Substitute today’s headlines for those of 70 years ago. Substitute Gaza for Madrid. Substitute drones for planes, carrying their deadly payload to Afghanistan and Pakistan. Now, however, we and our allies are the aggressors. How many times have we heard the plaintive cries of those who want nothing more than to live their lives in peace and simple comfort surrounded by mudden walls as bombs fell first in Korea, then Vietnam, and Cambodia, and Laos, and El Salvador, and Guatemala, and Venezuela, and Iraq and Afghanistan. But now we not only make them but deliver them as well.
Wilmington, Delaware
--- Eugene V. Etler
And when it was over
And the planes had left
And all was quiet ---
The living and the dead ---
Life went on
Uninterrupted.
And those who fled for shelter
Embarked out into the sun
And they lifted their fists
And cursed
The flying planes.
For these were their mortal enemies
These fliers of destructive death.
The children they killed
The women and men
Their blood that washed
The walls of Madrid.
And the plaintive cry of a mother’s wail
The silent grief of a husband’s dead
The bewildered look of an orphaned child.
The whining snarl of a hungered dog ---
A chicken’s feather lost in the air.
Look to it citizens of Madrid
Reap your living
And mourn your dead.
You who survive ---
In order to survive ---
Must fight for your land ---
Sweep away your dead ---
And make room for the living.
Here a child --- Dead
Here a woman --- Dead
Here a soldier --- Dead
Here a citizen --- Dead
Bury them
In the soil to be
Planted as seeds of Democracy.
The planes are gone
And work’s to be done.
This is your work
No one to help you.
The world of civilization
Has turned its back.
This is your fight, it said,
We shall have nothing to do with it, it said.
Nothing at all, it said
Neutrality, it said
Non-intervention
Non-intervention
Non-intervention
Until its words screamed
Its blood message.
Let Spain fight its fight
And if Germany interferes
And Spain becomes Italy’s career
That’s their business ---
We wipe our hands
Of the whole affair.
That’s what the world has said to you.
Democracy is a pretty sounding word
And the world of civilization
Has claimed Democracy as its own
And the pretty sounding word
Has been translated now
Into
The living come the dead
God, but long live the dead.
Dead from the bombing
Of fascisms coming.
Dead from Democracy’s lie
Our Democracies led them to die.
Hold up their heads to the shame
Bodies made dead and maimed
Democracy’s new found fame.
This crime with fascism they must share
This bomb made --- where?
‘Tis true -----
Wilmington, Delaware.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Baby Killer
Taken from the headlines over 70 years ago, this poem reflects the perennial issues associated with the life cycle of the impoverished. As the abortion debate continues unabated let us remember the fate that once befell those most vulnerable amongst us beset with an unwanted pregnancy. The scenario depicted in this poem could once again become stark reality if our modern misogynists have their way.
Baby Killer
-- Eugene V. Etler
They take a girl and put her on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
They take her before a judge and twelve true men
And seat her before the eyes of the staring mob.
And they point their fingers with the scorn of the right
And they say with their eyes – You killed your baby.
Your one hour baby
You killed your baby
And then they question – Why?
And this girl she sits and looks at them
And wonders, too, at the reasons why
She had a baby and though she did
Whose business is it but her own
That she killed it before it had a chance
Of growing and discovery the hardships
One has to go thru living.
They take a girl and put her on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
Why? cries the court
You killed, cries the court
You took a life, cries the court
You must pay with your life, cries the court
With your life! With your life! With your life!
cries the court!
Why did you kill, cries the court
cries the press
cries the mob
cries a land
cries a world
cries a girl
Why did I kill
Why did I kill a baby that I did not want?
It was born, she sobs, without any help.
I felt a pain, a terrible pain, I couldn’t breathe,
I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t walk,
I felt as if I was going to die.
You’re going to have a kid, I cried.
You’re going to have a kid, I screamed.
You don’t want anyone to know, I yelled.
So I went to the bathroom and there my baby
There my baby was born to me
Born to me and I looked at it and cried
I cried, what are you doing here
Who asked for you
And what am I going to do
Am I going to do with you?
And I talked and cried to it –
And I looked at its face, its ugly face,
And I sobbed when I saw its face
I sobbed and I said, you don’t belong,
And I felt very weak and needed some air –
So grasping my baby I went upstairs
Up five flights of stairs
Till I came to the roof
And I looked down below
And I feeling so weak
I fainted!
I didn’t kill my baby!
I didn’t want it,
But, I did not kill it –
I fainted!
I fainted!
You hear, I did not kill it!
I fainted and it fell those five stories high
And its just as well it did die,
But I did not kill it!
I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t!
And the district Attorney, he, looks at this girl
This girl that they put on trial
For killing a baby she did not want.
And this District Attorney so wise in the ways of the law
This District Attorney who knows right from wrong
Looks at this girl and questions so wisely:
You did not kill your baby?
No, cries the girl and in her innocence means –
No, she did not want it; but she did not kill it.
Ah, cries the District Attorney and he shouts his point.
And cries for the world to hear -----
No, you did not want it – so you went to the roof
And threw it down and watched it hit the pavement
You killed a baby because you did not want it!
Sane, logical District Attorney --- summing his case
To the logical point
Of a law maker
Who would send a law breaker
To jail
Or his doom in the chair
Logical, sane, maker and holder of the law District Attorney.
They take a girl and put her on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
And the jury is wise
And the judge is wise
And the people is wise
The world is wise
And they condemn this girl
For her innocence in having a baby
And killing a baby
An hour old baby
A thing that did not know what it is to live.
Who is this girl?
What is this girl?
She epitomizes a world of girls
Caught in the clutches
Of a world that does not give a hooting damn
If they exist or don’t exist.
Her name is Mary Smith.
Take the stand Mary Smith.
What is your name Mary Smith?
Mary Smith ---
Ah, Mary Smith ---
How old are you, Mary Smith?
Seventeen!
Are you married, Mary Smith?
No!
Ah, she’s not married
And Mary Smith had a baby
An unwanted baby
A baby she killed!
You killed your baby, Mary Smith!
No!
Now, Mary Smith, I want to ask you a question ---
You know the father of your dead baby --- Mary Smith?
Yes!
Ah, you know the father of your dead baby --- Mary Smith.
Yes.
And who is the father?
And Mary Smith tells her story.
Listen, you jury
Listen, you court
Listen, you people
Listen, you world
You so wise who condemn this girl
For killing a baby she did not want.
A story of a girl who at the age of thirteen
Had to leave school and go to work
And the money she earned
Was not the money she earned
For this money had to go to her folks.
Innocent child of thirteen
Working and slaving under the tutorage
Of a boss, a foreman and a machine.
Turning out work and receiving for her work
A salary measly
Which she in return brings home to the folks..
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen – working in a factory.
Where are the pleasures that a girl needs?
Where are those things that a girl needs?
Clothes, cosmetics, friends and boys
Dates and pleasures of parties that a girl needs and wants.
Where are those things for a girl that works
Works all day and from the work she does
Receives in reality no pay at all.
Seventeen, attractive
Seventeen, a woman
Seventeen, feeling the urge of a woman
Seventeen, take away thirteen
Four years working
Four years slaving
Four years in a world
For an unmatured girl
Who should have been cloistered
Within the four walls of a school.
No security
Thus no ordinary pleasures
Meeting a fellow
An attractive fellow
A good time fellow
Who looks at a girl
And thinks of a mattress.
