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Bu-lat-lat (boo-lat-lat) verb: to search, probe, investigate, inquire; to unearth facts Volume 3, Number 1 February 2 - 8, 2003 Quezon City, Philippines |
February
12: A Day of Poetry Against the War An Open Letter from Sam Hamill
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to Alternative Reader Index
When
I picked up my mail and saw the letter marked "The White House," I
felt no joy. Rather I was overcome by a kind of nausea as I read the card
enclosed: Laura
Bush requests the pleasure of your company
at a reception and White House Symposium on "Poetry and the American
Voice" on Wednesday, February 12, 2003 at one o'clock Only
the day before I had read a lengthy report on George Bush's proposed "Shock
and Awe" attack on Iraq, calling for saturation bombing that would be like
the firebombing of Dresden or Tokyo, killing countless innocent civilians. I
believe the only legitimate response to such a morally bankrupt and
unconscionable idea is to reconstitute a Poets Against the War movement like the
one organized to speak out against the war in Vietnam. I
am asking every poet to speak up for the conscience of our country and lend his
or her name to our petition against this war, and to make February 12 a day of
Poetry Against the War. We will compile an anthology
of protest to be presented to the White House on that afternoon. Please
submit your name and a poem or statement of conscience to the Poets Against the
War web site. There
is little time to organize and compile. I urge you to pass along this letter to
any poets you know. Please join me in making February 12 a day when the White
House can truly hear the voices of American poets. --
Sam Hamill, founding editor of Copper Canyon Press ========== The
Olive Wood Fire When
Fergus woke crying at night. I
would carry him from his crib to
the rocking chair and sit holding him before
the fire of thousand-year-old olive wood. Sometimes,
for reasons I never knew and
he has forgotten, even after his bottle the big tears would
keep on rolling down his big cheeks -
the left cheek always more brilliant than the right - and
we would sit, some nights for hours, rocking in
the light eking itself out of the ancient wood, and
hold each other against the darkness, his
close behind and far away in the future, mine
I imagined all around. One
such time, fallen half-asleep myself, I
thought I heard a scream -
a flier crying out in horror as
he dropped fire on he didn't know what or whom, or
else a child thus set aflame - and
sat up alert. The olive wood fire had
burned low. In my arms lay Fergus, fast
asleep, left cheek glowing, God. State
of the Union, 2003 I
have not been to Jerusalem, but
Shirley talks about the bombs. I
have no god, but have seen the children praying for
it to stop. They pray to different gods. The
news is all old news again, repeated like
a bad habit, cheap tobacco, the social lie.
The
children have seen so much death that
death means nothing to them now. They
wait in line for bread. They
wait in line for water. Their
eyes are black moons reflecting emptiness. We've
seen them a thousand times.
Soon,
the President will speak. He
will have something to say about bombs and
freedom and our way of life. I
will turn the tv off. I always do. Because
I can't bear to look at
the monuments in his eyes. Refusing Refusing
the invitation I
was not given, being
given instead the
invitation to refuse. Which
I accept. Am
grateful for. The
chance to be part of the
poet's chorus, the
caucus of those whose
politics is
obvious and earnest. Whose
wishes are simple: sensible
diplomacy, everything
to be negotiated. Tough
bargaining, but
easy on the violence. That's
what we poets learned
from poems: it's
all on the table, but
it's stupid to
break up the table with
an axe, to
splinter the chairs.
And
it's madness to
ask poets to celebrate, when
people can't even breathe
deeply for
fear of war's imminence. Letter
to Hayden Carruth Dear
Hayden, I have owed you a letter for one
month, or two - your last one's misplaced. But I'm back
in New York. The world is howling, bleeding
and dying in banner headlines.
No
hope from youthful pacifists, elderly anarchists;
no solutions from diplomats. Men
maddened with revealed religion murder
their neighbors with righteous fervor,
while,
claiming they're "defending democracy," our
homespun junta exports the war machine. They,
too, have daily prayer-meetings, photo-op-perfect
for tame reporters.
("God
Bless America" would be blasphemy if
there were a god concerned with humanity.) Marie
is blunt about it: things were less
awful (Stateside) in 1940.
I
wasn't born... I've read shelves of books about France
under Vichy after the armistice: war
at imagination's distance. Distance
is telescoped now, shrinks daily.
Jews
who learned their comportment from storm-troopers act
out the nightmares that woke their grandmothers; Jews
sit, black-clad, claim peace: their vigil's not
on the whistlestop pol's agenda.
"Our"
loss is grave: American, sacralized. We
are dismayed that dead Palestinians, Kashmiris,
Chechens, Guatemalans, also
are mourned with demands for vengeance.
"Our"
loss is grave, that is, till a president in
spanking-new non-combatant uniform mandates
a war: then, men and women dying
for oil will be needed heroes.
I'd
rather live in France (or live anywhere there's
literate debate in the newspapers). The
English language is my mother tongue,
but it travels. Asylum, exile?
I
know where I feel more like a foreigner now
that it seems my birth country silences dissent
with fear. Of death? Of difference? I
know which city lightens my mornings.
You
had New England; I had diaspora, an
old folk song: "Wish I was where I would be, Then
I'd be where I am not." Would that joy
claimed its citizens, issued passports.
