Sunday 1 April 2012

Adrienne Rich (16/4/29 - 27/3/12) - Poet of Liberation R.I.P


The American poet Adrienne Rich passed away last week at her home in Santa Cruz, California. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, the elder of 2 daughters of Arnold Rich a doctor and Helen Jones Reed, a gifted pianist and composer.
She married in 1953 and bore 3 sons, at a time when she was still struggling with conflicts over the prescribed roles of womanhood verses that of artistry. But as time moved forward she confirmed her identity as a lesbian, which radicalised her fusion of political commitment and poetic artistry.
She first published a volume of poetry in 1951, which earned praise from W.H Auden .Her poems were ones of defiance and fury, against convention, and as a force for change, which also revealed a tenderness and warmth, with moments of uncertainty and self questioning. She is considered to be one of the most influential poets of the late twentieth century. There is scarcly an anthology of feminist verse that does not contain her work or engage with her ideas.  She is credited with bringing the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse.
Her concerns also included questions of language and history, the denial and claiming of power, the action of poetic imagination in change, a politics of place and of struggle.
In one of her uncompromising essays she wrote 'All human life on the planet is born of a woman. The one unifying, incontrovertible experience shared by all women and men is that months - long period we spend unfolding in a women's body.'
Her pamphlet ' Twenty one Love Poems' 1977 which was incorporated into the following years 'Dreams of a common language.' marked one of the first direct treatments of lesbian desire and sexuality, a theme which she continued with throughout her work.
As well as using words as a force for change, she attended rallies against the vietnam war, organised poetry reading for peace and marched for womens rights, fundraised for the Black Panthers, and was a supporter of the progressive Jewish movement New Jewish agenda. In 1997 during the Clinton administration she rejected the National Medal of the Arts, because of Clintons anti-arts policies. writing ' There is no simple formula for the relationship of art to justice. But I do know that art- in my own case the art of poetry - means nothing if it simply decorated the dinner table of power which holds it hostage. The radical disparities of wealth and power in America are widening at a devastating rate. A President cannot meaningfully honor certain token artists while the people at large are so dishonoured.' and as late as 2002 with painful arthritis marched against the Iraq War, she was also a supporter of Palestinian  liberation.
She despised oppression of every kind and hurled against it. Throughout her life she spun words from a revolutionary tongue, pointed the direction while embodying the essence of the destination, with declarations of love and war. She said ' The poem arrives at itself with the immediacy of sunlight stinging glass.'
Long may her spirit be remembered. R.I.P.

Adrienne Rich - What kind of Times are these


There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks of into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who dissapeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread,
but don't be fooled this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
it's own ways of making people dissapear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light -
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it dissapear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you anything?
Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

Adrienne Rich at a glance.


WAIT (2006)

In paradise every
the desrt wind is rising
third thought
in hell there are no thoughts
is of earth
sand screams against your government
issued tent  hell's noise
in your nostrils   crawl
into your ear-shell
wrap yourself in no-thought
wait  no place for the little lyric
wedding-ring glint the reason why
on earth
they never told you

WOMEN

My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black obsidian.
For the first time, in this light, in this light, I can see who they are

My first sister is sewing her costume for the procession.
She is going as the Transparent lady
and all her nerves will be visible

Ny second sister is also sewing,
at the seam over her heart which has never healed
ebtirely,
At last, she hopes, this tightness in her chest will ease.

Ny third sister is gazing
at a dark-red crust spreading westward far out on the
sea
Her stocking are torn but she is beautiful.

1968

PROSPECTIVE
IMMIGRANTS
PLEASE NOTE

Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.

If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.

Things looks at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.

If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthily

to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely

but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?

The door itself
makes no promises
Is is only a door.

THE ART OF TRANSLATION


1
To have seen you exactly, once:
red hair over cold cheeks fresh from the freeway
your lingo, your daunting and dautless
eyes. But then to lift towards home, mile upon
mile
back when they'd barely heard your name
- neither as terrorist nor as genius would they
detain you-
to wing itback to my country bearing
your war-flecked protocols-
that was a mission, surely my art's pouch
crammed with your bristling juices
sweet dark drops of your spirit
that streaked the pouch, the shirt I wore
and the bench on which I leaned.

2

It's only a branch like any other

green with the flare of life in it

and ifI hold this end, you the other

that means it's broken
broken between us, broken despite us
broken and therfore dying
broken by force, broken by lying
green, with the flare of life in it

3
But say we're crouching on the ground  like children
over a mess of marbles, soda caps, folil, old foreign coins
- the first truly precious objests. Rusty hooks,glass.
Say I saw the earrings first but you wanted it.
Then you wanted the words I'd found. I'd give you
the earrings, crushed lapis if it were,
I would look long at the beach glass and the sharded shelf
of the lightbulb. Long I'd look into your hand
at the obsolete copper profile, the cat's eye, the Lapis.
Like a thief I would deny the words, deny they ever
existed, were spoken, or could be spoken,
like a thief I'd bury them and remember where.