There is no harm!
We live but once!
There is no harm!
There is no harm!
There is no harm!
A kiss!
Bliss!
Biting of lips!
Body entwined into body
No ordinary pleasures
Extraordinary pleasures
With a fellow
Who thinks of a girl
As a mattress.
Mary Smith --- Seventeen
Four years in the world
Should know the ways of protection;
But Mary Smith who at the age of seventeen
If so inclined
Should have had the privilege
Of being secure
Of having an education
Of not being thrown
At the mercies
Of an uncompromising world.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen
Not knowing what it is to live
Oh, sensuous pleasures
Oh, world, oh, life
To create such a function
For we live but once
We live but once!
We live but once!
And Mary Smith wants to live
Mary Smith has discovered a new meaning for living
Mary Smith forced by a world into a new found ideology
For her existence.
We live but once ---
Live twice Mary Smith
Live thrice, Mary Smith.
And then -------
No! No! No!
You must marry me!
God, can’t you see
I’m going to have a baby!
Why didn’t you tell me
That this would happen to me!
And then ----------
No! No! No!
I didn’t know ---
How was I to know
That you have a wife
God, what’s going to happen to my life?
Mary Smith, stand up.
Face the jury, Mary Smith.
Mary Smith you are found guilty
For murder in the second degree.
Twelve wise men have spoken
So ----- Mary Smith ----- guilty -----
You condemn this girl!
Ah, stupid jury
Stupid judge
Stupid people
Stupid world
You can’t condemn Mary Smith!
You can’t condemn Mary Smith!
For in condemning Mary Smith
You condemn yourselves
For allowing all Mary Smiths
To start their lives
Their young innocent lives
At the age of adolescence
To work! To work! To work!
These are children who are humans
These are children who you call the future generation
The makers of our nation -----
So you take them from schools
And you place them to work.
You demoralize their minds
You shatter their lives
You wreck their bodies
You lead them astray
And then you condemn them
For something to which you led them.
Condemn Mary Smith
No! Condemn yourselves
For that’s what you do
When you condemn Mary Smith.
Mary Smith --- that girl you put on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
Baby Killer
-- Eugene V. Etler
They take a girl and put her on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
They take her before a judge and twelve true men
And seat her before the eyes of the staring mob.
And they point their fingers with the scorn of the right
And they say with their eyes – You killed your baby.
Your one hour baby
You killed your baby
And then they question – Why?
And this girl she sits and looks at them
And wonders, too, at the reasons why
She had a baby and though she did
Whose business is it but her own
That she killed it before it had a chance
Of growing and discovery the hardships
One has to go thru living.
They take a girl and put her on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
Why? cries the court
You killed, cries the court
You took a life, cries the court
You must pay with your life, cries the court
With your life! With your life! With your life!
cries the court!
Why did you kill, cries the court
cries the press
cries the mob
cries a land
cries a world
cries a girl
Why did I kill
Why did I kill a baby that I did not want?
It was born, she sobs, without any help.
I felt a pain, a terrible pain, I couldn’t breathe,
I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t walk,
I felt as if I was going to die.
You’re going to have a kid, I cried.
You’re going to have a kid, I screamed.
You don’t want anyone to know, I yelled.
So I went to the bathroom and there my baby
There my baby was born to me
Born to me and I looked at it and cried
I cried, what are you doing here
Who asked for you
And what am I going to do
Am I going to do with you?
And I talked and cried to it –
And I looked at its face, its ugly face,
And I sobbed when I saw its face
I sobbed and I said, you don’t belong,
And I felt very weak and needed some air –
So grasping my baby I went upstairs
Up five flights of stairs
Till I came to the roof
And I looked down below
And I feeling so weak
I fainted!
I didn’t kill my baby!
I didn’t want it,
But, I did not kill it –
I fainted!
I fainted!
You hear, I did not kill it!
I fainted and it fell those five stories high
And its just as well it did die,
But I did not kill it!
I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t!
And the district Attorney, he, looks at this girl
This girl that they put on trial
For killing a baby she did not want.
And this District Attorney so wise in the ways of the law
This District Attorney who knows right from wrong
Looks at this girl and questions so wisely:
You did not kill your baby?
No, cries the girl and in her innocence means –
No, she did not want it; but she did not kill it.
Ah, cries the District Attorney and he shouts his point.
And cries for the world to hear -----
No, you did not want it – so you went to the roof
And threw it down and watched it hit the pavement
You killed a baby because you did not want it!
Sane, logical District Attorney --- summing his case
To the logical point
Of a law maker
Who would send a law breaker
To jail
Or his doom in the chair
Logical, sane, maker and holder of the law District Attorney.
They take a girl and put her on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
And the jury is wise
And the judge is wise
And the people is wise
The world is wise
And they condemn this girl
For her innocence in having a baby
And killing a baby
An hour old baby
A thing that did not know what it is to live.
Who is this girl?
What is this girl?
She epitomizes a world of girls
Caught in the clutches
Of a world that does not give a hooting damn
If they exist or don’t exist.
Her name is Mary Smith.
Take the stand Mary Smith.
What is your name Mary Smith?
Mary Smith ---
Ah, Mary Smith ---
How old are you, Mary Smith?
Seventeen!
Are you married, Mary Smith?
No!
Ah, she’s not married
And Mary Smith had a baby
An unwanted baby
A baby she killed!
You killed your baby, Mary Smith!
No!
Now, Mary Smith, I want to ask you a question ---
You know the father of your dead baby --- Mary Smith?
Yes!
Ah, you know the father of your dead baby --- Mary Smith.
Yes.
And who is the father?
And Mary Smith tells her story.
Listen, you jury
Listen, you court
Listen, you people
Listen, you world
You so wise who condemn this girl
For killing a baby she did not want.
A story of a girl who at the age of thirteen
Had to leave school and go to work
And the money she earned
Was not the money she earned
For this money had to go to her folks.
Innocent child of thirteen
Working and slaving under the tutorage
Of a boss, a foreman and a machine.
Turning out work and receiving for her work
A salary measly
Which she in return brings home to the folks..
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen – working in a factory.
Where are the pleasures that a girl needs?
Where are those things that a girl needs?
Clothes, cosmetics, friends and boys
Dates and pleasures of parties that a girl needs and wants.
Where are those things for a girl that works
Works all day and from the work she does
Receives in reality no pay at all.
Seventeen, attractive
Seventeen, a woman
Seventeen, feeling the urge of a woman
Seventeen, take away thirteen
Four years working
Four years slaving
Four years in a world
For an unmatured girl
Who should have been cloistered
Within the four walls of a school.
No security
Thus no ordinary pleasures
Meeting a fellow
An attractive fellow
A good time fellow
Who looks at a girl
And thinks of a mattress.
There is no harm!
We live but once!
There is no harm!
There is no harm!
There is no harm!
A kiss!
Bliss!
Biting of lips!
Body entwined into body
No ordinary pleasures
Extraordinary pleasures
With a fellow
Who thinks of a girl
As a mattress.
Mary Smith --- Seventeen
Four years in the world
Should know the ways of protection;
But Mary Smith who at the age of seventeen
If so inclined
Should have had the privilege
Of being secure
Of having an education
Of not being thrown
At the mercies
Of an uncompromising world.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen
Not knowing what it is to live
Oh, sensuous pleasures
Oh, world, oh, life
To create such a function
For we live but once
We live but once!
We live but once!
