Constanzo Allione – fried shoes, cooked diamonds

crisis of the ordinary heart (a poem to all protests )

smoke and soot
did not touch
those iron faces of tyranny,
with their steel machines
of absolute subjugation,
out here beneath flags
toiled those of the land
the factory
the shop
the office
doctors bound by bureaucracy
cast stones and blazing petroleum,
accepting water cannon baptism,
cause and conquest paramount,
streets configured
by the ordered suburban dream
now frenzied battlegrounds
of a martyrs distinction,
resolute and proud,
those with only hope as protection
fought on

 

 

el humo y el hollín
no tocó
esas caras de hierro de la tiranía,
con sus máquinas de acero
sometimiento de la absoluta,
aquí debajo banderas
trabajado los de la tierra
la fábrica
la tienda
la oficina
médicos vinculados por la burocracia
tirar piedras y petróleo en llamas,
aceptar el bautismo cañones de agua,
causar y la conquista de suma importancia,
calles configuradas
por el sueño suburbano ordenado
campos de batalla ahora frenéticos
de una distinción mártires,
decidido y orgulloso,
los que sólo tienen la esperanza de que la protección
luchó en

 

la fumée et de la suie
ne pas toucher
ces visages de fer de la tyrannie,
avec leurs machines d’acier
assujettissement des absolue,
ici sous les drapeaux
peiné ceux de la terre
l’usine
la boutique
le bureau
médecins liés par la bureaucratie
jeter des pierres et du pétrole de plomb,
accepter le baptême de canons à eau,
provoquer et de conquête primordiale,
rues configurés
par le rêve de la banlieue commandé
les champs de bataille maintenant frénétiques
d’une distinction des martyrs,
résolue et fier,
ceux avec seulement espérer que la protection
combattu sur

 

дим і сажа
не чіпали
ці залізні особи тиранії,
з їх стали машини
абсолютного підпорядкування,
тут під прапорами
трудилися ті землі
завод
магазин
офіс
лікарі пов’язані з бюрократією
кидав камінням і палаючий нафту,
приймаючи водомети хрещення,
викликати і завоювання першорядне значення,
вулиці налаштовані
впорядкованої приміському сні
тепер скажені поля бою
з мучеників відмінності,
рішуча і горда,
ті з тільки сподіватися, як захист
воював на

 

Rauch und Ruß
nicht berühren
diese Eisen Gesichter der Tyrannei,
mit ihren Stahl-Maschinen
der absoluten Unterwerfung,
hier unter Fahnen
geschuftet aus dem Boden
die Fabrik
der Shop
das Büro
Ärzte von Bürokratie gebunden
werfen Steine ​​und brennenden Erdöl-,
Annahme von Wasserwerfern Taufe
verursachen und Eroberung von größter Bedeutung,
Straßen konfiguriert
von der bestellten S-Traum
Jetzt rasenden Schlachtfelder
eines Märtyrer Unterscheidung,
entschlossen und stolz,
diejenigen mit nur hoffen, als Schutz
kämpften auf

 

الدخان والسخام
لم يتطرق
تلك الوجوه الحديد من الاستبداد،
مع آلات الصلب بهم
إخضاع المطلق،
هنا تحت أعلام
كدوا تلك الأرض
المصنع
المحل
المكتب
الأطباء ملزمة البيروقراطية
يلقي الحجارة واشتعلت فيه النيران البترول،
قبول المعمودية خراطيم المياه،
وتسبب الغزو قصوى،
شوارع تكوين
بواسطة حلم الضواحي أمر
معارك الآن المسعور
من التمييز الشهداء،
حازمة وفخور،
أولئك الذين لديهم الأمل الوحيد كحماية
قاتلوا على

 

 

David Mandessi Diop – Vultures

In that time
When civilization struck with insults
When holy water struck domesticated brows
The vultures built in the shadow of their claws
The bloody monument of the tutelary era
In that time
Laughter gasped its last in the metallic hell of roads
And the monotonous rhythm of Paternosters
Covered the groans on plantations run for profit
O sour memory of extorted kisses
Promises mutilated by machine-gun blasts
Strange men who were not men
You knew all the books you did not know love
Or the hands that fertilize the womb of the earth
The roots of our hands deep as revolt
Despite your hymns of pride among boneyards
Villages laid waste and Africa dismembered
Hope lived in us like a citadel
And from the mines of Swaziland to the heavy sweat of  Europe’s factories
Spring will put on flesh under our steps of light.

Namdeo Dhasal- Man You Should Explode (1972)

