(Quoted in We Are Everywhere and Howard Zinn's The People Speak)
The Low Road
What can they do to you?
Whatever they want..
They can set you up, bust you,
they can break your fingers,
burn your brain with electricity,
blur you with drugs till you
can’t walk, can’t remember.
they can take away your children,
wall up your lover;
they can do anything you can’t stop them doing.
How can you stop them?
Alone you can fight, you can refuse.
You can take whatever revenge you can
But they roll right over you.
But two people fighting back to back
can cut through a mob
a snake-dancing fire
can break a cordon,
termites can bring down a mansion
Two people can keep each other sane
can give support, conviction,
love, massage, hope, sex.
Three people are a delegation
a cell, a wedge.
With four you can play games
and start a collective.
With six you can rent a whole house
have pie for dinner with no seconds
and make your own music.
Thirteen makes a circle,
a hundred fill a hall.
A thousand have solidarity
and your own newsletter;
ten thousand community
and your own papers;
a hundred thousand,
a network of communities;
a million our own world.
It goes one at a time.
It starts when you care to act.
It starts when you do it again
after they say no.
It starts when you say we
and know who you mean;
and each day you mean
one more.
- Marge Piercy
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
To the Best of Our Knowledge: Espirit de Corps
Espirit de Corps
To the Best of Our Knowledge (Wisconsin Public Radio)
SEGMENT 1:
Toby Nunn was a Sergeant First Class who served two tours in Iraq. Home now, he's finding it hard to adjust to civilian life, but as he told Steve Paulson, he's still taking care of the men in his platoon. Nunn currently works for the nonprofit group Soldiers' Angels. Also, Tyler Boudreau is a twelve year veteran on the Marine Corps. He resigned his commission over reservations about the legitimacy of the Iraq War. He's the author of "Packing Inferno: The Unmaking of a Marine." He discusses his experiences and his decision with Anne Strainchamps. And, John Wrobleski, Sr. Tells Anne Strainchamps about the day he got the news that his son, Marine 2nd Lt. John "JT" Wrobleski, Jr. Was killed in Iraq.
SEGMENT 2:
We hear a bit of the band Drowning Pool, typical of the music favored by troops in Iraq. Jonathon Pieslak, author of "Sound Targets: American Soldiers and the Music in the Iraq War," talks with Jim Fleming about how U.S. forces use music and who they listen to. Helen Benedict is the author of "The Lonely Soldier: The Private War of Women Serving in Iraq." The words of Air Force Sergeant Marti Ribeiro as quoted in the book are voiced by actress Carrie Coon. Benedict tells Anne Strainchamps the shocking truth about the heavy toll sexual harassment and abuse take on our female warriors.
SEGMENT 3:
Brian Turner was an average young American who volunteered for military service in Iraq. At night he wrote poetry by flashlight. When his tour ended, he collected his poems into a book called "Here, Bullet." Turner talked about his work, especially the title poem, with Anne Strainchamps.
To Listen to the the Episode
To the Best of Our Knowledge (Wisconsin Public Radio)
SEGMENT 1:
Toby Nunn was a Sergeant First Class who served two tours in Iraq. Home now, he's finding it hard to adjust to civilian life, but as he told Steve Paulson, he's still taking care of the men in his platoon. Nunn currently works for the nonprofit group Soldiers' Angels. Also, Tyler Boudreau is a twelve year veteran on the Marine Corps. He resigned his commission over reservations about the legitimacy of the Iraq War. He's the author of "Packing Inferno: The Unmaking of a Marine." He discusses his experiences and his decision with Anne Strainchamps. And, John Wrobleski, Sr. Tells Anne Strainchamps about the day he got the news that his son, Marine 2nd Lt. John "JT" Wrobleski, Jr. Was killed in Iraq.
