If We Must Die

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

- Claude McKay

War Profit Litany

War Profit Litany

These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index’d swelling a decade, set
in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
1967 furthers this poem of these States.

- Allen Ginsberg

Mekkin Histri

Mekkin Histri

now tell mi someting
mistah govahment man
tell mi someting

how lang yu really feel
yu coulda keep wi andah heel
wen di trute done reveal
bout how yu grab an steal
bout how yu mek yu crooked deal

well doun in Soutall
where Peach did get fall
di Asians dem faam-up a human wall
gense di fashist an dem police sehil
an dem show dat di Asians gat plenty zeal

it is noh mistri
wi mekkin histri
it is noh mistri
wi winnin victri

now tell mi someting
mistah police spokesman
tell mi someting

how lang yu really tink
wi woulda tek yu batn lick
yu jackboot kick
yu dutty bag a tricks
an yu racist pallyticks

well doun in Bristal
dey ad no pistal
but dem chase di babylan away
man yu shoulda si yu babylan
how dem really run away
yu shoulda si yu babylan dem dig-up dat day

it is noh mistri
wi mekkin histri
it is noh mistri
wi winnin victri

now tell mi someting
mistah ritewing man
tell mi someting

how lang yu really feel
wi woulda grovel an squeal
wen so much murdah canceal
wen wi woun cyaan heal
wen wi feel di way wi feel

well dere woz Toxteth
an dere woz Moss Side
an a lat a addah places
whey di police ad to hide
well dare woz Brixtan
an dere woz Chapeltoun
an a lat a addah place dat woz burnt to di groun

it is noh mistri
wi mekkin histri
it is noh mistri
wi winnin victri

- Linton Kwesi Johnson

POR QUÉ ESCRIBIMOS

POR QUÉ ESCRIBIMOS

Uno hace versos y ama
la extraña risa de los niños,
el subsuelo del hombre
que en las ciudades ácidas disfraza su leyenda,
la instauración de la alegría
que profetiza el humo de las fábricas.

Uno tiene en las manos un pequeño país,
horribles fechas,
muertos como cuchillos exigentes,
obispos venenosos,
inmensos jóvenes de pie
sin más edad que la esperanza,
rebeldes panaderas con más poder que un lirio,
sastres como la vida,
páginas, novias,
esporádico pan, hijos enfermos,
abogados traidores
nietos de la sentencia y lo que fueron,
bodas desperdiciadas de impotente varón,
madre, pupilas, puentes,
rotas fotografías y programas.
Uno se va a morir,
mañana,
un año,
un mes sin pétalos dormidos;
disperso va a quedar bajo la tierra
y vendrán nuevos hombres
pidiendo panoramas.
Preguntarán qué fuimos,
quienes con llamas puras les antecedieron,
a quienes maldecir con el recuerdo.
Bien.
Eso hacemos:
custodiamos para ellos el tiempo que nos toca.

- Roque Dalton García

If The Drum Is A Woman

If The Drum Is A Woman

why are you pounding your drum into an insane babble
why are you pistol-whipping your drum at dawn-
why are you shooting through the head of your drum
and making a drum tragedy of drums
if the drum is a woman
don’t abuse your drum don’t abuse your drum
don’t abuse your drum
I know the night is full of displaced persons
I see skins striped with flames
I know the ugly dispositions of underpaid clerks
they constantly menstruate through the eyes
I know bitterness embedded in flesh
the itching alone can drive you crazy
I know that this is America
and chickens are coming home to roost
on the MX missile
But if the drum is a woman
why are you choking your drum
why are you raping your drum
why are you saying disrespectful things
to your mother drum your sister drum
your wife drum and your infant daughter drum
if the drum is a woman
then understand your drum
your drum is not docile
your drum is not invisible
your drum is not inferior to you
your drum is a woman
so don’t reject your drum
don’t try to dominate your drum
don’t become weak and cold and desert your drum
don’t be forced into the position as an oppressor of drums
and make a drum tragedy of drums
if the drum is a woman
don’t abuse your drum, don’t abuse your drum
don’t abuse your drum

- Jayne Cortez

Bridging The Gap

Bridging The Gap

There is a broken bridge that they call America

between the people and their government.

Stressed out cracked TV’s, broken fractured newspapers

with jagged concrete facts that they call Iraq.

There’s a broken bridge between our Soldiers

and what they were told they were fighting for.

There is a broken bridge across the Euphrates river

like a broken bridge across the Mississippi too.

Rivers of darkness and light that flow

a lightning bolt currents dark and dangerous,

pieces of humans lay at the bottom and who is responsible,

who does not care at all as the rain and sand

fall like teardrops trying to see through the murky waters,

trying to find a way out, trying to stop the bleeding,

trying to kill the cause and Americans

stand and watch the horror of civilization

pounded by combat boots, they want to stop it

but they doubt it like by voting the war away.

