To Exist Is to Resist

In my mind
I’ve freed Palestine
Envisioned a dream
That just needs to be seen
Olive trees and fields of figs
Orange groves
That lead to our roads
No blocks filled with cops
No ten-year-olds shot
Freedom
Is what I got

I understand my grandmother’s plan
To live on her bought and paid-for land
And though it isn’t in her hands
It remains in her heart
Every time another is killed
We go back to the start

1948: the date you make us remember
The star and scars of David
And we’re the ones who’ve hated?
We’ve been raped and berated
By bullets and forced “immigration”
Squatting and settling
Left wrestling with the best Zionism has to offer
While the US fills its coffers
We’re seen as monsters

Our people blow up in pain
Black-eyed and half-insane
Wouldn’t you be?
If an Israeli bullet penetrated your child’s brain?

I envision Palestine in my mind
With the “chosen” frozen in time
To realize their morality’s blind
To take back generations of crime
And put an end to Apartheid
How many kids sit and wish
They could be labeled other than a terrorist
To exist is to resist!
Reads the graffiti in their cities

Give them chalk instead of rocks
They’ll use the blackboards
If you let them go to school

Give them chalk instead of rocks
Instead you bulldoze the block
Destroy their homes
Palestine is what you call the “no building zone”

But you can’t bulldoze our minds
Every time we’ll rise through ashes
Like Cassius Clay
We’ll bob and weave for infinity
There is no divinity
In bombing our cities
Setting up committees to treat us differently
We’re from Falasteen
The land where dreams are made

So just remember one thing
One day the bells of freedom will ring
And you’ll see me smiling
Loving life in Palestine

- Remi Kanazi

In Praise Of Learning

Learn the elementary things!
For those whose time has come
It is never too late!
Learn the ABC. It won’t be enough,
But learn it! Don’t be dismayed by it?
Begin! You must know everything.
You must lake over the leadership.

Learn, man in the asylum!
Learn, man in the prison!
Learn, woman in the kitchen!
Learn sixty year olds!
You must take over the leadership.
Seek out the school, you who are home
less!
Acquire knowledge, you who shiver!
You who are hungry, reach for the book:
it is a weapon.
You must take over the leadership.

Don’t be afraid to ask, comrade!
Don’t be talked into anything.
Check for yourself!
What you do not know yourself
you don’t know.
Scrutinize the bill,
it is you who must pay it.
Put your finger on each item,
ask: how did this get there ?
You must take over the leadership.

- Bertolt Brecht

Los Policias y Los Guardias

Siempre vieron al pueblo
como un monton de espaldas que corrían para allá
como un campo para dejar caer con odio los garrotes.

Siempre vieron al pueblo como el ojo de afinar la puntería
y entre el pueblo y el ojo
la mira de la pistola o el fusil.

(Un día ellos también fueron pueblo
pero con la excusa del hambre y del desempleo
aceptaron un arma
un garrote y un sueldo mensual
para defender a los hambreados y a los desempleadores.)
Siempre vieron al pueblo aguantando
sudando
vociferando
levantando carteles
levantando puños
y cuando más diciéndoles:
“Chuchos hijos de puta el día les va a llegar”.
( Y cada día que pasaba
ellos creían que habían hecho el gran negocio
al traicionar al pueblo del que nacieron :
“El pueblo es un montón de débiles y pendejos –pensaban–
qué bien hicimos al pasarnos del lado de los vivos y de los fuertes”).

Y entonces era de apretar el gatillo
y las balas iban de la orilla de los policías y los guardias
contra la orilla del pueblo
así iban siempre
de allá para acá
y el pueblo caía desangrándose
semana tras semana año tras año
quebrantado de huesos
lloraba por los ojos de las mujeres y los niños
huía de espanto
dejaba de ser pueblo para ser tropel en guinda
desaparecía en forma de cada quién que se salvó para su casa
y luego nada más
soló los bomberos lavaban la sangre de las calles.

(Los coroneles los acababan de convencer:
“Eso muchacos __les decían__
duro y a la cabeza con los civiles
fuego con el populacho
ustedes también son pilares uniformados de la Nación
sacerdotes de primera fila
en el culto a la bandera el escudo el himno los próceres
la democracia representativa el partido oficial y el mundo libre
cuyos scrificios no olvidará la gente decente de este país aunque
por hoy no les podamos subir el sueldo
como desde luego es nuestro deseo”.)

Siempre vieron al pueblo
crispado en el cuarto de las torturas
colgado
apaleado
fracturado
tumefacto
asfixiado
violado
pinchado con agujas en los oídos y los ojos
electrificado
ahogado en orines y mierda
escupido
arrastrado
achando espumitas de humo sus últimos restos
en el infierno de la cal viva.

(Cuando resultó muerto el décimo Guardia Nacional. Muerto
[por el pueblo
y el quinto cuilio bien despeinado por la guerrilla urbana
los cuilios y los Guardias Nacionales comenzaron a pensar
sobre todo porque los coroneles ya cambiaron de tono
y hoy de cada fracaso le echan la culpa
a “los elementos de tropa tan muelas que tenemos”.)
El hecho es que los policías y los guardias
siempre vieron al pueblo de allá para áca.
que lo piensen mucho
que ellos mismos decidan si es demasiado tarde
para buscar la orilla del pueblo
y disparar desde allí
codo a codo junto a nosotros.

