broken walls and narratives

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

Archive for the tag “poem”

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

 

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The Lenin In Me

Once again, I am trying to write poems about each book that I read.  Since I mostly read non-fiction, it can be a bit of a challenge!  One of the books that I read in January was Lenin on the Train, by Catherine Merridale.  This poem was what I came up with after reading the book.  It is about gender as a revolutionary train ride.

The Lenin in Me

By H. Bradford

1/30/18

There is a Lenin inside me,

A man with a sharp mind.

The female body is his train.

Taking him places, carrying that brain to those who will listen

to a program that cuts through

time and space and night,

also like Lenin on the train.

I am on my way to revolution.

I am on my way to change.

The she, the he, and the they will meet at Finland Station.

We are writing what we will say.

In eight short days the world will change.

But, I am content to bide my time.

It is enough to enjoy this ride.

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Drawing by Pyotr Vasilievich Vasiliev, Lenin on the Train to Petrograd

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

 

 

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.

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A 1910 painting of eurypterids by Charles Knight

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?

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(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.

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an image of slime molds from Wikipedia.

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

You

(I had a dream wherein someone wrote me a series of “hate poems” on post-it notes.  I found these poems under a table.  While I don’t remember the poems from my dreams, this is a reconstruction of one of the poems.)

You

H. Bradford

9/7/17

You are not a tornado or electricity,

You are an island of nightmares set adrift from the continents.

You are not lips or the stars,

You are the gap between them and the frustration space brings.

You are not a memory or a journey,

You are a beggar passed on the road- whose hands and eyes grasped for more.

You are not for warmth and wanting,

You are yourself….

and that should explain everything.

 

 

Anna Akhmatova Was Here

Anna Akhmatova was Here

H. Bradford

7/27/17

(Anna Akhmatova was a celebrated Russian poet who was censored during Soviet times.  She was an aristocrat who did not flee the country after the Russian revolution.  While I am from a political tradition on the other side of history, I like her poetry and reflected upon her a little while visiting Tashkent, where she lived during WWII.  Some of the poem’s images come from Bishkek though…)

Anna Akhmatova was here.

She wrote of tractors while beating down tears the for friends and lovers

ploughed under the earth.

Sentimentality is subversive,

so it is best to forget the things that colored the gray cities.

By the time the snow falls, memories will become monuments

to hide in the overgrown wilds of city parks

or to tuck behind the shuttered museum.

These statues must be stored safely out of sight and out of mind,

lest they become unorthodox idols to a high class poetess or the feminine divine.

Anna Akhmotova was here.

Tashkent was a stop in a long migration of mourning

and a hermitage for the heart that would not leave.

As for me, I am just a traveler and only ghosts stay behind.

So, city is empty of tourists and souls in transit.

I am also a little emptier.

Image result for anna akhmatova

 

 

 

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