And Mary Smith wants to live
Mary Smith has discovered a new meaning for living
Mary Smith forced by a world into a new found ideology
For her existence.
We live but once ---
Live twice Mary Smith
Live thrice, Mary Smith.
And then -------
No! No! No!
You must marry me!
God, can’t you see
I’m going to have a baby!
Why didn’t you tell me
That this would happen to me!
And then ----------
No! No! No!
I didn’t know ---
How was I to know
That you have a wife
God, what’s going to happen to my life?
Mary Smith, stand up.
Face the jury, Mary Smith.
Mary Smith you are found guilty
For murder in the second degree.
Twelve wise men have spoken
So ----- Mary Smith ----- guilty -----
You condemn this girl!
Ah, stupid jury
Stupid judge
Stupid people
Stupid world
You can’t condemn Mary Smith!
You can’t condemn Mary Smith!
For in condemning Mary Smith
You condemn yourselves
For allowing all Mary Smiths
To start their lives
Their young innocent lives
At the age of adolescence
To work! To work! To work!
These are children who are humans
These are children who you call the future generation
The makers of our nation -----
So you take them from schools
And you place them to work.
You demoralize their minds
You shatter their lives
You wreck their bodies
You lead them astray
And then you condemn them
For something to which you led them.
Condemn Mary Smith
No! Condemn yourselves
For that’s what you do
When you condemn Mary Smith.
Mary Smith --- that girl you put on trial
For the killing of a baby she did not want.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
All of a sudden we lost our most beloved
Oh the humanity. Now Haiti, but how many times has fate befallen the most vulnerable amongst us. So far this century, the Sumatran tsunami, earthquakes in Kashmir, Iran and Sichuan, China to name but a few. The following poem by Zhao Bo, published in the Chinese press after the Wenchuan, Sichuan quake in 2008 speaks the universal language of unfathomable sorrow and suffering that victims of natural disasters all face.
All of a sudden we lost our most beloved
-- Zhao Bo
All of a sudden we lost our most beloved
Becoming orphans,
We find above our heads all dark
Our world is changed
No one can answer what we ask
Our family, our beloved,
Your words yesterday still warm our hearts
We cannot understand what is happening,
and nature's cold-blood
We cannot live without you,
but reality is that we had to part
and now you are so very far away,
Can you still remember the happy days in our small yard
Wailing and crying,
We beg you not to leave us in the dark
We want to find you
However, one second, one minute, one hour passes
You cannot reply,
but we know you want to get back to us
You saved us, giving away your own life,
Until we were once again pulled out
Strong rays bring hopes
Are you praying for us, dear Mom
But how can you leave us to strangers, dear Mom
One day, two days, they say you will never be back, dear Mom
We promise not to annoy you anymore,
please don't go away, dear Mom
We are your children all our lives,
and we are missing you so much, dear Mom.
All of a sudden we lost our most beloved
-- Zhao Bo
All of a sudden we lost our most beloved
Becoming orphans,
We find above our heads all dark
Our world is changed
No one can answer what we ask
Our family, our beloved,
Your words yesterday still warm our hearts
We cannot understand what is happening,
and nature's cold-blood
We cannot live without you,
but reality is that we had to part
and now you are so very far away,
Can you still remember the happy days in our small yard
Wailing and crying,
We beg you not to leave us in the dark
We want to find you
However, one second, one minute, one hour passes
You cannot reply,
but we know you want to get back to us
You saved us, giving away your own life,
Until we were once again pulled out
Strong rays bring hopes
Are you praying for us, dear Mom
But how can you leave us to strangers, dear Mom
One day, two days, they say you will never be back, dear Mom
We promise not to annoy you anymore,
please don't go away, dear Mom
We are your children all our lives,
and we are missing you so much, dear Mom.
Artist's Protest (1936)
The poem below is a dramatic recreation of a incident in which WPA artists protested the dismissal of nearly 2000 of their ranks from WPA projects in NYC. As we enter into a new era in which a progressive social agenda has once again come to the fore, we must remember that the victories won during the New Deal, the spread of industrial unionism, the establishment of Social Security and later during the 1950s and 60s the civil rights, woman's and anti-war movements came about because people fought in the streets and the halls of justice, forcing their elective officials to respond accordingly. Read the contemporary newspaper account at the end of this post to get a flavor of the times when the poem was written.
Artist's Protest (1936)
-- Eugene V. Etler
There we were more than four hundred of us
Waiting to be received
So we could lay down our demands.
We should have known they wouldn’t see us
Well, we kind of expected it –
So we made up our minds to stay
Until we would be seen –
That was about four in the afternoon.
We made up our minds to stay the night thru
And the next day too –
We made up our minds to stay until we would be seen.
And somebody, some big shot or other,
He stood on a table and looked down at us –
And I felt like spitting in his eye.
For he looked down at us
With a sneer in his eye –
And when he spoke I felt like taking his neck in my hands
And stopping the words that seemed to push their way out of his neck.
For the words that he spoke
The words that he spoke to us
Us – who are trying to keep our jobs –
Fighting to keep our jobs – so we can keep ourselves
From falling into the dung heap of the jobless march.
The words that he spoke –
‘Why don’t you go home –
‘Nobody’s going to see you –
‘So it ain’t going to do you no good to hang around.
‘Go on home like good boys and girls –
‘And if you don’t – I’m warning you
‘That if you’re not out in an hour or two
‘I’m going to call the police.’
And the word police went stumbling thru the crowd
And somebody from the crowd yelled out –
‘Oh, yeah, well, policemen are sissies!’
And we all laughed and the man on the table
He turned all green and white
And his lips closed tight
Seeing that we were prepared to fight
For our jobs – our lousy jobs – our twenty-three eighty-six jobs.
And the minutes went by
And we linked our arms together into a human chain.
There the four hundred of us
Women and men
Chained together
In one united thought
Together we’ll fight for our jobs to keep our jobs.
And the minutes went by
And as the minutes went by
We began to chant a song of demand –
A song of demand
Which seemed to toss sand
Upon the wounds of the man
That stood on the table.
For he suddenly cried out –
“I warned you – I did.”
And we yelled back –
‘Why don’t they see us!
‘We’ll stay and only leave
‘When all pink slips are rescinded!
‘That we demand!’
And so there we stood as the minutes crept by
Armed together by a common thought
That we’d stand together
For we knew that thru unity
And only thru unity
Could we make administrators
people
a city
a nation
a world
See that we mean to keep our jobs
Because we need our jobs
To keep us from falling
Into the dung heap of the jobless march.
So closely knit together
Together we stood
Four hundred stood
Perched upon the eighth floor of a building
That stood a challenge to our jobs.
And then from below we heard the eerie song
Of sirens singing a song
Of police coming their way
And we knew the time had come
When we four hundred were to show
Our militancy
To an unsuspecting world.
‘We’ll stick together!’
We quoted to ourselves –
‘We won’t leave!’
We shouted to ourselves –
‘Policemen are sissies!’
We comforted ourselves –
‘Let them come!’
We defied them to ourselves –
We shall not be moved!’
We challenged ourselves.
And they came
Streaming into that room
Bluecoats streaming into that room
And we looked at them as one would look at an enemy –
And we tightened our grips amongst ourselves
Strengthening a human chain
A human chain made up of emotions
Far stronger than fists or clubs.
And the mouth of a bluecoat opened
And it tossed words out at us –
‘Why don’t youse go home,’ it said.
