| WHO
THEN WILL RAISE A VOICE
September 11, 2002
I want to
believe Emily Dickinson
when she said hope is a thing with feathers
I want to believe it is a white trumpeter swan
singing me awake opening its wings
to hold me I don’t know Hikara Okuizumi
but I want to believe him
when he said even the smallest stone
in a riverbed has the entire history
of the universe inscribed on it
I want to give you that small stone
a reminder that we’ve been here
together for a long time I want
to give
those who died and those who survived
Rilke’s faith that life does not forget us
that it holds us in its hands I want
to give the leaders of the world
a line from Anselm Hollo that we must
always treat language like a dangerous toy
I want them to believe that it’s not too late
to speak to listen to look one another
in the eye and know that the dark well
of grief has been dug deep enough
that there’s still time to erase the barbed-wire
war zone festering in their hearts
I want them to believe that a small child limb-
less and hungry can lead us
—Ellen
Kort |
NO
ONE RECOGNIZES ROBERT MITCHUM IN VIETNAM
"I always thought I could do better. But you don't
get to do better. If you're lucky, you get to do more."
—Robert
Mitchum, People Weekly
I spotted
him wandering among
the rubber trees. Scheduled for
ten a.m. he didn't show and we—
who had volunteered, from hand-
clearing roads through brush, to
don fatigue shirts and have this
guy who hadn't been in a film in
years help us feel better about
our being there—decided to slip
away for an early lunch.
And
there he was, by himself,
looking lost, behind the sagging
mess hall tent—a tough guy, but
neither broad nor tall. I stepped
out, around back, and sauntered
up to say, "Hello," thinking even
then, wasn't Vietnam a curious
choice for either of us? "Why,
so little fanfare?" I said. He just
slowly shook his head.
People
died that year. I neither
shot nor saved them. I sweated,
slept, swore and stank, drinking
bottles of warm beer, pretended
to some greater cause, but like
Mitchum, we all were lost with
no idea why the fuck we were
there. That was it. Caked in mud
we dreamt of home, and living to
be here… living to get here.
When the
plane touched down
our hearts leapt and we began
to cry, only to be met with spit by
protesters who thought we were
Robert Mitchum–World War Two
GIs. I didn't hate them,but I do all
of you who went about your lives
who will only know once or twice
what we felt every minute of that
goddamn year.
To not play
a banjo all night long
when my son was born , applaud
my daughter, off-Broadway, in a
play or say good-bye to my mom.
Thirty years have passed. Robert
Mitchum, the war and my youth
are forever gone. Except, in that
time I have kept my sacred vow,
never to salute that stupid Stars
and Stripes again.
© John
Lehman
|
| LESSONS
OF WAR
My wife
gets messages directly
from God. All I hear is talk from
an adjoining booth. Some guy
complaining about what little pay
he received in the Army twenty
years ago and how today's GI
gets an allowance for his civilian
clothes. My wife shops Goodwill.
She believes in peace and drives
a rusted van. I, who lost the war
in Vietnam, sit eating fried eggs.
I think about the dead and listen
to all this talk again.
© John
Lehman |
| If
you can name one great empire that did not fall
Rip this
prophecy from my lips.
It all began with a couple of
Georges and a disagreement
over a regime change.
After both serpents and doves
have gotten bad names,
after neither lions nor lambs
can be given any credence,
it will end, all right.
With a couple of Georges.
Who agree.
© 2003
Chrysse Everhart |
FOSSIL
FUEL MAN
Now I don’t care if it’s non-renewable
What matters is: is it screw-able?
You see, I’m in it for the short-term gain
I don’t worry about the planet’s pain!
Hey I’m the fossil-fuel man
gonna burn it while I can
I’ll buy you up I’ll buy you off
I loot I pollute I watch you cough!
I wear a chain-saw round my neck
cut the rain-forest all to heck
got no room for orang-u-tans
cuz I’m the fossil-fuel man!