Captain Amerika still acting like superman,

the Statue of Liberty is cracking like the economy,

who cares about a war debt, put it on a Chinese credit card,

green back dollars going down and down drowning

another bridge falling into the water.

To the energy poor depression crashed civilians

of a war wreck they once called America,

the Answer is within our Soldiers

when they come back from another tour.

The Answer is within Americans

when they stand behind the Soldiers

when they refuse to deploy on a no way next tour.

- Dennis Serdel, Vietnam 1967-68 (one tour) Light Infantry, purple heart

The Money Men

The Money Men

We are in Iraq
Because the war coffers must not run dry
There must be enemies
So there can be arms deals
There must be war
For the money men to continue to be
The money men

We are not there to win
There can be no winning a “war on terrorism”
Especially not
When we are the terrorists
But, there must be war
For the money men to continue to be
The money men

If not in Iraq, then Iran
If not in Iran, then Korea
If not in Korea, then Lebanon
If not in Lebanon, then …. (fill in the blank)
The MOST important thing to remember is
There must be war
For the money men to continue to be
The money men

- Rebecca Lawton

Statistics and Numbers

Statistics and Numbers

We live in a world
Consumed by statistics and numbers
With accountants and stock analysts
The CPI index, GDP estimates, and EPS reports

But what does it mean that homeless vets
Resort to begging for food on the streets?
While single mothers work that nine to five
Then six to two just to put shoes on her children’s feet?
That inner city kids are left behind
And off to fend for themselves?

It means
We treat our downtrodden like shit
And no
Humanity isn’t a prerequisite for being a capitalistic
But jail time is a consequence to murder
And if we’re gonna be consumed with arrogance
And drink the red, white and blue
Because our parents did
Then maybe we should invest in the American dream
And fix our social insecurities

Because you’re not a communist
If you want the cyst forming in your
Daughter’s breast checked out by a medical professional
And you’re not a Marxist hippie
If you ask for fuel efficiency standards
That keep up with the rest of the Western world
And while you could 100 dollars for a gallon of milk
Because the free market allows
It doesn’t make it legitimate that you got in the business
And monopolized it

We’ve been taken by the bipartisan rhetoric
By the people, for the people
But when the evil is more than
Just republican or democrat
When the fact is
We’re too lazy, selfish, or helpless to act
We let those numbers become reality

When first world children suffer from malnutrition
When second class citizens can’t afford education
We should rethink which nations we’re invading
Because there is a war going on at home
And the only side fighting
Is the side committing genocide
Against our youth
Our impoverished
Our elderly
And disabled

Yes, we have a bill of rights
And a constitution
But the plight of any democracy
Should include the lower class
And underprivileged

This great system isn’t some magical structure
That’ll always prevail
With out regulation, oversight and adaptive means
It will fail
And not by GDP estimates and housing sales
But by the people, for the people
It’ll fall apart
And when your children can’t afford
A decent living
They’ll wonder
Why the fuck am I working at Dairy Mart

- Remi Kanazi

Libertad

Libertad

Tenemos
por ti
tantos golpes
acumulados
en la piel,
que ya ni de pie
cabemos en la muerte.

En mi país,
la libertad no es sólo
un delicado viento del alma,
sino también un coraje de piel.
En cada milímetro
de su llanura infinita
está tu nombre escrito:
libertad.
En las manos torturadas.
En los ojos,
abiertos al asombro
del luto.
En la frente,
cuando ella aletea dignidad.
En el pecho,
donde un aguante varón
nos crece en grande.
En la espalda y los pies
que sufren tanto.
En los testículos,
orgullecidos de sí.
Ahí tu nombre,
tu suave y tierno nombre,
cantando en esperanza y coraje.

Hemos sufrido
en tantas partes
los golpes del verdugo
y escrito en tan poca piel
tantas veces su nombre,
que ya no podemos morir,
porque la libertad
no tiene muerte.

Nos pueden
seguir golpeando,
que conste, si pueden.
Tú siempre serás la victoriosa,
libertad.
Y cuando nosotros
disparemos
el último cartucho,
tú serás la primera
que cante en la garganta
de mis compatriotas,
libertad.
Porque
nada hay más bello
sobre la anchura
de la tierra,
que un pueblo libre,
gallardo pie,
sobre un sistema
que concluye.

La libertad,
entonces,
vigila y sueña
cuando nosotros
entramos a la noche
o llegamos al día,
suavemente enamorados
de su nombre tan bello:
libertad.

- Otto Rene Castillo

Exposure

Exposure

Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . .
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.

Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?

The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray,
But nothing happens.

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
Less deathly than the air that shudders black with snow,
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew;
We watch them wandering up and down the wind’s nonchalance,
But nothing happens.

Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces—
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.
Is it that we are dying?

Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,—
We turn back to our dying.

Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For God’s invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.

To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us,
Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp.
The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
But nothing happens.

- Wilfred Owen