‘Why don’t youse be nice,’ it said
‘Youse is only makin’ trouble,’ it said.
‘Go home,’ it said.
And one of us in reply yelled, ‘We ain’t!’
And that about summed it all up in a nut shell.
‘Don’t youse know you’rse breakin’ the law,’
The mouth of the bluecoat opened and closed.
‘The W.P.A. only rented this place from nine to six
‘And your stayin’ here after six when you’rse told to leave
‘Only make youse breakin’ the law.’
Opened and closed the mouth of the bluecoat.
‘We’re not going to leave
‘We’re not going to leave
‘Until pink slips are rescinded!’
And above our chanting we heard a whistle
And we felt the warmth of bluecoats
Surging toward us!’
We linked our arms closer, tighter together
Welding ourselves solidified into a more forbearing human chain.
And then they tried to pull us one by one out of that chain
But we wouldn’t be moved.
We’ll show them our strength
Not the strength of brutality
But the strength of unity –
We won’t be moved!
They talk of Spain
And the terrors of fascism.
They condemn a Hitler
And act shocked
At the playful games
A Mussolini
Plays with the rights of a people.
And they tell us – American citizens
That we should be proud and glad
That we live in such a democracy
As America – the land of the free.
Well, those who talk
If they were but eye witnesses
To the goings-on – on the eighth floor
In a room surrounded by four walls and one door
A room enclosing four hundred souls
Brutally attacked by New York’s finest.
For clubs were being wielded
And fists were being used
And men were throwing curses
To the steady drip of worker’s blood.
And women were screeching defiance
To the steady beat of Cossack’s clubs.
Oh, yes, blood washed the floor
Blood – of workers’ blood washed the floor
Cleansing it of the trampled prints the police left.
And the cries of the men and women
Which re-echoed against the walls
Will remain to haunt those
Who had no desire to see
Men and women who demanded jobs.
Those men and women who remained
To meet the clubs of the law
As the clubs of the law
Met the bones of the people
Fighting for jobs.
And the curses of the cops
Intermingled with the defiant cries of workers
Spelt the doom of American democracy
For the smell of fascism stank its way thru that room
And the forceful clubs beat a wooden tattoo
Upon the skulls and bones of innocent workers.
The room that we entered was no more the same.
For desks were overturned
And typewriters battered to a pulp.
Papers spewed red by workers blood
As triumphantly cops dragged us out
And down the elevators
Into the yawning mouths
Of Black-Mirias.
Triumphantly cops marched us out
The brave bluecoats of New York’s finest –
They fought us with fists and clubs
While we fought together
Welded together
Into a human chain.
No, we were not defeated
We have just begun to fight.
So tossed into wagons
To be driven to stations
Battered and slaughtered by the fists and clubs
Of brutality
We struck a new note for freedom
And together we sang – America’
As deep in our hearts we knew
That the words betrayed us.
(Click on link to view NY Times article pdf))
Artist's Protest (1936)
-- Eugene V. Etler
There we were more than four hundred of us
Waiting to be received
So we could lay down our demands.
We should have known they wouldn’t see us
Well, we kind of expected it –
So we made up our minds to stay
Until we would be seen –
That was about four in the afternoon.
We made up our minds to stay the night thru
And the next day too –
We made up our minds to stay until we would be seen.
And somebody, some big shot or other,
He stood on a table and looked down at us –
And I felt like spitting in his eye.
For he looked down at us
With a sneer in his eye –
And when he spoke I felt like taking his neck in my hands
And stopping the words that seemed to push their way out of his neck.
For the words that he spoke
The words that he spoke to us
Us – who are trying to keep our jobs –
Fighting to keep our jobs – so we can keep ourselves
From falling into the dung heap of the jobless march.
The words that he spoke –
‘Why don’t you go home –
‘Nobody’s going to see you –
‘So it ain’t going to do you no good to hang around.
‘Go on home like good boys and girls –
‘And if you don’t – I’m warning you
‘That if you’re not out in an hour or two
‘I’m going to call the police.’
And the word police went stumbling thru the crowd
And somebody from the crowd yelled out –
‘Oh, yeah, well, policemen are sissies!’
And we all laughed and the man on the table
He turned all green and white
And his lips closed tight
Seeing that we were prepared to fight
For our jobs – our lousy jobs – our twenty-three eighty-six jobs.
And the minutes went by
And we linked our arms together into a human chain.
There the four hundred of us
Women and men
Chained together
In one united thought
Together we’ll fight for our jobs to keep our jobs.
And the minutes went by
And as the minutes went by
We began to chant a song of demand –
A song of demand
Which seemed to toss sand
Upon the wounds of the man
That stood on the table.
For he suddenly cried out –
“I warned you – I did.”
And we yelled back –
‘Why don’t they see us!
‘We’ll stay and only leave
‘When all pink slips are rescinded!
‘That we demand!’
And so there we stood as the minutes crept by
Armed together by a common thought
That we’d stand together
For we knew that thru unity
And only thru unity
Could we make administrators
people
a city
a nation
a world
See that we mean to keep our jobs
Because we need our jobs
To keep us from falling
Into the dung heap of the jobless march.
So closely knit together
Together we stood
Four hundred stood
Perched upon the eighth floor of a building
That stood a challenge to our jobs.
And then from below we heard the eerie song
Of sirens singing a song
Of police coming their way
And we knew the time had come
When we four hundred were to show
Our militancy
To an unsuspecting world.
‘We’ll stick together!’
We quoted to ourselves –
‘We won’t leave!’
We shouted to ourselves –
‘Policemen are sissies!’
We comforted ourselves –
‘Let them come!’
We defied them to ourselves –
We shall not be moved!’
We challenged ourselves.
And they came
Streaming into that room
Bluecoats streaming into that room
And we looked at them as one would look at an enemy –
And we tightened our grips amongst ourselves
Strengthening a human chain
A human chain made up of emotions
Far stronger than fists or clubs.
And the mouth of a bluecoat opened
And it tossed words out at us –
‘Why don’t youse go home,’ it said.
‘Why don’t youse be nice,’ it said
‘Youse is only makin’ trouble,’ it said.
‘Go home,’ it said.
And one of us in reply yelled, ‘We ain’t!’
And that about summed it all up in a nut shell.
‘Don’t youse know you’rse breakin’ the law,’
The mouth of the bluecoat opened and closed.
‘The W.P.A. only rented this place from nine to six
‘And your stayin’ here after six when you’rse told to leave
‘Only make youse breakin’ the law.’
Opened and closed the mouth of the bluecoat.
‘We’re not going to leave
‘We’re not going to leave
‘Until pink slips are rescinded!’
And above our chanting we heard a whistle
And we felt the warmth of bluecoats
Surging toward us!’
We linked our arms closer, tighter together
Welding ourselves solidified into a more forbearing human chain.
And then they tried to pull us one by one out of that chain
But we wouldn’t be moved.
We’ll show them our strength
Not the strength of brutality
But the strength of unity –
We won’t be moved!
They talk of Spain
And the terrors of fascism.
They condemn a Hitler
And act shocked
At the playful games
A Mussolini
Plays with the rights of a people.
And they tell us – American citizens
That we should be proud and glad
That we live in such a democracy
As America – the land of the free.
Well, those who talk
If they were but eye witnesses
To the goings-on – on the eighth floor
In a room surrounded by four walls and one door
A room enclosing four hundred souls
Brutally attacked by New York’s finest.
