Poetic remembrances for a dark November
From:
"Terry Lodge tjlodge50@PROTECTED [Northwest Ohio Peace Coalition]" <peacelist@PROTECTED>
In-Reply-To:
(no subject)
Date:
November 25th 2024
An old activist fellow I hadn't heard from in years reminded me last week of Joni Mitchell's forgotten lamentation for an America lost chronically at war. Click the title for her 1969 rendition of "The Fiddle and the Drum."
Followed by June Jordan's 2005 troubling meditation on the "keening trajectory" of the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacres in Lebanon and the roots of the Palestine Holocaust, as fresh and blood-drenched as the morning headlines.
The Fiddle And The Drum
My dear Johnny my dear friend
And so once again you are fightin' us all
And when I ask you why
You raise your sticks and cry, and I fall
Oh, my friend
How did you come
To trade the fiddle for the drum
You say I have turned
Like the enemies you've earned
But I can remember
All the good things you are
And so I ask you please
Can I help you find the peace and the star
Oh, my friend
What time is this
To trade the handshake for the fist
And so once again
Oh, America my friend
And so once again
You are fighting us all
And when we ask you why
You raise your sticks and cry and we fall
Oh, my friend
How did you come
To trade the fiddle for the drum
You say we have turned
Like the enemies you've earned
But we can remember
All the good things you are
And so we ask you please
Can we help you find the peace and the star
Oh my friend
We have all come
To fear the beating of your drum
Moving towards Home
By June Jordan
“Where is Abu Fadi,” she wailed.
“Who will bring me my loved one?”
—The New York Times, 9/20/1982
I do not wish to speak about the bulldozer and the
red dirt
not quite covering all of the arms and legs
Nor do I wish to speak about the nightlong screams
that reached
the observation posts where soldiers lounged about
Nor do I wish to speak about the woman who shoved
her baby
into the stranger’s hands before she was led away
Nor do I wish to speak about the father whose sons
were shot
through the head while they slit his own throat before
the eyes
of his wife
Nor do I wish to speak about the army that lit continuous
flares into the darkness so that the others could see
the backs of their victims lined against the wall
Nor do I wish to speak about the piled up bodies and
the stench
that will not float
Nor do I wish to speak about the nurse again and
again raped
before they murdered her on the hospital floor
Nor do I wish to speak about the rattling bullets that
did not
halt on that keening trajectory
Nor do I wish to speak about the pounding on the
doors and
the breaking of windows and the hauling of families into
the world of the dead
I do not wish to speak about the bulldozer and the
red dirt
not quite covering all of the arms and legs
because I do not wish to speak about unspeakable events
that must follow from those who dare
“to purify” a people
those who dare
“to exterminate” a people
those who dare
to describe human beings as “beasts with two legs”
those who dare
“to mop up”
“to tighten the noose”
“to step up the military pressure”
“to ring around” civilian streets with tanks
those who dare
to close the universities
to abolish the press
to kill the elected representatives
of the people who refuse to be purified
those are the ones from whom we must redeem
the words of our beginning
because I need to speak about home
I need to speak about living room
where the land is not bullied and beaten to
a tombstone
I need to speak about living room
where the talk will take place in my language
I need to speak about living room
where my children will grow without horror
I need to speak about living room where the men
of my family between the ages of six and sixty-five
are not
marched into a roundup that leads to the grave
I need to talk about living room
where I can sit without grief without wailing aloud
for my loved ones
where I must not ask where is Abu Fadi
because he will be there beside me
I need to talk about living room
because I need to talk about home
I was born a Black woman
and now
I am become a Palestinian
against the relentless laughter of evil
there is less and less living room
and where are my loved ones?
It is time to make our way home.
From Directed by Desire: The Complete Poems of June Jordan (2005), Copper Canyon Press, © 2005, 2023, June M. Jordan Literary Estate Trust. Reprinted by permission.
- This mailing list is a public mailing list - anyone may join or leave, at any time.
- This mailing list is a group discussion list (unmoderated)
-
Start a new thread, email: peacelist@nwopc.org
This mailing list is an attempt to replace the nwopc yahoo group mailing list. This is a discussion list to share thoughts, ideas and articles that might serve to promote peace in our communities and to end the cultures of war.
Privacy Policy:
NWOPC or any person working on this mail list will not share any data with anyone. We respect your privacy and take it very serious.
Monitoring of any participation or attempted participation in the Peace List by any governmental authority for any purpose whatsoever is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate exclusion and possible referral for prosecution or civil lawsuit.
Other list policies may be found by clicking here.