SEGMENT 2:
We hear a bit of the band Drowning Pool, typical of the music favored by troops in Iraq. Jonathon Pieslak, author of "Sound Targets: American Soldiers and the Music in the Iraq War," talks with Jim Fleming about how U.S. forces use music and who they listen to. Helen Benedict is the author of "The Lonely Soldier: The Private War of Women Serving in Iraq." The words of Air Force Sergeant Marti Ribeiro as quoted in the book are voiced by actress Carrie Coon. Benedict tells Anne Strainchamps the shocking truth about the heavy toll sexual harassment and abuse take on our female warriors.
SEGMENT 3:
Brian Turner was an average young American who volunteered for military service in Iraq. At night he wrote poetry by flashlight. When his tour ended, he collected his poems into a book called "Here, Bullet." Turner talked about his work, especially the title poem, with Anne Strainchamps.
To Listen to the the Episode
Sunday, November 28, 2010
For My Love Who Is Far Away: Response to e.e. cummings "I Carry Your Heart"
I carry your heart and your love with me and it warms my days and gives light to my dark nights... I carry your heart and it softens my edges and fills me with love for you, and, in turn love for the world... I carry your heart, and it reminds me that you will soon be home with me and that makes me happy.
e.e. cummings "I Carry Your Heart
e.e. cummings "I Carry Your Heart
Friday, October 01, 2010
Otto Rene Castillo: Apolitical Intellectuals
APOLITICAL INTELLECTUALS
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
--Otto Rene Castillo
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
--Otto Rene Castillo
Monday, August 30, 2010
Maurice Blanchot: The Madness of the Day
From The Madness of the Day, by Maurice Blanchot, trans. Lydia Davis
I am not learned; I am not ignorant. I have known joys. That is saying too little: I am alive, and this life gives me the greatest pleasure. And what about death? When I die (perhaps any minute now), I will feel immense pleasure. I am not talking about the foretaste of death, which is stale and often disagreeable. Suffering dulls the senses. But this is the remarkable truth, and I am sure of it: I experience boundless pleasure in living, and I will take boundless satisfaction in dying.
I have wandered: I have gone from place to place. I have stayed in one place, lived in a single room. I have been poor, then richer, then poorer than many people. As a child I had great passions, and everything I wanted was given to me. My childhood has disappeared, my youth his behind me. It doesn't matter. I am happy about what has been. I am pleased by what is, and what is to come suits me well enough.
Is my life better than other peoples lives? Perhaps. I have a roof over my head and many do not. I do not have leprosy, I am not blind, I see the world—what extraordinary happiness! I see this day, and outside it there is nothing. Who could take that away from me? And when this day fades, I will fade along with it—a thought, a certainty, that enraptures me.
I have loved people. I have lost them. I went mad when that blow struck me, because it is hell. But there was no witness to my madness, my frenzy was not evident: only my innermost being was mad. Sometimes I became enraged. People would say to me, Why are you so calm? But I was scorched from head to foot; at night I would run through the streets and howl; during the day I would work calmly.
I am not learned; I am not ignorant. I have known joys. That is saying too little: I am alive, and this life gives me the greatest pleasure. And what about death? When I die (perhaps any minute now), I will feel immense pleasure. I am not talking about the foretaste of death, which is stale and often disagreeable. Suffering dulls the senses. But this is the remarkable truth, and I am sure of it: I experience boundless pleasure in living, and I will take boundless satisfaction in dying.
I have wandered: I have gone from place to place. I have stayed in one place, lived in a single room. I have been poor, then richer, then poorer than many people. As a child I had great passions, and everything I wanted was given to me. My childhood has disappeared, my youth his behind me. It doesn't matter. I am happy about what has been. I am pleased by what is, and what is to come suits me well enough.
Is my life better than other peoples lives? Perhaps. I have a roof over my head and many do not. I do not have leprosy, I am not blind, I see the world—what extraordinary happiness! I see this day, and outside it there is nothing. Who could take that away from me? And when this day fades, I will fade along with it—a thought, a certainty, that enraptures me.