For clubs were being wielded
And fists were being used
And men were throwing curses
To the steady drip of worker’s blood.
And women were screeching defiance
To the steady beat of Cossack’s clubs.
Oh, yes, blood washed the floor
Blood – of workers’ blood washed the floor
Cleansing it of the trampled prints the police left.
And the cries of the men and women
Which re-echoed against the walls
Will remain to haunt those
Who had no desire to see
Men and women who demanded jobs.
Those men and women who remained
To meet the clubs of the law
As the clubs of the law
Met the bones of the people
Fighting for jobs.
And the curses of the cops
Intermingled with the defiant cries of workers
Spelt the doom of American democracy
For the smell of fascism stank its way thru that room
And the forceful clubs beat a wooden tattoo
Upon the skulls and bones of innocent workers.
The room that we entered was no more the same.
For desks were overturned
And typewriters battered to a pulp.
Papers spewed red by workers blood
As triumphantly cops dragged us out
And down the elevators
Into the yawning mouths
Of Black-Mirias.
Triumphantly cops marched us out
The brave bluecoats of New York’s finest –
They fought us with fists and clubs
While we fought together
Welded together
Into a human chain.
No, we were not defeated
We have just begun to fight.
So tossed into wagons
To be driven to stations
Battered and slaughtered by the fists and clubs
Of brutality
We struck a new note for freedom
And together we sang – America’
As deep in our hearts we knew
That the words betrayed us.
(Click on link to view NY Times article pdf))
The Choir of Untold Millions
Guernica, Stalingrad, Guatemala, Cambodia, Rwanda, Darfur, Iraq, The Congo, Haiti and the list goes on and on, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, decade after decade, the same story, the same headlines, the same suffering of untold millions, keening an elegy of misery and terror.
The unfolding tragedy in Haiti is more than a natural disaster. It is the aftermath of centuries of imperialist oppression of the Haitian people for which we as Americans are largely responsible. Other human catastrophes throughout the world are likewise the result of an inhumane system of abuse and exploitation that persists to this day and will only become heightened as our planet's precarious ecological balance becomes increasingly unhinged due to an unsustainable Western life style built on the backs of indigenous people throughout the world resulting in deforestation, globing warming and other environmental crimes.
Here we have a poem written by my father Eugene Victor Etler, when he was in his twenty’s, 70 odd years ago, that could have been written yesterday, today or tomorrow.
The Choir of Untold Millions
-- Eugene V. Etler
Listen to a song of misery
Listen to a song of terror
Listen to it swell and break
Upon the eroded shores of humanity
Listen to it well
Listen to it as a murmur
Swell to a roar of thunder
Listen to this song of misery
Listen to this song of terror
Listen to this choir
Of untold millions
Haunting the strings
Of embittered instruments.
Listen to this choir
Lifted to this song
Not in the voice of God
But to the taunting strings of misery.
And these voices lifted in song
Shall haunt the souls of men
The souls of men
Who pointed their fingers of scorn
At these the disinherited.
Listen to their song of misery
Listen to their song of terror
Down the corridors of time
Their haunted notes of misery
Their haunted notes of terror
Shall re-echo a thousand-fold times,
And the laughter of man shall cease
And the chatter of human voices
Will finally come to an end
And all motion will be stilled
For all must be made aware
Of the forthcoming doom
Of the disinherited.
Their voices sing a song
Welded together in the name of discontent
Their song a wail
Leaving the strong pale
For the consequences of time
Has overtaken them.
We have listened to their song of misery
We have listened to their song of terror
And we do not know where to turn.
Their singing voices haunt us
Haunt us who have betrayed them
Our souls are wrecked
The waste of misery and terror
Has taken its toll
And darkness has overcome us.
Yet, we who have condemned the starving
We who have murdered the living
Stand with heads unbarred
Unbrunted to the shame of our deeds.
We who in our wild orgy danced
To the chant
That the starved must die
That the overworked must starve
That those who work must be overworked
And those who never worked
Shall never have the right to work.
Have heard this song of misery
Have heard this song of terror.
And our might is the fear of the people
And our fear is the might of the people.
Listen to this choir
Of untold millions strong
Men, women, children
Anguish in their voices
The anguish of the disinherited.
The unfolding tragedy in Haiti is more than a natural disaster. It is the aftermath of centuries of imperialist oppression of the Haitian people for which we as Americans are largely responsible. Other human catastrophes throughout the world are likewise the result of an inhumane system of abuse and exploitation that persists to this day and will only become heightened as our planet's precarious ecological balance becomes increasingly unhinged due to an unsustainable Western life style built on the backs of indigenous people throughout the world resulting in deforestation, globing warming and other environmental crimes.
Here we have a poem written by my father Eugene Victor Etler, when he was in his twenty’s, 70 odd years ago, that could have been written yesterday, today or tomorrow.
The Choir of Untold Millions
-- Eugene V. Etler
Listen to a song of misery
Listen to a song of terror
Listen to it swell and break
Upon the eroded shores of humanity
Listen to it well
Listen to it as a murmur
Swell to a roar of thunder
Listen to this song of misery
Listen to this song of terror
Listen to this choir
Of untold millions
Haunting the strings
Of embittered instruments.
Listen to this choir
Lifted to this song
Not in the voice of God
But to the taunting strings of misery.
And these voices lifted in song
Shall haunt the souls of men
The souls of men
Who pointed their fingers of scorn
At these the disinherited.
Listen to their song of misery
Listen to their song of terror
Down the corridors of time
Their haunted notes of misery
Their haunted notes of terror
Shall re-echo a thousand-fold times,
And the laughter of man shall cease
And the chatter of human voices
Will finally come to an end
And all motion will be stilled
For all must be made aware
Of the forthcoming doom
Of the disinherited.
Their voices sing a song
Welded together in the name of discontent
Their song a wail
Leaving the strong pale
For the consequences of time
Has overtaken them.
We have listened to their song of misery
We have listened to their song of terror
And we do not know where to turn.
Their singing voices haunt us
Haunt us who have betrayed them
Our souls are wrecked
The waste of misery and terror
Has taken its toll
And darkness has overcome us.
Yet, we who have condemned the starving
We who have murdered the living
Stand with heads unbarred
Unbrunted to the shame of our deeds.
We who in our wild orgy danced
To the chant
That the starved must die
That the overworked must starve
That those who work must be overworked
And those who never worked
Shall never have the right to work.
Have heard this song of misery
Have heard this song of terror.
And our might is the fear of the people
And our fear is the might of the people.
Listen to this choir
Of untold millions strong
Men, women, children
Anguish in their voices
The anguish of the disinherited.
Duct Tape and Plastic Sheeting
Here is a poem I wrote on the eve of our invasion of Iraq on March 20, 2003, expressing my dismay at the irony of our accusation that Saddam Hussein had WMDs, when in fact we were about to unleash them on the Iraqi people.
I wrote the first stanza of the poem “Duct Tape and Plastic Sheeting” in response to the 2003 "duct tape alert" by the George W Bush administration. On February 10, 2003, then-U.S. FEMA Director David Paulison went on television and told Americans to prepare for terrorist attacks by stocking up on, among other things, duct tape and plastic sheeting to cover up their windows and doors in an attempt to seal one's home against nuclear, chemical, or biological contaminants. It was in fact the Iraqis who came under attack, not the US.. In the poem I tried to convey the absurdity of this precaution when we, in fact, were about to unleash a devastating terrorist attack on the Iraqi nation that would eventually lead to hundreds of thousands of Iraqi casualties.
