broken walls and narratives

A not so revolutionary blog about feminism, socialism, activism, travel, nature, life, etc.

Archive for the category “poetry”

Always a Man

Always a Man

Always a Man

H. Bradford

10.27.19


There’s always a man


On the corner by the clinic


Telling women what’s what with their bodies.


He cries about the babies,

The babies being killed in the baby killing factory

and how the remains get made into the chicken nuggets served in public school lunches.


Or at least that’s what it sounds like to me,

Since I’m about as sentimental as an old shoe

and as nurturing as an acid oasis.

And he doesn’t speak my language.



His language is the language of old men.

The language of burning witches

and marrying off little girls to old men like him.

It is the tongue of ten thousand years of silencing.

Ten thousand years of raping.

Ten thousand years of telling what’s what with women’s bodies.



There’s always a man on the sky,

telling the man on the corner what’s what

In a conversation that other men began long ago

In a language I don’t speak,

but always translates to

power over women.

And I won’t hear of it.


 

 

 

 

 

Graveyard Shift

Graveyard Shift

Graveyard Shift

H. Bradford

7/4/19



I am the corpse

You are the necromancer

You pay the wage,

I am your dancer.

You say the chant

and I bow and grovel,

I ask for rest

and you hand me the shovel.

I sell you my soul in subservient smiles,

Anything less, goes in the files.

I am the ghost with no stomach to feed

You are the vampire who drinks when I bleed.

You are the witch,

My wardrobe is rags

This shift fits like a body bag.

This is the graveyard,

This is my life,

Welcome to working.

Welcome to life.

Defeat

Defeat

Defeat

H. Bradford

6/27/19


Everyone is gone.

They migrated to brighter places.

And I am here,

Caught like a butterfly in winter

or a bat in a tower.

Doomed to die of cold,  slow suffocation,

or containment.

And I am here,

naked as bones,

growing fat and old

in the long night of my complacency.

There might have been more, but I am too worn and slow

to keep up with the crowd.

So I am here.

I am here.

This is the cemetery for those who lost the war against wages,

veterans who raged against the taxation of body and soul-

everything we gave in hours.  So many hours.

I am here

in the purgatory of defeat.

They always ask why she stayed.

But, I think you know the math of it. 

I don’t believe in Hell

i don't believe in hell

I don’t believe in Hell

H. Bradford

6/7/19

This is a poem about abortion rights.

 

I don’t believe in hell,

but I’ve got an idea of what it might be.

Languishing orphans in a Romanian cage,

sitting in urine,

dying of AIDS.

The panopticon gaze on missed menses,

missed work,

miscarriages,

or visitor in the night,

his secretary,

his sister,

his kindly wife.

 

Every anomaly  is an invitation

for incarceration.

 

Hell is the body

under siege,

prone and pried open for all to see.

It is emergency room corpses,

sepsis, and secrets.

Deadly exorcisms of rape and incest.

 

Hell is hot like Alabama

or cold like the hands of a priest,

clutching the wealth of genocide gold

and clasping tradition like a rosary of bones.

 

Hell is a landscape where a thousand wombs bloom,

sprouting babies, soldiers, and beggars

each doomed to die ravaged and poor

Because life is a weapon

of wealth and

of war.

 

 

Care is a Wall

Care is a Wall

Care is a Wall

H. Bradford

6/5/19

I work at a domestic violence shelter, so much of my work involves care work.  Sometimes this is exhausting and demoralizing- especially the large amount of bodily fluids that appear around the shelter.  So, this is a poem I wrote about the not so wonderful aspects of care work.


Care is a wall,

A car crash for careers

And a barrier more than a connection.

It is blood in the halls

Leaky diapers on laps

And urine soaked sheets.

It is a thousand unmet needs

Needs that ooze biohazards and suffering

from the places quarantined by the state.

Care is the work of women

Women with accents and darker complexions.

Care is the everyday Chernobyl

Of tending to capitalism’s toxic leftovers

With no evacuation in sight.

Care is a wall

To fight, storm, or surrender.

To die hopelessly against.

The Late Fall

The Late Fall

H. Bradford

12/6/18

This is the late fall now.