Que lo piensen mucho
pero entre tanto
que no se muestren sorprendidos
ni mucho menos pongan car de ofendidos
hoy que ya algunas balas
comienzan a llegarles desde este lado
donde sigue estando el mismo pueblo de siempre
sólo que a estas alturas ya viene de pecho
y trae cada vez más fusiles.

- Roque Dalton García

The Slave Auction

The sale began—young girls were there,
Defenseless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.

And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants battered them for gold.

And woman, with her love and truth—
For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gazed on the husband of her youth,
With anguish none may paint or tell.

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children too,
Were gathered in that mournful band.

Ye who have laid your loved to rest,
And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
Whose loved are rudely torn away.

Ye may not know how desolate
Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
Will press the life-drops from the heart.

- Frances Harper

Immigrants in Our Own Land

We are born with dreams in our hearts,
looking for better days ahead.
At the gates we are given new papers,
our old clothes are taken
and we are given overalls like mechanics wear.
We are given shots and doctors ask questions.
Then we gather in another room
where counselors orient us to the new land
we will now live in. We take tests.
Some of us were craftsmen in the old world,
good with our hands and proud of our work.
Others were good with their heads.
They used common sense like scholars
use glasses and books to reach the world.
But most of us didn’t finish high school.

The old men who have lived here stare at us,
from deep disturbed eyes, sulking, retreated.
We pass them as they stand around idle,
leaning on shovels and rakes or against walls.
Our expectations are high: in the old world,
they talked about rehabilitation,
about being able to finish school,
and learning an extra good trade.
But right away we are sent to work as dishwashers,
to work in fields for three cents an hour.
The administration says this is temporary
So we go about our business, blacks with blacks,
poor whites with poor whites,
chicanos and indians by themselves.
The administration says this is right,
no mixing of cultures, let them stay apart,
like in the old neighborhoods we came from.

We came here to get away from false promises,
from dictators in our neighborhoods,
who wore blue suits and broke our doors down
when they wanted, arrested us when they felt like,
swinging clubs and shooting guns as they pleased.
But it’s no different here. It’s all concentrated.
The doctors don’t care, our bodies decay,
our minds deteriorate, we learn nothing of value.
Our lives don’t get better, we go down quick.

My cell is crisscrossed with laundry lines,
my T-shirts, boxer shorts, socks and pants are drying.
Just like it used to be in my neighborhood:
from all the tenements laundry hung window to window.
Across the way Joey is sticking his hands
through the bars to hand Felipe a cigarette,
men are hollering back and forth cell to cell,
saying their sinks don’t work,
or somebody downstairs hollers angrily
about a toilet overflowing,
or that the heaters don’t work.

I ask Coyote next door to shoot me over
a little more soap to finish my laundry.
I look down and see new immigrants coming in,
mattresses rolled up and on their shoulders,
new haircuts and brogan boots,
looking around, each with a dream in their heart,
thinking they’ll get a chance to change their lives.

But in the end, some will just sit around
talking about how good the old world was.
Some of the younger ones will become gangsters.
Some will die and others will go on living
without a soul, a future, or a reason to live.
Some will make it out of here with hate in their eyes,
but so very few make it out of here as human
as they came in, they leave wondering what good they are now
as they look at their hands so long away from their tools,
as they look at themselves, so long gone from their families,
so long gone from life itself, so many things have changed.

- Jimmy Santiago Baca

La Standard Oil Company

Cuando el barreno se abrió paso
hacia las simas pedregales
y hundió su intestino implacable
en las haciendas subterráneas,
y los años muertos, los ojos
de las edades, las raíces
de las plantas encarceladas
y los sistemas escamosos
se hicieron estratas del agua,
subió por los tubos el fuego
convertido en líquido frío,
en la aduana de las alturas
a la salida de su mundo
de profundidad tenebrosa,
encontró un pálido ingeniero
y un título de propietario.

Aunque se enreden los caminos
del petróleo, aunque las napas
cambien su sitio silencioso
y muevan su soberanía
entre los vientres de la tierra,
cuando sacude el surtidor
su ramaje de parafina,
antes llegó la Standard Oil
con sus letrados y sus botas,
con sus cheques y sus fusiles,
con sus gobiernos y sus presos.

Sus obesos emperadores
viven en New York, son suaves
y sonrientes asesinos,
que compran seda, nylon, puros,
tiranuelos y dictadores.

Compran países, pueblos, mares,
policías, diputaciones,
lejanas comarcas en donde
los pobres guardan su maíz
como los avaros el oro:
la Standard Oil los despierta,
los uniforma, les designa
cuál es el hermano enemigo,
y el paraguayo hace su guerra
y el boliviano se deshace
con su ametralladora en la selva.