I have loved people. I have lost them. I went mad when that blow struck me, because it is hell. But there was no witness to my madness, my frenzy was not evident: only my innermost being was mad. Sometimes I became enraged. People would say to me, Why are you so calm? But I was scorched from head to foot; at night I would run through the streets and howl; during the day I would work calmly.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Greg Mosson: Ars Poetica -- A Case for American Political Poetry
Ars Poetica: A Case for American Political Poetry
by Greg Mosson
The Potomac
Why should poets address political issues, ask some critics with arched disapproving eyebrows, and then often they answer that politics its too timely a subject for quality poetry. Question and the answer miss the point. First of all, any subject matter is timely in poetry. Robert Frost’s classic second book North of Boston is almost entirely comprised of narrative dialogues of people right in the middle of things, and yet the poetry he crafted with it will remain relevant as long as the English language does. The poet in the classic sense always faces the technical difficulty of making life at hand relevant to the teeming generations. The question is much more interesting if reversed: Why should poets exclude political and social issues from their poetry?
If poetry is “a statement in words about an experience,” to use critic Yvors Winters’ definition in The Function of Criticism; then why should the political aspects of “experience” be excluded from poetry? Helen Vendler in her book Poets Thinking sees “poets as people who are always thinking, who create texts that embody elaborate and finely precise (and essentially unending) meditation.” While 20th century history shows many examples of totalitarian governments oppressing artists who dare to address state matters in their work, why should poets on their own narrow their thinking to the nooks and crannies of just personal space (as if personal space can be so cut off from other people and the social and natural worlds). Lastly, if poetry is “the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds,” as the romantic poet Shelly says in A Defense of Poetry; then do these moments automatically exclude everything political and social for every poet? In 19th century American verse, one finds a poet as solitary as Emily Dickinson, and of course a poet as socially gregarious Walt Whitman. While these
poets have different emphasis, both poets span the spectrum of the personal, social, and political. The most accurate portraits of human life always will touch on the social and the political, because people live in social and political milieus. In the reverse sense, looking at a mid-20th century political poem like Allen Ginsberg’s “America,” Ginsberg decries the war and poverty of the 1950s, which remain timely in the first decade of the 21st century, despite their “timeliness.” Ginsberg’s poem asks in modern language, “Am I my brother’s keeper” when he says in the opening lines, “When will we end the human war?” At the same time, the poem is a personal portrait of a man harried by the social milieu he cannot accept.
To Read the Rest of the Essay
by Greg Mosson
The Potomac
Why should poets address political issues, ask some critics with arched disapproving eyebrows, and then often they answer that politics its too timely a subject for quality poetry. Question and the answer miss the point. First of all, any subject matter is timely in poetry. Robert Frost’s classic second book North of Boston is almost entirely comprised of narrative dialogues of people right in the middle of things, and yet the poetry he crafted with it will remain relevant as long as the English language does. The poet in the classic sense always faces the technical difficulty of making life at hand relevant to the teeming generations. The question is much more interesting if reversed: Why should poets exclude political and social issues from their poetry?
If poetry is “a statement in words about an experience,” to use critic Yvors Winters’ definition in The Function of Criticism; then why should the political aspects of “experience” be excluded from poetry? Helen Vendler in her book Poets Thinking sees “poets as people who are always thinking, who create texts that embody elaborate and finely precise (and essentially unending) meditation.” While 20th century history shows many examples of totalitarian governments oppressing artists who dare to address state matters in their work, why should poets on their own narrow their thinking to the nooks and crannies of just personal space (as if personal space can be so cut off from other people and the social and natural worlds). Lastly, if poetry is “the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds,” as the romantic poet Shelly says in A Defense of Poetry; then do these moments automatically exclude everything political and social for every poet? In 19th century American verse, one finds a poet as solitary as Emily Dickinson, and of course a poet as socially gregarious Walt Whitman. While these
poets have different emphasis, both poets span the spectrum of the personal, social, and political. The most accurate portraits of human life always will touch on the social and the political, because people live in social and political milieus. In the reverse sense, looking at a mid-20th century political poem like Allen Ginsberg’s “America,” Ginsberg decries the war and poverty of the 1950s, which remain timely in the first decade of the 21st century, despite their “timeliness.” Ginsberg’s poem asks in modern language, “Am I my brother’s keeper” when he says in the opening lines, “When will we end the human war?” At the same time, the poem is a personal portrait of a man harried by the social milieu he cannot accept.