The second stanza, “Green Parrots,” was written in response to Gino Strada’s book of the same name which describes the horrendous injuries inflicted on children in war zones by cluster bombs. Designed to look like toys, green parrots are small, winged cylinders roughly four inches long that flutter over lands ravaged by war, but are, in fact, antipersonnel mines that litter the landscape. They are used indiscriminately by the US and its allies in Iraq and elsewhere to devastating effect.
Duct Tape and Plastic Sheeting -- By Dennis A. Etler
Does duct tape and plastic sheeting protect against bombs?
Oh, you Iraqi women and children, please protect yourselves
From weapons of mass destruction.
Oh, you long suffering masses of the Islamic horde,
Please go to the local bazaar and buy your duct tape and plastic sheeting.
Cover your doors and windows to ward off the reign of terror
Descending upon you from the skies.
One bomb for every thousand of you.
One pound of devastation for each and every one of you.
Stand proud in shock and awe.
We can sympathize with you as we cower in Kennebunkport
Behind duct tape and plastic sheeting.
Waiting in vain for weapons of mass destruction.
We will make your wait much shorter than ours.
You will satisfy our hunger for mass destruction.
Please buy your duct tape and plastic sheeting
As we begin to destroy your country in order to save it,
For democracy.
Green Parrots
Do cluster bombs make good Christmas ornaments?
Oh, you young Iraqi boys and girls, be careful as you walk across brown fields
To schools leveled by American bombs
Brown fields littered with green parrots meant to tear you limb from limb
Oh, you loving Iraqi mothers and fathers
Look away as your children’s hands are blown apart
Go to your mosques to mourn your dead and reap their bodies.
A country destroyed, a village destroyed, a family destroyed
We can sympathize as we go shopping for Christmas decorations
To place upon the tree, as we sing songs of heavenly peace
And brotherhood amongst all men
As we send drones to kill your brides and grooms.
Oh, you poor Iraqi people who once lived side by side
Sunni and Shia, married together, working together, living together.
Christian and Muslim, worshiping in centuries old churches and mosques.
Your shredded bodies now drape the landscape
A persistent memory of what war has wrought.
I wrote the first stanza of the poem “Duct Tape and Plastic Sheeting” in response to the 2003 "duct tape alert" by the George W Bush administration. On February 10, 2003, then-U.S. FEMA Director David Paulison went on television and told Americans to prepare for terrorist attacks by stocking up on, among other things, duct tape and plastic sheeting to cover up their windows and doors in an attempt to seal one's home against nuclear, chemical, or biological contaminants. It was in fact the Iraqis who came under attack, not the US.. In the poem I tried to convey the absurdity of this precaution when we, in fact, were about to unleash a devastating terrorist attack on the Iraqi nation that would eventually lead to hundreds of thousands of Iraqi casualties.
The second stanza, “Green Parrots,” was written in response to Gino Strada’s book of the same name which describes the horrendous injuries inflicted on children in war zones by cluster bombs. Designed to look like toys, green parrots are small, winged cylinders roughly four inches long that flutter over lands ravaged by war, but are, in fact, antipersonnel mines that litter the landscape. They are used indiscriminately by the US and its allies in Iraq and elsewhere to devastating effect.
Duct Tape and Plastic Sheeting -- By Dennis A. Etler
Does duct tape and plastic sheeting protect against bombs?
Oh, you Iraqi women and children, please protect yourselves
From weapons of mass destruction.
Oh, you long suffering masses of the Islamic horde,
Please go to the local bazaar and buy your duct tape and plastic sheeting.
Cover your doors and windows to ward off the reign of terror
Descending upon you from the skies.
One bomb for every thousand of you.
One pound of devastation for each and every one of you.
Stand proud in shock and awe.
We can sympathize with you as we cower in Kennebunkport
Behind duct tape and plastic sheeting.
Waiting in vain for weapons of mass destruction.
We will make your wait much shorter than ours.
You will satisfy our hunger for mass destruction.
Please buy your duct tape and plastic sheeting
As we begin to destroy your country in order to save it,
For democracy.
Green Parrots
Do cluster bombs make good Christmas ornaments?
Oh, you young Iraqi boys and girls, be careful as you walk across brown fields
To schools leveled by American bombs
Brown fields littered with green parrots meant to tear you limb from limb
Oh, you loving Iraqi mothers and fathers
Look away as your children’s hands are blown apart
Go to your mosques to mourn your dead and reap their bodies.
A country destroyed, a village destroyed, a family destroyed
We can sympathize as we go shopping for Christmas decorations
To place upon the tree, as we sing songs of heavenly peace
And brotherhood amongst all men
As we send drones to kill your brides and grooms.
Oh, you poor Iraqi people who once lived side by side
Sunni and Shia, married together, working together, living together.
Christian and Muslim, worshiping in centuries old churches and mosques.
Your shredded bodies now drape the landscape
A persistent memory of what war has wrought.
Jesus Crist, Don't Do It!
The Sean Bell murder trial in NYC in May 2008 highlighted the continued oppression that African Americans and other minorities are subject to. Although we have elected an African-American President, the underlying, pervasive racism of our society, epitomized by disproportionate incarceration rates among blacks and Latinos, endemic unemployment and sky-rocking foreclosures within minority communities, gives mute testimony to the persistence of institutionalized racism in our supposedly "post-racial" society, which has the largest per capita prison population in the world of which over 40% are people of color. This is a national crisis that is hardly ever mentioned by our political leaders of either party.
In today's world the perpetrators of outrages such as Bell's murder, may very well be of the same ethnicity as the victim, which doesn't change but emphasizes the institutional nature of the abuse. The Bell case was just one example among many documenting the reality of racial oppression in our society, whether we want to acknowledge it or not. What added additional irony and pathos to the incident was the coincidence that fifty years earlier another Bell, named Daniel, met a similar fate in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
In 1958, Daniel Bell, a young African-American was shot in the back by Officer Thomas Grady supposedly in self-defense, an excuse based on the discovery that Daniel had a knife in his hand at the time he was shot. In 1977 another officer, Louis Krause, came forward, nearly 20 years after the fact and admitted that his partner had planted the knife on the victim. Grady, who had been on duty when he fired the shots that killed Bell and planted the knife, pleaded guilty in 1978 to homicide by reckless conduct and to perjury for lying during the inquest that cleared him. Milwaukee's D.A. at the time, E. Michael McCann, who served in that capacity for 36 years before retiring in 2006, refused to investigate whether anyone else in the department was involved in the cover-up.
Below is a poem I wrote 30 years ago to commemorate Daniel's murder. It was read during a rally organized to protest the police cover-up of Daniel's murder that had then come to light. The poem is based on a news story that appeared in the Sept. 13, 1979 Milwaukee Journal. Entitled "Killer Pleaded: Don't Tell DA," the article tells how officer Grady tried to dissuade his partner Louis Krause from exposing the cover-up of Daniel Bell's murder.The telephone conversation held between these two former police officers, as reported in the paper, serves as the basis for the poem.
Killer Cop Pleaded "Don't Tell DA"
-- Dennis A. Etler
"Jesus Christ don't do it."
We've kept this under wraps for twenty years now
No need to bring it to the light of day.
It's true we were on the prowl
Looking for prey
Walking with a swagger.
