broken walls and narratives

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

Archive for the category “poetry”

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

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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

Fear is an Eurypterid

I wanted to write a poem dedicated to Eurypterids, the prehistoric predator also known as sea scorpions. 

Fear is an Eurypterid

by H. Bradford

12/16/17

Fear is an eurypterid.

It is the horror of claws and spindly limbs, coded into our DNA

It is epigenetic trauma that crawled out of the sea on the fins of fearful fish.

They turned terrestrial to escape it.

So now we shiver at the sight of spiders and scorpions.

The archetype of arachnophobia is inborn.

Our phobias are Paleozoic.

Our maladies never truly vanished from Mesozoic seas.

Fear is a package, delivered through time in the bodies of fish, frogs, and apes.

Fear is the eurypterid who hunted long ago,

and we’ve been haunted ever since.

Image result for eurypterid

A 1910 painting of eurypterids by Charles Knight

Bolshevik Girl

The longer I live in this world, the harder it is to dream and believe in things.  Life becomes a path of unanswerable questions, existential crisis, and the call to be stronger, less fearful, feel less, and forget more.   It is wearying.

Bolshevik Girl

H. Bradford

9/25/17

Be a Bolshevik,

Win the war

Push down the cold and hunger

Take the grain and fattest animals

But take no prisoners

Shed no tears

Be a Bolshevik, girl.

No complaints.

No fears.

Bury the bodies at the forest’s edge.

Hide the losses.

Clean the wounds.

Be a Bolshevik.

be stoic.

be cruel.

Hold on to something, an idea or a gun.

Darken your heart against faith in good things.

Toughen up or the world will roll over you.

Forget your dreams and how to dream them.

Or they will choke a century of dreamers

with your blood.

 

Image result for bolshevik girl

This Old House

This Old House

H. Bradford

9/13/17

Paint blood on the door.

They’re coming for you,

and your soul,

and your sins.

Howling for more than you can possibly give.

Prepare your confessions for the crimes that were his.

Take the lashing,

bow low your thick head.

Hold down the old house,

its your will

and their wind.

Give them some fat, give them some skin.

If it all falls apart,

no one will win.

https://fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/medium/1/that-very-old-house-murphy-elliott.jpg

“That Very Old House” art by Murphy Elliot

The Hollow Monument

The Hollow Monument

H. Badford

9/12/17

Every self is a hollow monument,

an ode to accomplishment, attachment, advancement, and the other virtues of civilization.

Behind each strong facade is fiber glass fillers and paper mache.

A hollow space to be filled with depression or distraction.

Together, we are a marble city,

made tidy by endless sweeping

and the tireless scouring of each surface,

until it all shines right and white.

Some sweepers and sculptors know it is all for show,

but without scripts and statues,

brooms and grooming,

What would we be?

What would we know?

Image may contain: sky and outdoor

(A poem that I wrote while thinking about Turkmenistan, but also the social construction of the self/mechanisms of social control)

The Thinking Universe

The Thinking Universe

H. Bradford

9/12/17

I am the thinking universe.

I am its ego.

Its self doubt.

4.5 billion years of evolution to think the thoughts I thought today,

to write them down,

signalizing to life on earth another syllable in the tongue of infinity.

Words are electricity, pheromones, symbiosis, and erosion.

My joy and my pain,

expressed prettily on paper are the voices of

sharks and slime molds,

cycads and cyclones,

Every thing…

Every living and non-living thing-

exists in me and through me.

The wings of moths are my whisper

And the patter of cat’s feet are my cries.

Yet, everything vanishes

and everything dies.

The universe doesn’t even know it is speaking!

It doesn’t mourn its dead!

Its worth, words, and connections will die in my head.

Image result for slime mold

an image of slime molds from Wikipedia.

Josephine

Josephine

H. Bradford

9/11/17

He must have said something shocking

as they walked in the garden

or talked conspiracy over tea.

And what exactly was he?

That tsar?

Was he dashing and magnetic like her ex-husband?

Or was he a terror to behold?

She died suddenly after he left.

All of her lovers wept.

After all, she was still pretty in her old age.

Even I felt a little sad.

I can be as grandiose as a general or a tsar.

The tyrant in me mourns her beauty.

Image result for josephine bonaparte

Going Extinct

Going Extinct

H. Bradford

9-11-17

There is an archaeopteryx on my arm.

It matches the fossil in my chest,

the amber in my head,

and the megalodon

that I don as armor

when I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

The more I go extinct,

the more I think about ferns and feathered dinosaurs.

The things that lived before-

leaving impressions in rock

and bones made of stone.

I will leave nothing.

I am too soft and temporary.

Image result for archaeopteryx

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