Un presidente asesinado
por una gota de petróleo,
una hipoteca de millones
de hectáreas, un fusilamiento
rápido en una mañana
mortal de luz, petrificada,
un nuevo campo de presos
subversivos, en Patagonia,
una traición, un tiroteo
bajo la luna petrolada,
un cambio sutil de ministros
en la capital, un rumor
como una marea de aceite,
y luego el zarpazo, y verás
cómo brillan, sobre las nubes,
sobre los mares, en tu casa,
las letras de la Standard Oil
iluminando sus dominios.

- Pablo Neruda

Que lindo es ser Voluntario

No me vengas con la historia de la indolencia
hace rato que te aguaito dándote vueltas
Moscardón que pica y pica sin consecuencia
se le acaba el zumbido y las lancetas.

Si la montaña no viene anda hacia ella
las metas de Recabarren son las estrellas.

Que cosa mas linda es ser voluntario
construyendo parques para el vecindario
levantando puentes, casas y caminos
Siguiendo adelante con nuestro destino ¡Sí!

Dale pala campesino dale al arado
ahora son tiempos mejores pa tu sembra’o.
Dale martillo a la mina dale minero
dale mas techo a las casas de los obreros.

Compañera usted que endulza toda la tierra
a los especuladores no les dé tregua.

El rico se juega entero por su defensa
confunde la democracia con la insolencia.

Para hablar de socialismo estudia lenin
la revolución no es juego para burgueses.

Si la montaña no viene anda hacia ella
Las metas de recabarren son las estrellas.

Que cosa mas linda es ser voluntario
construyendo parques para el vecindario
levantando puentes, casas y caminos
Siguiendo adelante con nuestro destino ¡Sí!

- Victor Jara

For Fear of Being Called

In Peru a demonstration
against a rise in bread prices
is stopped
because of threats to denounce
those who demand bread
as terrorists.

How greatly we fear language
an electric cattle prod
to drive us into corners
where we cower
for fear of being called
terrorists or communists or criminals.

How did we allow those who don’t give
a damn about how we
the 80% live or die
to rob us of our language
to intimidate us into cutting out
our tongues
and binding our limbs into lameness?

How can we be more afraid
to be called terrorists
than to die in the dark
with no one there to speak for us?

- Marilyn Buck

Skulls as Drums

When the first drumtaps sound and trumpets buzz
through doors and windows, then may no one stir.
May listeners keep their seats while orators
fear to speak to the point. In chalky schoolrooms
may schoolboys not look up; in bridal chambers
heart clocks’ll keep “Tick-Tock” although the drums
beat to a different time; or the same time.

In the plowed field, or field of ripened grain,
may farmers look up, – and spit. However drums
pound or whirr, however shrill horns blow,
housewives’ll make beds, – as usual.
Let men and women sleep with deafened ears.

Only the timid fear not fear; only
a coward stops his tears. Father, remember;
remind the boy of “bravery”! Mother,
entreat your heart! You who are fond of talking,
continue in conversation. You who are silent,
silently close your window; while heavy drums’ll
rattle quicker to a wilder and wilder bugle.

When more drums beat and shriller bugles squeal;
armored hearses snarl around that tomb
where covered skeletons play with live corpses.

…..Roll your great stone before the door.
(They will stifle breathing air
so foetal grey with funk.] Now, charge your wire
that’ll bring a galvanic startle to their great
Jack-in-the-Box. Open the lid. Look in:
Whoever stifles fear, he is the coward.
Gaze on the corpse, pre-mortified
-gas bloated- of Mars. And on the fearful
helm of Suicide, Inc., drum, drum, drum
drum louder to drum up more fear.
From fear and fear a sterner fear is born
whose name is Wrath, – a filament of light
in every man. O, snarling bugles!
Crack the great stone before the door.
Drill the fat corpses for a brave parade.
Send the brave skulls and bones under the yoke
with thump of muffled drum and trumpet blurr.

- John Wheelwright

So

Mister Vice President So

killing Iraqis by the hundreds of thousands So

sending young Soldiers dead So

back to their mothers So

back to their wives dead So

back to their children dead So

then you have the nerve to tell Congress

there are no checks on your powers

so Mister So you can do anything you want to

you are free to go on killing

with your mechanical heart

that ticks away lives like a clock

for five years now as you go to Walter Reed

to have the doctors reset

the amount of Iraqi lives you have killed

the amount of dead Soldiers

the amount of the wounded

who will never be the same

because you are not human as they reset

the white crosses in Arlington Cemetery

and they can’t put God inside you

because you rejected him years ago

you now think you are God

So free to say

who lives and who dies

but beware because many a Soldier

would like to stick his 45

in your careless mouth pull the trigger So

he can watch your evil brain

splatter all over the White House lawn

throw your carcass into the Potomac

watch the carp eat you

but hope your dead flesh don’t kill the fish So

because that is all you do

you don’t feel any remorse So

neither will the Solder

who kills you.

- Dennis Serdel, Vietnam 1967-68 (one tour) Light Infantry, Americal Div. 11th Brigade, purple heart