Night Of Battle
Europe: 1944
as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim
Where giant movements tend;
Each man appears the same;
Friend vanishes from friend. In the long path of lead
That changes place like light
No shape of hand or head
Means anything tonight. Only the common will
For which explosion spoke;
And stiff on field and hill
The dark blood of the folk.
(sent by mobile)
as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim
Where giant movements tend;
Each man appears the same;
Friend vanishes from friend. In the long path of lead
That changes place like light
No shape of hand or head
Means anything tonight. Only the common will
For which explosion spoke;
And stiff on field and hill
The dark blood of the folk.
(sent by mobile)
heartlines
Listen to your heart, this new man tells me. We are in a bar
with red velvet curtains for walls, sashes of conversation
draped under music. He pours rum and then Coke over ice,
which rattles like elegant gravel. When I listen to my heart,
I hear tires crunching on a dirt road years out of this city:
thrum-pulse of wood slats on the high-water bridge. I swam
after angel fish in that shallow creek, and though I'm sure
now they were trout, or less, I remember their fins' flirtatious
silver. Why is it that blood, which is most of our bodies,
disappears when we strike it with light? If I could, I'd spend
this night in my own heart, hear its off-metronome gurgle,
flowing and falling of darkness. I'd string bright lure, open
and fill the locks. In there, my father's fibrillated beat,
my mother's paling blood. In the red-lit elevator, he jokes
clever-drunkenly of Dante, though next day, riding down
nine floors of silence, I do not think of hell,
but of a heart--- awkwardly standing in a single chamber
as the cables lower us into our outside skins. I never see
this man again: a classical pianist stockbroker who promised
to seduce me with music. I remember these notes
like the seventy-five counties of a state I seldom visit, useless
even when I learned them as a child, unforgettably, by heart.
color theory
The Home Depot salesman says, "Remember, you won't
have to live with your choice: You'll have to live
inside it." I imagine each gradation --- unpacking
frying pans and toothbrush; paperbacks strewn
inside Plum Wine, Arctic Lilac, Chiasmic Violet.
On the glossy card they've chained beside the racks
of color, I learn that purple promotes drowsiness and nausea:
not recommended for kitchens or the pilothouse
of boats. Yellow, while energizing, can make one irritable,
unable to blink naturally, too anxious to swallow. Which shade
is it that makes one likely to remember turns
from years-ago samba classes, make perfect hollandaise,
sing like Bernadette Peters? Which color will help me find
my mother's citrine ring (borrowed and lost
in seventh grade) or remember the name of the Australian
band that sang "A Girl," or find the hotel where Klimt awoke
in a light sweat after dreaming The Kiss?
If I paint the living room First Green and the office
Eggshell and Mist, what primordial creatures will hatch
from the doorway clouds, what storm fronts
sweep my bookcases empty? Will my insurance refuse
payment for accidents resulting from color--- the Supernova Blue
that caused me to fly kites from second-floor
windows or the Miami Sunburst trimmed with Japonica
that enticed me to juggle butcher knives and pomegranates?
To make things simple, I'd like one color
that will make me want to sing, cry, fuck, write letters
to strangers, wear fishnet stockings, buy irises, walk barefoot,
listen to Coltrane, move out, stay forever,
have children, and understand winter. One can, well stirred.
mistaken for muslim
Using the music video format as a subversive tool of engagement and collaboration, artist Anida Yoeu Ali and filmmaker Masahiro Sugano, worked with over 100 diverse volunteers, participants and community members in the Chicagoland area. In their film, narratives collide with music, poetry and politics to create a complex and layered experience. Central to the video is an unapologetic poem, a response to injustices directed against the Muslim community that reflect both the absurdity and dangers of racially-motivated fears. "1700%" refers to the rate of increase in hate crimes committed against people perceived as Muslim or Arab after 9/11.
The video is one facet of a larger ongoing project titled "1700% Project" utilizing art as a form of strategic intervention to present works that challenge monolithic stereotypes of Muslims. (visit 1700% Project)
united fruit co.
La United Fruit Co. When the trumpet blared everything on earth was prepared
and Jehovah distributed the world
to Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda, Ford Motors, and other entities;
United Fruit Inc.
reserved for itself the juiciest,
the central seaboard of my land,
America's sweet waist.
It rebaptized its lands
the "Banana Republics,"
and upon the slumbering corpses,
upon the restless heroes
who conquered renown,
freedom, and flags,
it established the comic opera:
it alienated self-destiny,
regaled Caesar's crowns,
unsheathed envy, drew
the dictatorship of flies:
Trujillo flies, Tacho flies,
Carías flies, Martínez flies,
Ubico flies, flies soaked
in humble blood and jam,
drunk flies that drone
over the common graves,
circus flies, clever flies
versed in tyranny. Among the bloodthirsty flies
the Fruit Co. disembarks,
ravaging coffee and fruits
for its ships that spirit away
our submerged lands' treasures
like serving trays. Meanwhile, in the seaports'
sugary abysses,
Indians collapsed, buried
in the morning mist:
a body rolls down, a nameless
thing, a fallen number,
a bunch of lifeless fruit
dumped in the rubbish heap. (translator: Jack Schmitt)
and Jehovah distributed the world
to Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda, Ford Motors, and other entities;
United Fruit Inc.
reserved for itself the juiciest,
the central seaboard of my land,
America's sweet waist.
It rebaptized its lands
the "Banana Republics,"
and upon the slumbering corpses,
upon the restless heroes
who conquered renown,
freedom, and flags,
it established the comic opera:
it alienated self-destiny,
regaled Caesar's crowns,
unsheathed envy, drew
the dictatorship of flies:
Trujillo flies, Tacho flies,
Carías flies, Martínez flies,
Ubico flies, flies soaked
in humble blood and jam,
drunk flies that drone
over the common graves,
circus flies, clever flies
versed in tyranny. Among the bloodthirsty flies
the Fruit Co. disembarks,
ravaging coffee and fruits
for its ships that spirit away
our submerged lands' treasures
like serving trays. Meanwhile, in the seaports'
sugary abysses,
Indians collapsed, buried
in the morning mist:
a body rolls down, a nameless
thing, a fallen number,
a bunch of lifeless fruit
dumped in the rubbish heap. (translator: Jack Schmitt)
sonnet XIX
19.
(on his blindness)
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'(via)
(on his blindness)
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'(via)
sonnet CXXIII
123. No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.
sonnet XXII
22. Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, t' have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, t' have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