Man, You Should Explode
Man, you should explode
Yourself to bits to start with
Jive to a savage drum beat
Smoke hash, smoke ganja
Chew opium, bite lalpari
Guzzle country booze—if too broke,
Down a pint of the cheapest dalda
Stay tipsy day and night, stay tight round the clock
Cuss at one and all; swear by his mom’s twat, his sister’s cunt
Abuse him, slap him in the cheek, and pummel him…
Man, you should keep handy a Rampuri knife
A dagger, an axe, a sword, an iron rod, a hockey stick, a bamboo
You should carry acid bulbs and such things on you
You should be ready to carve out anybody’s innards without batting an eyelid
Commit murders and kill the sleeping ones
Turn humans into slaves; whip their arses with a lash
Cook your beans on their bleeding backsides
Rob your next-door neighbours, bust banks
Fuck the mothers of moneylenders and the stinking rich
Cut the throat of your own kith and kin by conning them; poison them, jinx
them
You should hump anyone’s mother or sister anywhere you can
Engage your dick with every missy you can find, call nobody too old to be
screwed
Call nobody too young, nobody too green to shag, lay them one and all
Perform gang rapes on stage in the public
Make whorehouses grow: live on a pimp’s cut: cut the women’s noses, tits
Make them ride naked on a donkey through the streets to shame them
Man, one should dig up roads, yank off bridges
One should topple down streetlights
Smash up police stations and railway stations
One should hurl grenades; one should drop hydrogen bombs to raze
Literary societies, schools, colleges, hospitals, airports
One should open the manholes of sewers and throw into them
Plato, Einstein, Archimedes, Socrates,
Marx, Ashoka, Hitler, Camus, Sartre, Kafka,
Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Ezra Pound, Hopkins, Goethe,
Dostoevsky, Mayakovsky, Maxim Gorky,
Edison, Madison, Kalidasa, Tukaram, Vyasa, Shakespeare, Jnaneshvar,
And keep them rotting there with all their words

One should hang to death the descendents of Jesus, the Paighamber, the
Buddha, and Vishnu
One should crumble up temples, churches, mosques, sculptures, museums
One should blow with cannonballs all priests
And inscribe epigraphs with cloth soaked in their blood
Man, one should tear off all the pages of all the sacred books in the world
And give them to people for wiping shit off their arses when done
Remove sticks from anybody’s fence and go in there to shit and piss, and
muck it up
Menstruate there, cough out phlegm, sneeze out goo
Choose what offends one’s sense of odour to wind up the show
Raise hell all over the place from up to down and in between
Man, you should drink human blood, eat spit roast human flesh, melt human
fat and drink it
Smash the bones of your critics’ shanks on hard stone blocks to get their
marrow
Wage class wars, caste wars, communal wars, party wars, crusades, world
wars
One should become totally savage, ferocious, and primitive
One should become devil-may-care and create anarchy
Launch a campaign for not growing food, kill people all and sundry by
starving them to death
Kill oneself too, let disease thrive, make all trees leafless
Take care that no bird ever sings, man, one should plan to die groaning and
screaming in pain
Let all this grow into a tumour to fill the universe, balloon up
And burst at a nameless time to shrink
After this all those who survive should stop robbing anyone or making others
their slaves
After this they should stop calling one another names white or black,
Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, or Shudra;
Stop creating political parties, stop building property, stop committing
The crime of not recognising one’s kin, not recognising one’s mother or sister
One should regard the sky as one’s grandpa, the earth as one’s grandma
And coddled by them everybody should bask in mutual love
Man, one should act so bright as to make the Sun and the Moon seem pale
One should share each morsel of food with everyone else, one should compose
a hymn
To humanity itself, man, man should sing only the song of man.

Namdeo an activist poet passed away on Wednesday 15th January 2014 , a man who broke the rules of traditional poetry

geometrics and some physical optics

he woke
he pissed
he smoked,
sat at the desk as others
before him,
heavy oak resonance,
with politicknife would cut policy
it had become about color,
the blue the yellow
strove to adjust to each other,
the red the green
so incompatible,
clarity was needed in misdirection
politicknife more palette than blade
scraped bluntly over canvas
to portray the country
texture and relief,
some of it muddied
stained like shit on a public toilet,
he spoke on TV
bright suited as a clown
body language and gestures
seen and felt as colors of betrayal
it was beyond functionalism
and wider knowledge
colors bled
every perception was not upheld,
people took to tree lined avenues
beneath autumn auburn,
held poster paint placards
chanting,
colors adjusted
all attitudes changed,
again at his desk
looking at errors of doctrine,
the religious confined to sunday
men of friday peace,
zealots who ranted for any god
they where unifying
he felt afraid,
colors that should never combine
on palette or canvas,
became alive,
betrayed inside government halls,
closed eyes so that the brightness
would not be visible,
humanities noose
had underwritten his future,
rainbows can be clutched
in eager hands and each strand
peeled apart
scattered
like shotgun pellets,
reflected refracted
no more distinction
it was over,
slashing the canvas
pissed over it
pouring gasoline
it burned,
defeat knew a cell door
and he was content,
within gray and bleak darkness
color could not and would not intrude
now he felt alive

poetry , poem

don’t forget old poets

old ghosts play in a orchestra

before painted ladies

across a golden bridge,

memory sepia toned

kodak instamatic

lingers too,

white house lawn

protest placards,

my poetry read aloud

younger me

more potent then,

squint at the sun

absorbing light,

nature my bus to salvation

notation and tune

may argue with me,

i know where i belong,

war and ever wishing peace

the lick of history

cannot salve wounds so many,

shade of tree a haunted place

my grave and i

knew what path was ahead,

so remember and read

wisdom is a growing child

needing nurture along

the way

 

3wordwednesday

Syria’s Voice

The conflict in Syria has bred a new generation of activists, who are using creative non-violent means to bring about change in their country. Some of them continue their struggle from outside. Until two years ago, 28 year old Juan was a frustrated young cartoonist whose career was going nowhere in Syria…. Juan had always been critical of the Syrian regime, but always in subtle ways. He was never too blunt. Now, Juan’s work is getting a lot of attention. Al Jazeera’s Rula Amin reports from Beirut.