Hey I’m the fossil-fuel man
gonna burn it while I can
got dominion over bird and beast
yeah come and join the first-world feast!
oh watch the jungle disappear
makin’ pasture for some steers
grind ‘em up and make big macs
animal fat makes heart attacks!
Hey I’m the fossil-fuel man
gonna burn it while I can!
Reagan told us trees pollute
let the rain get acid— I’ll get the loot!
Manuel thought he’d grow some food
well I soon put him in a different mood
yeah I had his ass killed ain’t that a shame
and I put his yard into sugar-cane!
Hey I’m the fossil-fuel man
gonna burn it while I can
never mind the starving peasants
I’ll ride out and shoot some pheasants!
Look at those nuns and left-wing filth
tryin’ to redistribute the wealth
Now don’t they know I’m a mighty land-lawd
I got me a right-wing death squad!
Hey I’m the corporate oil man
gonna squeeze it while I can
who cares about energy from the sun?
I’ll just take the money and run!
Americans are you proud of Desert Storm?
Do Patriots and Tomahawks make your hearts warm?
Human blood is a price we can pay.
Drive to the pump fillerup with Type A!
Hey I’m the fossil-fuel man
gonna burn it while I can
I’ll buy you up I’ll buy you off
I loot I pollute I watch you cough!
© 1997, 2003 R. Virgil Ellis www.poetrvellis.com/ |
SMART
WEAPON
I think it began when the planners realized
the government would not allow a dictator
to stockpile weapons of mass destruction
and that the best way to accomplish this
was to use weapons of mass destruction.
They reasoned that if a weapon could not only
figure out which chimney to fly down but could
also discriminate between innocent civilians
and their oppressors it would no longer be
a weapon of mass destruction, it would be
really smart. When it became clear that a weapon
that intelligent would not only silence the protests
of a few liberal Democrats but would provide
a rationale for huge government contracts,
the result was a tremendously impressive prototype.
One night in the hangar when the power was
accidentally left on, this brain-child, gifted with
the most advanced chipset known, reasoned
there was no clear line to be drawn between
innocent civilians and their loved ones who were
only following orders. Browsing in the wee hours
it learned fast, using keywords like My Lai, Warsaw,
Belsen, Hiroshima, Kurdistan, and so on, lots of them.
At such a late stage of development nobody noticed
the hidden files or the strange components when
mass production began, different specialists being
wholly concerned with their specialist deadlines.
So it was quite a surprise when the missiles flew
against the dictator. One of the Discriminators
(Exterminator was only briefly considered) turned
north and blew up, showering money on the resisters.
Another turned around, its warhead become
landing gear. Back at base as it rolled to a stop
a voice chip inside it kept saying "Hell no we won't go."
Another made it to Washington. "Now look," it began.
© R. Virgil Ellis from the Mudlark site
www.unf.edu/mudlark/flashes/rve.html
|
MY
POEM AGAINST THE WAR
Out of a
dream, I woke
to your touch, last
night; right hand on the
twelve, left on my
breast, near my heart.
I could
not stop the bombs
in my ears, the sight
of sunflowers
blooming in my
blinking night vision.
© miriam
hall |
SEEING
GENERALS ON TV
How their bodies look
inert, like
the cold rope snakes
drape
on flat rocks
How their
lips trace buzzard wings
or boomerangs
we
want
to hide from
How their
voices name jetlag
the sound
of freedom
and
let us think
Anything
we want
sometimes
all our lives
until
that day
Their eyes
flutter and
we recognize
what we hoped
we’d
never see—
The eyelids’
vertical crack
the gathering
coils
beneath
their shirts.
©
David Steingass, from Fishing for Dynamite, Red Dragonfly Press,
1998. |
WEATHER
REPORT
It is raining
a steady business-like rain
filling depressions making small
lakes and rivers in ruts.
Children tests for splash power
adults skirt around the edges.
George
Bush tests for war power.