To Read the Rest of the Essay
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Michael Benton: If language is a virus, then I'm going to create an epidemic (2.0)
(As always, for Laura)
She munches slowly a morpheme served up as he hungers for her taking the chance to sally the edges of abstraction as antidote to confusion and angst his struggle is for memory flowing through desire released in language initiating possibilities how will she receive my scribblings what will they mean is communication possible I recall her inner beauty standing now solitary I listen to the stillness of my world missing her laughter lacking a singing voice or a painter’s eye I offer up words as a humble offering walking alone along boulevards of color and light I play word games gathering winged thoughts that circle above me turning eros into pages that her passionate eyes might touch as time skips a beat, if, as William Burroughs states, language is a virus, then I am going to create an epidemic
She munches slowly a morpheme served up as he hungers for her taking the chance to sally the edges of abstraction as antidote to confusion and angst his struggle is for memory flowing through desire released in language initiating possibilities how will she receive my scribblings what will they mean is communication possible I recall her inner beauty standing now solitary I listen to the stillness of my world missing her laughter lacking a singing voice or a painter’s eye I offer up words as a humble offering walking alone along boulevards of color and light I play word games gathering winged thoughts that circle above me turning eros into pages that her passionate eyes might touch as time skips a beat, if, as William Burroughs states, language is a virus, then I am going to create an epidemic
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Otto Rene Castillo: Apolitical Intellectuals
APOLITICAL INTELLECTUALS
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
--Otto Rene Castillo
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
--Otto Rene Castillo
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Eve Ensler: "You Tell Me How to be a Girl in 2010" and "I Am An Emotional Creature"
Waking up to sunshine coming in my window (finally!) this morning I clicked on a podcast and the first thing I heard was Eve Ensler's monologue "You Tell Me How To Be a Girl in 2010" ..... beautiful, powerful, important poem
On the Point (WUBR)
To Listen to Eve Ensler perform "You Tell Me How to be a Girl in 2010" and "I Am An Emotional Creature"
On the Point (WUBR)
To Listen to Eve Ensler perform "You Tell Me How to be a Girl in 2010" and "I Am An Emotional Creature"
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Bertolt Brecht: A Worker Reads History
A Worker Reads History
Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the seas rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.
Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Greek triumphed in the Seven Years War.
Who triumphed with him?
Each page a victory
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?
So many particulars.
So many questions.
--Bertold Brecht, 1928
Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the seas rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.
Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Greek triumphed in the Seven Years War.
Who triumphed with him?
Each page a victory
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?
So many particulars.
So many questions.
--Bertold Brecht, 1928
Friday, February 05, 2010
Friday, January 01, 2010
KCRW's Bookworm: James Galvin -- As Is
James Galvin -- As Is
Bookworm (KCRW)
One of our most tender poets (tough but tender), James Galvin, investigates his growing tendency toward poems that express his bitterness— toward politics, environmental despoilment, big business. Still he affirms, in poems that breathe with sweet relief, the ongoing possibility of love.
To Listen to the Reading
Bookworm (KCRW)
One of our most tender poets (tough but tender), James Galvin, investigates his growing tendency toward poems that express his bitterness— toward politics, environmental despoilment, big business. Still he affirms, in poems that breathe with sweet relief, the ongoing possibility of love.
To Listen to the Reading
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Trinie Dalton: Animal Party
"Animal Party" by Trinie Dalton
I moved to the desert to escape the noise and crap
in Los Angeles. L.A.’s air felt gunky on my skin. Just
walking outside I’d acquire greasy layers. I washed
my face three or four times a day. Four hounds next
door started barking at dawn every morning. The
city felt claustrophobic and dingy, even at night
when I was most alive. I couldn’t see stars. I’d sit at
my desk spying through binoculars into other people’s
houses. Even then, I only saw TVs flickering—
no naked woman dancing, no stoner getting high.