4
The trade mames follow trade
the translators stopped at passport control:
Occupation: no such designation-
Journalist, maybe spy?
That the books are for personal use
only -could I swear it?
That not a word of them
is contaband - how could I prove it?

1995

DEDICATIONS

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to be quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plain's enormous spaces around you
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of idetity with strangers.
i know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatique of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty
I know you are reading this poem which is not your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening to somethiing, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

A REVOLUTIONARY POEM

A revolutionary poem
will not tell you who or
when to kill, what and
when to burn, or even
how to theorize. It
reminds you . . . where and
when and how you are
living and might live, it is
a wick of desire

Selected works

Selected Poems. Chatto & Hogarth P Windus 1967

Twent-one Love Poems. Effies press. 1976

Selected Poems, 1950-1995.Salmon Pub 1996

Dark Fields of the Republic : Poems 1991-1995.W.W Norton 1995

Tonight No Poetry Will Serve: Poems 2007-2010

Diving into the Wreck. W. W. Norton 1975

A wild Patience Has Taken Me This Far: Poems 1978-1981. W.W Norton 1982.

Saturday 31 March 2012

Deal reached to free Hana Shalibi

Further to my post earlier this week, on the 43rd day of her hunger strike, Israel has supposedly made a compromise. They have decided to co-exile her to 7 years to the Gaza Strip. I am glad that she has survived her ordeal and that she will not now join the ranks of the Palestinian martyrs. But technically she will still be denied her freedom, banished to the open prison which is Gaza. Far away from her home village Burqin in the northern part of the West Bank and far away from her family. A woman I add who has never had any formal charge laid against her. Still the abusive practice of Administation continues, with more than 300 Palestinian prisoners still being held in these circumstances. Also the growing use of hunger strikes amongst other prisoners will continue to cause major hiccups for Israel in the long run.
The people of Palestine will not forget Hana Shalibi's courage and the stuggle for justice, reform and liberation for Palestine and the Palestinian peope will continue.
And today ( incidentally the day after Palestinian Land Day) and tomorrow, the international community will  continue to protest and demonstrate, campaign for boycotts, divestment and sanctions will go on, until Israel complies with International law and stops responding with blind indifference.
Viva Palestine.

Friday 30 March 2012

CAMERON I WOULD CALL YOU A CUNT - Ms. Something-Else and her Uke)

The Conservative Party's policies deeply unpopular at the moment. Aren't they always. As for their leader, well ! ! ! Here's a lovely song that sums up the general feeling, that I can see being sung up and down the country, that will be guarateed to wipe away the smug smiles of many a tory.


Cameron I Would Call You A Cunt (Ms. Something-Else and her Uke)

                                                           So it's farewell to the NHS
                                                              Legal aid and pensions
                                                              Working for your dole 
                                                          When employmen's in a hole
                                                            And not to fuckin mention
                                                              Tax cuts for the richest  
                                                            Benefit cuts for the richest
                                                          Can you please explain to me
                                               Why we should tolerate your shit anymore?
                                                       Cameron, I would call you a cunt,
                                                   But you don't have the depth or charm
                                                          And if we should ever meet
                                                       You'll also meet my bailing arm.  
                                                      Cameron, I would call you a cunt
                                                   But the usefulness and beauty are amiss
                                                            And if we should ever meet
                                                        I'll be giving you a Glascow kiss.
                                                       It's a bit wierd getting your jollies
                                                       From inreasing our risk of dying
                                                           Or can you just not get it up
                                                  Without the thought of poor folks crying?
                                                           You punch tables, victorious
                                                 Each time you whack another coffin nail in
                                                      While I punch pictures of your face
                                                       Man, my hate for you is unfailing..
                                                      Cameron, I would call you a cunt,
                                                 But you don't have the depth or charm
                                                          And if we should ever meet
                                                       You'll also meet my bailing arm.
                                                      Cameron, I would call you a cunt
                                                 But the usefulness and beauty are amiss
                                                          And if we should ever meet
                                                      I'll be giving you a Glasgow kiss.
                                         You murder what we breathed life in to for years
                                       Rape the state born from our blood, sweat and tears
                                        Abuse our children with all these unnecessary cuts
                                            If we ever meet, may your god help your nuts..
                                                     Cameron, I would call you a cunt,
                                                  But you don't have the depth or charm
                                                           And if we should ever meet
                                                       You'll also meet my bailing arm.
                                                        Cameron, I will call you a cunt
                                                        As you are very good at pissing
                                                    down on those living hand to mouth
                                                 Let's hook up for some Glasgow kissing

More wonderful rants and rhymes
from Ms. Something-Else over
Here
http://rantsthatrhyme.wordpress.com/