"First,
do no harm," physicians, not presidents, swear
when inducted. I'm tired of rhetoric, theirs
or journalists' or my own ranting. I'd
like to hole up with Blake and Crashaw -
but
there's a stack of student endeavors that I've
got to read, and write some encouraging words
on. Five hours of class tomorrow; Tuesday
, a dawn flight to California. Collateral
Damage "The
girl (captured; later, freed) and
I (collapsed by a snip of lead) remember
well the tea you steeped for
us in the garden, as music played and
the moon plied the harvest dusk. You
read the poem on a Chinese vase that
stood outside your father's room, where
he dozed in a mandarin dream of
King Gia Long's reposing at Ben Ngu. We
worry that you all are safe. A
house with pillars carved in poems is
floored with green rice fields and
roofed by all the heavens of this world."
.....Well,
that was the poem, written in
fullest discovery and iambics by
a twenty-four-year old feeling lucky not
long after those scary events. Three
years later, he (i.e. yours truly) went
back with his young American wife (not
the girl above "captured...freed, etc.") and
the night before the '72 Spring Offensive (which,
you'll recall, almost took the city) tried
to find Miss Tin's house once again .....in
a thunderstorm, both wearing ponchos, and
he (a version of "me") clutching a .45 Colt while
she, just clutched his wet hand. Of course, anyone
might have shot us--the Viet Cong infiltrating
the city, the last Marines, the
jittery ARVN troops, or, really, any
wretch just trying to feed his family. So
here's the point: why would anyone (esp.
a: me, or b: my wife, or versions of same) even
dream of going out like that? ...Simple: A.
To show his bride a household built on poems. B.
To follow love on all his lunkhead ventures. Anyway,
when we found the gated compound, we
scared the wits out of the Vietnamese inside on
the verandah reading by tiny kerosene lamps or
snoozing in hammocks under mosquito netting who
took us for assassins, or ghosts, until my
wife pulled off her poncho hood, revealing the
completely unexpected: a pretty. blonde. White Devil. Since
Miss Tin wasn't there, they did the right thing and
denied knowing her, as night and river hissed
with rain and a lone goose honked forlornly.
The
next night, we headed out again, the
monsoon flooding the darkened city, the
offensive booming in nearby hills, and
montagnards trekking into Hue in single file as
their jungle hamlets fell to the barrage. I
kept our jeep running, as my wife dashed out to
give away our piasters to the poor bastards
half-naked in the driving rain. She
gave it all away. Six month's salary, a
sack of banknotes watermarked with dragons, (except
what we needed to get back to Saigon, but
that's another story)...the point here being: I
often think of Miss Tin's pillared house in Hue and
those events now thirty years ago whenever
leaders cheer the new world order, or
generals regret "collateral damage." --
John Balaban American
Wars Like
the topaz in the toad's head the
comfort in the terrible histories was
up front, easy to find: Once
upon a time in a kingdom far away. Even
to the dreadful now of news we
listened comforted by
far timezones, languages we didn't speak, the
wide, forgetful oceans. Today,
no comfort but the jewel courage. The
war is ours, now, here, it is our republic facing
its own betraying terror. And
how we tell the story is forever after. The
School Among the Ruins Beirut.Baghdad.Sarajevo.Bethlehem.Kabul.
Not of course here. 1. Teaching
the first lesson and the last --great
falling light of summer will you last longer
than schooltime?
When
children flow in
columns at the doors BOYS
GIRLS and the busy teachers
open
or close high windows with
hooked poles drawing darkgreen shades
closets
unlocked, locked questions
unasked, asked, when
love
of the fresh impeccable sharp-pencilled
yes order
without cruelty a
street on earth neither heaven nor hell young
teachers walking to school fresh
bread and early-open foodstalls 2. When
the offensive rocks the sky when nightglare misconstrues
day and night when lived-in
rooms
from the upper city tumble
cratering lower streets
cornices
of olden ornament human debris when
fear vacuums out the streets
When
the whole town flinches blood
on the undersole thickening to glass
Whoever
crosses hunched knees bent a contested zone knows
why she does this suicidal thing
School's
now in session day and night children sleep in
the classrooms teachers rolled close 3 How
the good teacher loved his
school the students the
lunchroom with fresh sandwiches
lemonade
and milk the
classroom glass cages of
moss and turtles teaching
responsibility
A
morning breaks without bread or fresh-poured milk parents
or lesson-plans
diarrhea
first question of the day children
shivering it's September Second
question: where is my mother? 4. One:
I don't know where your mother is
Two: I don't know why
they are trying to hurt us Three:
or the latitude and longitude of
their hatred Four: I don't know if we hate
them as much I think there's more toilet paper in
the supply closet I'm going to break it open
Today
this is your lesson: write
as clearly as you can your
name home street and number down
on this page No
you can't go home yet but
you aren't lost this
is our school
I'm
not sure what we'll eat we'll
look for healthy roots and greens searching
for water though the pipes are broken 5. There's
a young cat sticking her
head through window bars she's
hungry like us but
can feed on mice her
bronze erupting fur speaks
of a life already wild her
golden eyes don't
give quarter She'll teach us Let's call her Sister when
we get milk we'll give her some 6. I've
told you, let's try to sleep in this funny camp All
night pitiless pilotless things go shrieking above
us to somewhere
Don't
let your faces turn to stone Don't
stop asking me why Let's
pay attention to our cat she needs us
Maybe tomorrow the bakers can fix their ovens 7. "We
sang them to naps told stories made shadow-animals
with our hands
washed
human debris off boots and coats sat
learning by heart the names some
were too young to write some
had forgotten how" --
Adrienne Rich
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