Everyone was so boring. Worst of all, I hated driving
the grids; it made me feel stupid, like a termite. All
the daily plugging away in the car, on the phone,
on the computer, in the kitchen, shopping, getting
dressed, talking, thinking, behaving, and controlling
amounted to nothing more than survival, something
that a termite does so easily with no financial security
or brains.
It wasn’t fair: all the responsibilities, all the years
of moral preparation and schooling, for no more
accomplishment (a rented house, decent meals) than
that of an insect. You think humans are superior, but
they’re really not—think of all the amazing feats termites
can pull off that we can’t: chewing and digesting
wood, carrying things hundreds of times their
weight, building massive muddy towers and secure
tunnel systems, communicating telepathically without
language. Being human is a gyp.
Akashic Books
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Gil Scott-Heron: The New Deal
The New Deal
by Gil Scott-Heron
I have believed in my convictions
And have been convicted for my beliefs
Conned by the Constitution
And harassed by the police.
I have been billed for the Bill of Rights And treated like I was wrong.
I have become a special amendment
For what included me all along.
Like: “All men are created equal.”
(No amendment need there).
I’ve contributed in every field including cotton From Sunset Strip to Washington Square.
Back during the non-violent era,
Hell, I was the only non-violent one.
As a matter of fact there was no non-violence ‘cause too many rednecks had guns.
There seems to have been this pattern
That a lot of folks failed to pick up on But all black leaders who dared to stand up Wuz in jail, in the courtroom, or gone.
Picked up indiscriminately
By the shocktroops of discrimination
To end up in jails or tied up in trials
While dirty tricks soured the nation.
I’ve been hoodwinked by professional hoods.
My ego has happened to me.
“It’ll be alright, just keep things cool!
And take the people off the street.
We’ll settle this all at the conference table.
You just leave everything to me.”
Which gets me back to my convictions
And being convicted for my beliefs
‘cause I believe these smiles
in three-piece suits
with gracious, liberal demeanor
took our movement off the streets
and took us to the cleaners.
In other words, we let up the pressure
And that was all part of their plan
And everyday we allow to slip through our fingers Is playing right into their hands.
by Gil Scott-Heron
I have believed in my convictions
And have been convicted for my beliefs
Conned by the Constitution
And harassed by the police.
I have been billed for the Bill of Rights And treated like I was wrong.
I have become a special amendment
For what included me all along.
Like: “All men are created equal.”
(No amendment need there).
I’ve contributed in every field including cotton From Sunset Strip to Washington Square.
Back during the non-violent era,
Hell, I was the only non-violent one.
As a matter of fact there was no non-violence ‘cause too many rednecks had guns.
There seems to have been this pattern
That a lot of folks failed to pick up on But all black leaders who dared to stand up Wuz in jail, in the courtroom, or gone.
Picked up indiscriminately
By the shocktroops of discrimination
To end up in jails or tied up in trials
While dirty tricks soured the nation.
I’ve been hoodwinked by professional hoods.
My ego has happened to me.
“It’ll be alright, just keep things cool!
And take the people off the street.
We’ll settle this all at the conference table.
You just leave everything to me.”
Which gets me back to my convictions
And being convicted for my beliefs
‘cause I believe these smiles
in three-piece suits
with gracious, liberal demeanor
took our movement off the streets
and took us to the cleaners.
In other words, we let up the pressure
And that was all part of their plan
And everyday we allow to slip through our fingers Is playing right into their hands.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Bertolt Brecht: A Worker Reads History
A Worker Reads History
Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the seas rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.
Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Greek triumphed in the Seven Years War.
Who triumphed with him?
Each page a victory
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?
So many particulars.
So many questions.
--Bertold Brecht, 1928
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