Where skies are empty

and forests quiet.

The birds have migrated in borderless caravans,

and the ground reeks of brown leaves

and fascism.

This is the ugly rump of a season.

Where the chill in the air feels violent

and truth is laid as bare as trees.

Really, its more winter than anything else.

This is the time for long pauses,

contemplative sylvan marches,

and the silent things that steels one against the cold and dark to come.

Image may contain: plant, outdoor, nature and water

 

 

The Woman Question

The Woman Question

H. Bradford

4/21/18

I have not written a poem for EVERY book that I have read this year, but this a poem inspired by Lise Vogel’s Marxism and the Oppression of Women.


When did the oppression begin?

Was patriarchy painted on the walls of caves

long before women gave birth on factory floors?

Is it passed down in property

or built into the body?

Maybe it’s just all in the family.


And what is the value of labor unpaid?

Is the value surplus?

Is it use?

Or is there any value in the question at all?


What exactly is a woman?

A person, a place?

Or a thing we made from mud of ribs, breasts, and sin.

Is it an idea to divide us by pieces and parts?

An excuse to pay some less or nothing at all

so that society lives long enough to work another day?

Image result for lisa vogel socialism and marx

This Beast

I have failed to write a poem for EVERY book I have read this year, but the most recent book that I read was The Democrats: A Critical History by Lance Selfa.   This book was well written and clearly identifies the long history of contradictions, empty promises, and duplicity of the Democratic Party.   The book is wonderfully enraging.    Here is a poem to express my revolutionary anger.

 

This Beast

2/12/18

Know this beast

Study it everyday

Like the features of a monster

With gnashing teeth to grind up the working class

Bludgeoning them like Hartley and Taft

The demon who ignores poor women

The Jekyll and the Hyde Amendment

The Jackal and the corporate cabal

Who broke bones with austerity?

Who championed NAFTA, WTO, World Bank, IMF, and the CIA?

These are not gladiators,

But emperors and vampires.

There is no lesser evil

There is only the evil of two faced capitalism,

Which devours children and shortens lives,

The time must come when people no longer bow before

Great and terrifying things

Yielding power to imagined behemoths

Their immortality is mythical

The immorality is real

We already possess the power to end this nightmare

To liberate the dispossessed

And dispose of every neo-liberal liberator

 

Image result for democrats a critical history

Nicu Ceausescu

One of my goals this year is to write a poem about each book that I read.  Earlier this month, I read Red Horizons, a book about the dictatorship/foreign policy of Romania’s Nicolae Ceausescu.  A character that captured my imagination  in the book was the villainous portrayal of Nicolae’s son, Nicu.  His story raises questions about justice, especially in light of all of the sexual harassment and assault that has garnered media attention this year.  What is justice?  How do we make the horrors of history right?


Nicu Ceaucescu

H. Bradford

1/28/18

Nicu crashed the car he was given for raping a 15 year old.

He pissed on the only oysters in the country, when the people ate nettles and scraps.

The only justice he saw was an early death by cirrhosis.

But, what is justice anyway?

A bullet to the head on Christmas day?

Or is it a century and a half spent locked away?

Is justice the sanitized violence of the state?

Or is it a mob with machetes?

Is it a mantra to make the boogeyman go away?

or a myth to comfort the victims of a meaningless world?

When words won’t make it better, bars and bullets do the trick.

Maybe the long shadow will pass.

The better world we’ve built will erase the darkest parts.

If we aren’t too traumatized to continue,

we might believe in that myth too.

Image result for nicu ceausescu

 

 

Plants Remember

 Plants Remember

H. Bradford

12/16/17

 

Plants forget birthdays,

where the car is parked,

and the hierarchies of life

that put them below animals,

but above fungi and bacteria.

 

Plants forget Lysenko’s science

and spirituality.

They forget the stress of the dark and dry.

All the things we can do without.

 

Plants Remember…

winter so they can bloom,

their neighbors,

and an unkind touch.

They keep memories stored in their

roots and leaves,

like sugar,

water,

and pain.

 

Related image

image from https://phys.org/news/2014-03-greenhouse-long-term-memory.html

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