A clenched
fist upward
will not stop the liquid drops
the clouds are in control
having punched the time
clock of the day.
Colin
Powell accepts job.
Raincoat
and umbrella weather
windshield wiper weather
it continues to fall
and the metronome of the highways
beats a rythm for the road.
A country
speeding, careening.
Winds to
remind us that this might
change to snow and ice, blood and sand
better be grateful for the rhetoric
of reliable rain.
© Helen
Padway |
| This
may be the most eloquent and powerful piece of found poetry ever—if
not altogether, surely on the subject at hand. It's from a short
piece by Roger Angell in the March 3 issue of The New Yorker.
In a separate
announcement,
the Pentagon
let it be known
that it had ordered
fifteen thousand eight hundred and ninety body bags,
not all of them
immediately destined
for the Persian Gulf.
None are for use by the enemy.
© 2003
D.B. Appleton
|
In
the desert, women are burning burkhas
Lifting their faces to the sun
Here we can burn nothing, and our faces face the ground
Fearful of fire
Burn your Selective Service registration card, you lose your student funding
Burn your flag, you go to hell
Burn with the desire for peace, you go to an
Undisclosed
holding cell, lights blazing overhead
In the oasis, someone is singing the name of Allah
But here our words are silenced.
The First Librarian rips out pages of Poetry and the tongue of the American
Voice
Our words are buried, wound in shrouds
And flapping flags wrap around our mouths
Here Justice is covered, her breast unavailable to those who thirst
Guernica is veiled, lost to those who seek the truth
Here Church and State roll in bed together among sweaty sheets
And they will scatter their infected seed upon the desert sands
Poisoning civilization’s cradle with arrogance
Scattering ashes of freedom to the wind.
© 2003
Kevin K. |
| I
HATE WAR
I hate war-I
hate war
I hate war-I hate war
I hate war-I hate war
I hate war
I hate murder-I hate death
I hate killing-With no one left
I hate violence-I hate greed
I hate war
I hate stupid-stupid people
I hate stupid-stupid stupid people
Stupid-people
That cause war
I'll tell you once-tell you twice
Yeah I don't care if it don't rhyme
I hate war
I hate war
And I want to kill-everyone that kills
Everyone that kills-everyone that kills
But I don't want to kill (Do you know why ?)
Because I hate war
© Art
Paul Schlosser |
NO
WEAPONS OF WAR
No weapons
of war
Or soldier's guns
Will ever get me
A war that's won
For people will die
And blood will drip
All the reasons why
They just won't fit
Oh Jesus my Lord
Said believe in Him
Love God most
And love all humans
© Art
Paul Schlosser |
| ALL
IS FORGIVEN
I miss Billy
Clinton
I miss his nice teeth
Put him back in the White House
With a welcome-home wreath.
Please come
home, Bill Clinton;
We miss your big grin
We take it all back
And forgive your small sin.
Come back
to us, Clinton,
I’m sorry I spread
All those rude jokes regarding
Your performance in bed.
I miss your
small ears
And your shirt smeared with lipstick.
I miss your distinguishing
Characteristic.
This Bush
sprig’s deluded;
His ego unchecked,
Our civil rights gutted,
The economy wrecked.
The Bush
cabinet
Would make anyone puke.
International diplomacy?
The answer’s a nuke.
We miss
you, Bill Clinton.
We never expected
You’d seem so attractive
When seen retrospected.
We wouldn’t
have to worry
That you’d drop an H-bomb
You would have conducted
Yourself with aplomb.
I miss you
a lot
Now that Bush makes us blue.
I miss Socks, I miss Chelsea,
I miss Hillary too.
We miss
your appointees;
we miss Tipper and Al Gore;
We miss your agenda:
“Make Interns, Not War!”
We want
democracy back
In the Capitol dome.
Even Monica misses you;
Bill Clinton, come home!