It didn't matter, he was only a n*gger kid,
why, all I had to do was take out that dagger,
and put it in his hand.
No need to land
In jail now.
"Jesus Christ don't do it."
Hey, we've stuck together through thick and thin
Now's not the time to do me in.
It's happened before and happened since
Shi...when we killed that boy we hardly winced
Or gave
A thought that he had a right to live.
"Jesus Christ don't do it."
Sure I've thought of it time and again,
But these things happen now and then.
Shouldn't take it so hard
Those people need a lesson, show them
who's boss, who calls the cards.
"Jesus Christ, don't do it."
What's this world comin' to when a
black boy's life twenty years dead
Can bring me back to this damn city
Led before the dock.
I tell you it's a pity.
He was just a n*gger kid, if we had
put him under lock and thrown away the key
There wouldn't be all this fuss and I'd
be off scot-free.
"Jesus Christ, don't do it."
I'm not alone in this crime.
But I'm the only one gonna do any time.
Those others in the cover-up
Why DA McCann said he'd never give up
Their names.
And what about those other murders?
You can't tell me that all them claims
of self-defense
Make any more sense
Than mine.
"Jesus Christ, don't do it!"
50 years ago, 30 years ago, the day before yesterday, today and tomorrow. The more things change the more they stay the same.
In today's world the perpetrators of outrages such as Bell's murder, may very well be of the same ethnicity as the victim, which doesn't change but emphasizes the institutional nature of the abuse. The Bell case was just one example among many documenting the reality of racial oppression in our society, whether we want to acknowledge it or not. What added additional irony and pathos to the incident was the coincidence that fifty years earlier another Bell, named Daniel, met a similar fate in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
In 1958, Daniel Bell, a young African-American was shot in the back by Officer Thomas Grady supposedly in self-defense, an excuse based on the discovery that Daniel had a knife in his hand at the time he was shot. In 1977 another officer, Louis Krause, came forward, nearly 20 years after the fact and admitted that his partner had planted the knife on the victim. Grady, who had been on duty when he fired the shots that killed Bell and planted the knife, pleaded guilty in 1978 to homicide by reckless conduct and to perjury for lying during the inquest that cleared him. Milwaukee's D.A. at the time, E. Michael McCann, who served in that capacity for 36 years before retiring in 2006, refused to investigate whether anyone else in the department was involved in the cover-up.
Below is a poem I wrote 30 years ago to commemorate Daniel's murder. It was read during a rally organized to protest the police cover-up of Daniel's murder that had then come to light. The poem is based on a news story that appeared in the Sept. 13, 1979 Milwaukee Journal. Entitled "Killer Pleaded: Don't Tell DA," the article tells how officer Grady tried to dissuade his partner Louis Krause from exposing the cover-up of Daniel Bell's murder.The telephone conversation held between these two former police officers, as reported in the paper, serves as the basis for the poem.
Killer Cop Pleaded "Don't Tell DA"
-- Dennis A. Etler
"Jesus Christ don't do it."
We've kept this under wraps for twenty years now
No need to bring it to the light of day.
It's true we were on the prowl
Looking for prey
Walking with a swagger.
It didn't matter, he was only a n*gger kid,
why, all I had to do was take out that dagger,
and put it in his hand.
No need to land
In jail now.
"Jesus Christ don't do it."
Hey, we've stuck together through thick and thin
Now's not the time to do me in.
It's happened before and happened since
Shi...when we killed that boy we hardly winced
Or gave
A thought that he had a right to live.
"Jesus Christ don't do it."
Sure I've thought of it time and again,
But these things happen now and then.
Shouldn't take it so hard
Those people need a lesson, show them
who's boss, who calls the cards.
"Jesus Christ, don't do it."
What's this world comin' to when a
black boy's life twenty years dead
Can bring me back to this damn city
Led before the dock.
I tell you it's a pity.
He was just a n*gger kid, if we had
put him under lock and thrown away the key
There wouldn't be all this fuss and I'd
be off scot-free.
"Jesus Christ, don't do it."
I'm not alone in this crime.
But I'm the only one gonna do any time.
Those others in the cover-up
Why DA McCann said he'd never give up
Their names.
And what about those other murders?
You can't tell me that all them claims
of self-defense
Make any more sense
Than mine.
"Jesus Christ, don't do it!"
50 years ago, 30 years ago, the day before yesterday, today and tomorrow. The more things change the more they stay the same.
On Growing into Manhood
My late father Eugene Victor Etler wrote this unpublished poem over 70 years ago during the height of the southern lynching spree. He would read it to my brother and me while we grew up during the 1950s. It is the most devastating indictment of white supremacist racism I’ve ever encountered and helped mold my thinking forever after. With all the recent publicity surrounding vigilantism and "stand your ground" profiling, I feel it is important to share this powerful statement with a wider audience than my immediate family.
Although we don't physically lynch as in the past, we continue to do so in other ways, either by "legal" shoot first ask later laws or socio-culturally, spiritually and psychologically, making this poem as relevant today as when first written.
On Growing Into Manhood
-- Eugene V. Etler
He was only thirteen and he hadn't seen nothin’.
His was a world of fancies, a world of pleasures.
A world that consisted of kids his age and the
language of their problems. He lived in a small
town and the prejudices of such a town became un-
consciously his own. One day with his father, in
the center of town, he found himself in the middle
of a swirling, excited, angry mob. Here a boy of
thirteen discovered himself a man amongst men.
What is it, paw
What's goin' to happen
Is it goin' to be a parade, huh paw?
I'm so excited
It reminds me of the time
We all went to the fair
And saw the chickens and cows
And ate popcorn and dogs
And we all then rode
On the merry-go-round,
That was fun wasn't it, paw?
What's goin' to happen, paw
Somethin' excitin', paw?
Everybody here seemin' so angry and excited
At somethin', paw
And they're all standin' as if waitin'
What are they waitin' for, paw?
What are they shoutin' for, paw
And why are they angry, paw?
And some are carryin' clubs
And look at Ben Johnson, paw,
He's carryin' a rope
And all those others 'round him
Askin' him questions
And pattin' him on the back
What is Ben aimin' to do, paw?
I'm hungry, paw
Can't you get somethin' for me to eat, paw?
There's a fella sellin' somethin'
He's sellin' somethin' in a basket, paw
And there's another and another
So many, paw, all seemin' to be sellin'
And people all buyin'
And everyone seemin' excited
As if somethin's goin' to happen
Can't you tell me what, paw?
And look, paw, down the street
The crowds all seemin' to be runnin'
All seemin' to be comein' up here
To the center of the street.
And they're seemin' to be holdin' someone in the middle.
I see, paw! I see! I see!
It's a nigger they got in the middle
And they're seemin' to be tearin' at his clothes
And kickin' him all over his body
And look, paw, somebody's hittin' him right in the balls.
And he's bendin' all over
And tremblin' all over
And his eyes are so wide
That all I can see
Is the whites of his eyes.
And his mouth is wide open
And his tongue stickin' out
And his face that should look black
Almost looks white.
The God damn nigger!
The God damn nigger!
I know what they're goin' to do
They're goin' to hang him
They're goin' to lynch him
That God damn nigger is goin' to be lynched
That yellow belly nigger is goin' to be lynched.
What are they lynchin' him for, paw
Because he's a nigger, paw?
This is the first lynchin' I ever seen, paw.
Look, they're coming closer
Look at that nigger, paw!
