, Callaloo,Ploughshares, Antioch Review, Red Brick Review, Asheville Review, Beltway Quarterly and the anthologies Gathering Ground, Love Poetry Out Loud, Meow: Spoken Word from the Black Cat, Short Fuse, Role Call, Def Poetry Jam, 360 Degrees of Black Poetry, Slam (The Book), Revival: Spoken Word from Lollapallooza, Poetry Nation, Beyond the Frontier,Spoken Word Revolution, Catch a Fire, and The Black Rooster Social Inn. In 1995, he received the Furious Flower "Emerging Poet Award." Performances include the Today Show, the documentary SlamNation, on BET, and in the feature film Slam. A Cave Canem fellow and the father of a young son, He has a CD of jazz and poetry entitled 'LibationSong'.

IT

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 14:14:00 +0000

IT (originally published in Pemmican)

The U.S. government should
balance its budget ...
just like the Coppolla family does,"
Eddie the custodian says.

The Republicans in the election
seek to win popular support
for destroying the gains of the New Deal
by raising the banner of a "Contract With America."

"There is no free lunch
in industry...
why should there be one
in government,"
says the Jamal the clerical.

The real aim of their campaign
against "Big Government"
is to institute taxcuts
and other government handouts
to big business and the rich.

I argue with my coworkers,
I throw everything I have into it.
If I can't convince those
whom I work with,

whom can I win,
I ask myself
as we tumble on.

I try.

But as the Republicans bang
the drum steadily,
as the Democrats march
along,

as the schools fall apart
as the cities implode,

something tells me
it is a stone dead end.

If the argument remains
within this context,
all is lost.

"What if I told you,"
I ask them,
"of a country which can do
anything it wants to
in the dazzling New World Order--

unless,of course, it flouts
the International Monetary Fund.

Then the gunships go on red alert,
the most fearsome propaganda machine
on the face of the earth
having sprung into furious action."

"l.) FREE TRADE.
A SHIRT MADE BY SOMEONE
AT l6 CENTS AN HOUR
MUST COMPETE AGAINST A SHIRT
MADE BY SOMEONE
AT $8 AN HOUR.

2.) SLOW GROWTH AND LOW WAGES.
IF TOO MANY PEOPLE GET A JOB
WALL STREET STOCKS GO DOWN.
A COMPANY THAT LAYS OFF WORKERS
HAS PROVEN ITSELF TO BE A GOOD COMPANY.

3.) SHRINK THE PUBLIC SECTOR.
ALL GOVERNMENT IS BAD.
PUT THE WEALTH BACK IN THE JAWS
OF THE MARKETPLACE.

DEREGULATE THE LABOR MARKET.

THERE WILL BE NO RULES OR MINIMUM STANDARDS
AND ANYBODY WHO GETS TOGETHER
WI LL BE BEATEN DOWN."

"I would say it's awful,"
says the custodian.

"I would say it stinks,"
says the clerical.

"In this country a cabal attacks
the gains of the workers
in the name of fighting
"big government".

A movement for democracy and human rights
discovers it must fight
the banks and corporations
if it is to triumph."

"What if I told you all this
about a certain country?
"What people would you say
it was?"

"ARGENTINA ,"
says Eddie.

"RUSSIA , definitely,"
says Jamal.

"Wrong,"
I say.
"Wrong --
and again wrong."

"Where have you guys been
all these years?" I ask.

"In an ivory tower?
On a tropical island?"

"It is the same country
that downsizes its workers
so the stock market
can skyrocket."

"It is the same country
that balances its budget
on the backs
of the poor. "

It is the country
where racism is a scissors
that slices people
hourly from power.

It is the country
where cities fall apart
to pay for
Wall Street's wars.

"It is the country
where health care is a prayer
and the middle class
becomes fiction.

"It is the country
where every day
the rich grow richer
and the poor grow
poorer. "

"It is..."