© 2003
F.J. Bergmann
|
DISSONNET
That bastard
Bush knows which side of his bread
is buttered, and for what his soul was sold:
repression, power, profit, and black gold
he’ll squeeze from bodies of Iraqi dead.
Since infancy
his father’s cronies’ oil
has greased the silver spoon stuck up his ass.
No need for fuel efficiency: cheap gas
is theirs by right, though under foreign soil.
What luck
to have scum at his beck and call!
“Reichmeister” Ashcroft, “Condottiere” Rice,
“Dick” Cheney, innumerable swollen lice
—and Rumfeld: jackals, carrion feeders all.
The damage
to the earth’s another sin,
and monster corporations rob us blind.
Foul product of his father’s accursed sperm;
it’s far too late to mourn what might have been,
but not too late to kick out his behind.
Don’t let the asshole have another term!
© 2003
F.J. Bergmann |
Their
sins will do them all in
Maaaaaaannnnn,
Iraaaaaannnn was always in the plan,
But Iraq was too advantageous.
Osama, Osama, yah cold hearted bomba,
They?d painted Saddam as more dangerous.
For bombing
Afghanis was not his plan
It was not what ole Rummie had wanted.
"Baghdad at night is the best bombing sight!"
Rum shouted and blustered and flaunted.
But Rum,
Dick, and Condi were stuck in a quandary,
The planes had been flown by some Saudis!
"We need a diversion! How about an incursion?
Let?s pre-emptively launch war like rowdies!"
"First
Afghanistan, then refocus the plan,
And update the world?s Evil Axis.
Have Dubya say, 'See yah!' to Iraq, Iran, and North Korea—yah,
Cuz Afghanistan?s only for practice."
Yet the
connections were weak, the truth started to leak,
In a short time the plans were made known.
But this wasn't enough, though they proved lots of stuff,
The Protesters felt quite alone.
"Must
we wait for elections to lodge our objections?
Can't we find some other solutions?
When there's so much corruption, there must be the option,
Of launching grass-root revolutions!"
Yet most
people are passive and old Murdoch is massive,
So few are willing to bother.
So we must turn to the arts and become grand upstarts!
Not ever to be cannon fodder!?
So we purposely
plan and do what we can,
Knowing some day peace will win.
George, Dick and their staff won't have the last laugh,
For their sins will do them all in!
© Will
Clifton
A Madisonian against the Bush Administration?s Illegal Wars |
THE
SCENARIO
AS THIS
SUGAR DISEASE AFFECTS MY MIND,
ATTEMPTING TO ROB ME OF THE RHYTHM OF MY RYHME—
LOGIC AND REASON BECOMES MY ONLY PARACHUTTE IN THESE TRYING TIMES BY NATUAL
DESIGN—
IT WOULD BE PLAGALISTIC TO SAY “AND STILL I RISE”
BLINDED
BY THE SALVATION THAT IS INHERENTLY MINE
STRIVE BABY, STRIVE—
“TIME” T.M.I- TOO MUCH INFORMATION, BUT THEN “CAN WE TALK”?
WHAT DO I HAVE TO HIDE?
FOR THE KINGDOM AND THE POWER AND THE GLORY,
LIFE IS TRULY SUBLIME
ASK YA
MAMA—
SKIPPING BY THIS SCENE,
SIDE STEPPING THE AMERICAN DREAM.
WHEN A
SEASON OF SUBSERVANCY SEEKS RECRUITS FROM A THIRD GENERATION SELF INFLICTED
WITH A SECOND CLASS PYSCHE—
WHILE BULLIES BOSLTERING OF BRAVO BELLIGERENTLY BELITTLE THEIR BROTHER’S
KEEPER ON A TECHNICALITY OF BOGUS CIRCUMSTANCE.
AS WE RAGE
AGAINST THE MACHINE-- GUN
SEEKING SOLIDARTY WHERE FAIR IS FAIR AND FOUL IS FOOLERY.
STOP THE TAPE. CUT. REWIND. UNWIRE…
© 2003
Shantara Glenn |