                                                 
  

Tuesday 27 March 2012

Cultivate Hope a poem for Hana Shalabi - Rafeef Ziadah


The following video poem in solidarity with hunger striking Palestinian prisoner was created by the Palestinian poet Rafeef Ziadah.
Hana Shalabi is a Palestinian political prisoner. She was released over 2 years ago from administrative detention on October 18 2011, as part of the prisoner exchange deal. She was rearrested less than four months later on February 16 2012.
Yesterday marked the 40th day of her hunger strike. It has been reported that she is in danger of imminent death and has great difficulty standing and has extremely low blood pressure.
She is one of over 200 Palestinians currently held in administrative detention in Israeli prisons. This practice allows Israel to hold detainess for up to 6 months ( and can also indefinitely renew the decision).In total their are 4,637 Palestinian political prisoners in the jails of the Israeli occupation, 20 of whom continue to be held in isolation, from Palestinian national leaders and Palestinian children, all of whom are demanding freedom. Hana Shalabi wants freedom or death, and not just for herself. It's for all the wrongfully imprisoned Palestinians.
Yesterday Hana's appeal for the ending of her administrative detention was denied. Stating that she was resposible for her own recovery. Administative detention dates from the British Emergency Law of 1945 under the British Mandate of Palestine.
Amnesty International has issued a new appeal calling for Hana's release and declared her a prisoner of conscience.
- however,many other human rights organisations have maintained complete silence.

Cultivate Hope - words by Rafeef Ziadeh,
                             music by Phil Monsour.



Please Click here to send a letter to Israeli officials demanding Hana's release.

http://samidoun.ca/2012/02/take-action-today-for-hana-al-shalabi-administrative-detainee-and-hunger-striker/#letter

The sun might be shining, here in West Wales
but that does not mean that I should forget.

Sunday 25 March 2012

Lawrence Ferlinghetti (b. 24/3/19) - Sometime During Eternity/ Constantly Risking Absurdity.

Mr Ferlinghetti 93 years young, yesterday....... so belated birthday greetings to this beat icon.
A heretic, rebel, civil libertarian, painter , poet , publisher...... who is still writing, painting,plain speaking, travelling widely.
I thank him for  his huge wonderful contribution to the world of literature.
As I post this I realise I am baking, it's a rather balmy , beautiful spring day over here in my little corner, so in a minute, gathering up some of his books and finding a quiet spot somewhere, to bathe a while in some of his thoughts, and enjoy some moments of peace.

Sometime During Eternity

                         Sometime during eternity
                                                              some gus show up
and one of them
                         who shows up real late
                                                            is a kind of carpenter
from some square-type place
                                           like Galilee
 and he starts wailing
                               and claiming he is hip
  to who made heaven
                                 and earth
                                       and that the cat
   who really laid it on us
                            is his Dad
And moreover
  he adds
              It's all writ down
                                     on some scroll-type parchments
which some henchmen
          leave lying around the Dead Sea somewheres
     a long time ago
                           and which you won't even find
for a coupla thousand years or so
                                                  or at least for
       nineteen hundred and fortyseven
                                                      of them
                        to be exact
                                        and even then
     nobody really believes them
                                               or me
                                                        for that matter

    You're hot
     they tell him
     And they cool him
     They stretch him on the Tree to cool
           And everybody after that
                                                 is always making models
                      of this Tree
                                      with Him hung up
and always crooning his name
                                             and calling Him to come down
                            and sit in
                                         on their combo
            as if he is the king cat
                                           who's got to blow
  or they can't quite make it
  Only he don't come down
                                       from His Tree
Him just hang there
                             on His Tree
                                              looking real Petered out
                                 and real cool
                                                   and also
 according to a roundup
                                    of late world news
from the usual unreliable sources
                                                real dead

From
These are my Rivers
New and Selected Poems 55-93

New Directions Press



Constantly Risking Absurdity

                Constantly risking absurdity
                                                         and death
                         whenever he performs
                                                      above the heads
                                                                            of his audience
     the    poet   like an acrobat
                                                  climbs on rime
                                                    to a high wire of his own making
 and  balancing on eyebeams
                                                       above a sea of faces
                paces his way
                                   to the other side of the day
    performing entrechats
                                and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
                               and all without mistaking
                  any thing
                                for what it may not be
      For he's the super realist
                                       who must perforce percieve
                taut truth
                                      before the taking of each stance or
                                                                                      step
  in his supposed advance
                                     toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
                                          with gravity
                                                    to start her death-defying
                                                                                         leap
          And he
                    a little charleychaplin man
                                                who may or may not catch
                    her fair external form
                                               spreadeagled in the empty air
                         of   existence

Reprinted from
A Coney Island of the Mind
New Direction Press


Ferlinghetti ' Trailor'


Ferlinghetti by Ferlinghetti