I lived in the first century of world wars.
Most mornings I would be more or less insane,
The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,
The news would pour out of various devices
Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.
I would call my friends on other devices;
They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.
Slowly I would get to pen and paper,
Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.
In the day I would be reminded of those men and women,
Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,
Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.
As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,
We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,
To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile
Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,
Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means
To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,
To let go the means, to wake.
I lived in the first century of these wars.
(Source: sharingpoetry)
If we could imagine for an instant (we cannot) the pain and fear that live around the corner from our own ideas of Freedom, and were somehow willing to envision a time before the military industrial complex began its ongoing campaign(s) to liberate the nations of the world from their leaders and religious traditions, it might be possible to understand this image. Sadly, however, it isn’t possible. Not for you, and not for me. We weren’t paying attention then.
Update: The Subject of Massoud Hossaini’s Pulitzer Prize-Winning Photo - NYTimes.com
Talismanic shirt, 15th or early 16th century
India (north India or the Deccan)
Ink, gold, and colors on stiffened cottonEmbellished with the full text of the Qur’an and also, in the borders, with the ninety-nine names of God as well as holy sayings, this well-preserved shirt served a talismanic function for the warrior who wore it under his armor; it thus protected him with the Divine Message in battle. Talismanic shirts are known in versions from Iran, Turkey, and India, but early examples such as this are rare.
From the Metropolitan Museum of Art
war is menstruation envy (by caste call)
At Robben Island the political prisoners studied.
They coined the motto Each one Teach one.
In Argentina the torturers demanded the prisoners
Address them always as “Profesor.”
Many of my friends are moved by guilt, but I
Am a creature of shame, I am ashamed to say.
Culture the lock, culture the key. Imagination
That calls the boiled sheep heads in the market “Smileys.”
The first year at Guantanamo, Abdul Rahim Dost
Incised his Pashto poems into styrofoam cups.
“The Sangomo says in our Zulu culture we do not
Worship our ancestors: we consult them.”
Becky is abandoned in 1902 and Rose dies giving
Birth in 1924 and Sylvia falls in 1951.
Still falling still dying still abandoned in 2006
Still nothing finished among the descendants.
I support the War, says the comic, it’s just the Troops
I’m against: can’t stand those Young People.
Proud of the fallen, proud of her son the bomber.
Ashamed of the government. Skeptical.
After the Klansman was found Not Guilty one juror
Said she just couldn’t vote to convict a pastor.
Who do you write for? I write for dead people:
For Emily Dickinson, for my grandfather.
“The Ancestors say the problem with your Knees
Began in your Feet. It could move up your Back.”
But later the Americans gave Dost not only paper
And pen but books. Hemingway, Dickens.
Old Aegyptius said, Whoever has called this Assembly,
For whatever reason—that is a good in itself.
O thirsty shades who regard the offering, O stained earth.
There are many fake Sangomos. This one is real.
Coloured prisoners got different meals and could wear
Long pants and underwear, Blacks got only shorts.
No he says he cannot regret the three years in prison:
Otherwise he would not have written those poems.
I have a small-town mind. Like the Greeks and Trojans.
Shame. Pride. Importance of looking bad or good.
Did he see anything like the prisoner on a leash? Yes,
In Afghanistan. In Guantanamo he was isolated.
Our enemies “disassemble” says the President.
Not that anyone at all couldn’t mis-speak.
The profesores created nicknames for torture devices:
The Airplane. The Frog. Burping the Baby.
Not that those who behead the helpless in the name
Of God or tradition don’t also write poetry.
Guilts, metaphors, traditions. Hunger strikes.
Culture the penalty. Culture the escape.
What could your children boast about you? What
Will your father say, down among the shades?
The Sangomo told Marvin, “You are crushed by some
Weight. Only your own Ancestors can help you.”
(Source: behindthelinespoetry.blogspot.com)
“It is a condition of wisdom in the archer to be patient because when the arrow leaves the bow, it returns no more.” - Sa’di
It should make you shake and sweat,
nightmare you, strand you in a desert
of irrevocable desolation, the consequences
seared into the vein, no matter what adrenaline
feeds the muscle its courage, no matter
what god shines down on you, no matter
what crackling pain and anger
you carry in your fists, my friend,
it should break your heart to kill
(Source: onviolence.com)
Cartoon by David Pope of The Canberra Times. I agree with dog that this is one of the greatest Australian cartoons of all time.
Will Grant: “If I was Prime Minister I’d force the Australian War Memorial to commemorate the war between settler / indigenous Australia. Of course, I’d then only be Prime Minister for 15 minutes. But it’d be a blast.”
“Conservative estimates have the number of Indigenous people killed as a direct result of conflict with settlers and colonial forces at 200,000 (not a typo) not counting those who died due to secondary effects of colonialism like disease, hunger, etc. The number of Europeans who died in those circumstances is estimated to be between 2000 and 2500. Lest we forget, indeed.” - Stephanie Convery (Source: Henry Reynolds, ‘The Other Side of the Frontier’, p. 121-125.)
Piss piss piss marines pissing on the corpses of dead Afghans. I keep thinking about S02E11 of Louie, with the duckling. I tried so hard not to cry. How is it that this season is even blacker and more surreal? He surprises me every time. By the end of that episode my tears were falling when I saw that it was dedicated to Tim Hetherington. I remembered this beautiful dedication to Tim’s memory and that raw day.
Links to two great posts I’ve read recently about Louis C.K. and his comedy and television show.
The rough magic of “Louie” In its own quiet way, the brilliant second season of Louis C.K.’s sitcom goes where no show has gone before by Matt Zoller Seitz (don’t click through if you haven’t watched Season 2 yet and want to avoid spoilers).
“…Allied aircraft vapor trails in skies above US soldier unloading a jeep outside a farmhouse in the Ardennes Forest.”
Battle of the Bulge (via @asonnenb)