You god damn nigger
You God damn son-ov-a-bitch-ov-a nigger
Lynchin' is too damn good for you, you nigger!
They're stoppin' right by us, paw
And there's Ben
Comin' right up to that nigger, paw
He's right by that nigger
And he's spittin' straight in his face
And he's cuffin' him with his fist
That a boy, Ben
Kill the God damn bitch, Ben!
And now he's puttin' a rope
A rope around his neck
And the crowd is tearin'
Off his clothes
Until he's naked
And his stinkin' black body
Can be seen by us all.
Now they got him by a pole
And they're throwin' the rope up
And now it's comin' down
And Ben and the others are pullin' so hard
That finally the nigger's feet is off the ground
And he's goin' up higher and higher and higher ------
Look at the way his body is all twistin' around
And his legs jumpin' up and down
Ain't it all funny to beat hell
And look at Ben and the others
They all got lighted torches
And they're pokin' that God damn nigger
All over his body
With those lighted torches
And that nigger don't scream or nothin'
He's just jumpin' up and down
Like a crazy jack-in-the-box.
Christ, won't he ever stop?
Can't you kill a nigger, paw?
It seems most an hour
That they strung him up
But damn it to hell
He's still tossin' around.
Look, paw, he's quiet now
He just seems to be swayin'
His black body swayin'
Like the clothes on maw's line swayin'
To the tune of a breeze comin' into the yard.
God, what a stink
What a stink that nigger gives
I fell sort of sick all over, paw
And I'm afraid I'm gonna throw-up
If we don't the hell get out of here.
I've seen enough lynchin', paw
The God damn nigger's dead
So let's be gettin' home, paw.
What they lynch him for, paw?
You think he had a white girl?
But it don't matter, huh, paw
He's a nigger and it don't matter.
Who do you think it was, paw?
Massie Green?
Say, she had every ---------
But it ain't no nigger's place, huh paw?
All right for a white man
But not a nigger, huh paw?
Aw, don't get sore, paw
It's all right the way I'm talkin'
I'm a man now, paw.
A white man in a white man's world
And there ain't no God damn place for niggers.
Although we don't physically lynch as in the past, we continue to do so in other ways, either by "legal" shoot first ask later laws or socio-culturally, spiritually and psychologically, making this poem as relevant today as when first written.
On Growing Into Manhood
-- Eugene V. Etler
He was only thirteen and he hadn't seen nothin’.
His was a world of fancies, a world of pleasures.
A world that consisted of kids his age and the
language of their problems. He lived in a small
town and the prejudices of such a town became un-
consciously his own. One day with his father, in
the center of town, he found himself in the middle
of a swirling, excited, angry mob. Here a boy of
thirteen discovered himself a man amongst men.
What is it, paw
What's goin' to happen
Is it goin' to be a parade, huh paw?
I'm so excited
It reminds me of the time
We all went to the fair
And saw the chickens and cows
And ate popcorn and dogs
And we all then rode
On the merry-go-round,
That was fun wasn't it, paw?
What's goin' to happen, paw
Somethin' excitin', paw?
Everybody here seemin' so angry and excited
At somethin', paw
And they're all standin' as if waitin'
What are they waitin' for, paw?
What are they shoutin' for, paw
And why are they angry, paw?
And some are carryin' clubs
And look at Ben Johnson, paw,
He's carryin' a rope
And all those others 'round him
Askin' him questions
And pattin' him on the back
What is Ben aimin' to do, paw?
I'm hungry, paw
Can't you get somethin' for me to eat, paw?
There's a fella sellin' somethin'
He's sellin' somethin' in a basket, paw
And there's another and another
So many, paw, all seemin' to be sellin'
And people all buyin'
And everyone seemin' excited
As if somethin's goin' to happen
Can't you tell me what, paw?
And look, paw, down the street
The crowds all seemin' to be runnin'
All seemin' to be comein' up here
To the center of the street.
And they're seemin' to be holdin' someone in the middle.
I see, paw! I see! I see!
It's a nigger they got in the middle
And they're seemin' to be tearin' at his clothes
And kickin' him all over his body
And look, paw, somebody's hittin' him right in the balls.
And he's bendin' all over
And tremblin' all over
And his eyes are so wide
That all I can see
Is the whites of his eyes.
And his mouth is wide open
And his tongue stickin' out
And his face that should look black
Almost looks white.
The God damn nigger!
The God damn nigger!
I know what they're goin' to do
They're goin' to hang him
They're goin' to lynch him
That God damn nigger is goin' to be lynched
That yellow belly nigger is goin' to be lynched.
What are they lynchin' him for, paw
Because he's a nigger, paw?
This is the first lynchin' I ever seen, paw.
Look, they're coming closer
Look at that nigger, paw!
You god damn nigger
You God damn son-ov-a-bitch-ov-a nigger
Lynchin' is too damn good for you, you nigger!
They're stoppin' right by us, paw
And there's Ben
Comin' right up to that nigger, paw
He's right by that nigger
And he's spittin' straight in his face
And he's cuffin' him with his fist
That a boy, Ben
Kill the God damn bitch, Ben!
And now he's puttin' a rope
A rope around his neck
And the crowd is tearin'
Off his clothes
Until he's naked
And his stinkin' black body
Can be seen by us all.
Now they got him by a pole
And they're throwin' the rope up
And now it's comin' down
And Ben and the others are pullin' so hard
That finally the nigger's feet is off the ground
And he's goin' up higher and higher and higher ------
Look at the way his body is all twistin' around
And his legs jumpin' up and down
Ain't it all funny to beat hell
And look at Ben and the others
They all got lighted torches
And they're pokin' that God damn nigger
All over his body
With those lighted torches
And that nigger don't scream or nothin'
He's just jumpin' up and down
Like a crazy jack-in-the-box.
Christ, won't he ever stop?
Can't you kill a nigger, paw?
It seems most an hour
That they strung him up
But damn it to hell
He's still tossin' around.
Look, paw, he's quiet now
He just seems to be swayin'
His black body swayin'
Like the clothes on maw's line swayin'
To the tune of a breeze comin' into the yard.
God, what a stink
What a stink that nigger gives
I fell sort of sick all over, paw
And I'm afraid I'm gonna throw-up
If we don't the hell get out of here.
I've seen enough lynchin', paw
The God damn nigger's dead
So let's be gettin' home, paw.
What they lynch him for, paw?
You think he had a white girl?
But it don't matter, huh, paw
He's a nigger and it don't matter.
Who do you think it was, paw?
Massie Green?
Say, she had every ---------
But it ain't no nigger's place, huh paw?
All right for a white man
But not a nigger, huh paw?
Aw, don't get sore, paw
It's all right the way I'm talkin'
I'm a man now, paw.
A white man in a white man's world
And there ain't no God damn place for niggers.
Progressive Poets Corner
Poetry can serve as a conduit to channel emotional responses to the outrages that confront us daily. It can serve to mobilize sentiment and direct our energies in ways which mere polemic cannot. Poetry also allows for the emoting of deeply held longings and sentiments that cannot be adequately expressed by other means. This blog is established to give voice to those who seek fundamental change both here and abroad that will address the underlying challenges that we face as a species to not only survive but to protect the world we have inherited.
For now, anyone who wishes to contribute a poem to this blog can do so via comments which will then be posted as an entry.
For now, anyone who wishes to contribute a poem to this blog can do so via comments which will then be posted as an entry.
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