Two Religions

When revolution is outlined on the horizon

the old cauldron of religions gets stirred up.

In normal times

religion meant going to Mass

paying tithes for God's house

baptizing children

and confessing sins to keep one's account in order.

When revolution is outlined on the horizon

churches remember the masses

and come down from the clouds and mysteries

and Sunday tranquility.

To Those Born Later

I

Truly, I live in dark times!

The guileless word is folly. A smooth forehead

Suggests insensitivity. The man who laughs

Has simply not yet had

The terrible news.

What kind of times are they, when

A talk about trees is almost a crime

Because it implies silence about so many horrors?

That man there calmly crossing the street

Is already perhaps beyond the reach of his friends

Who are in need?

I Wanted

I wanted to talk about life of all its melodious

corners I want to gather in a river of words

the dreams and the names what is left unsaid

in the newspapers the pains of the solitary

surprised in the nooks of the rain

rescue the leafless parabolas of lovers and give them to you

laid before the games played by a child

elaborating his sweet daily destruction

I wanted to pronounce the syllables of the people

the sounds of its grief

Poeticus Eficacciae

Podréis juzgar

la catadura moral de un régimen político,

de una institución política

de un hombre político,

por el grado de peligrosidad que otorguen

al hecho de ser observados

por los ojos de un poeta satírico.

Roque Dalton

Sacco & Vanzetti

“If it had not been for these things, I might have lived out my life talking at street corners to scorning men. I might have died, unmarked, unknown, a failure. Now we are not a failure. This is our career and our triumph. Never in our full life could we hope to do such work for tolerance, for justice, for man's understanding of man as now we do by accident. Our words — our lives — our pains — nothing! The taking of our lives — lives of a good shoemaker and a poor fish-peddler — all! That last moment belongs to us — that agony is our triumph.”

Statement attributed to Vanzetti by Philip D. Stong, a reporter for the North American Newspaper Alliance who visited Vanzetti in prison in May of 1927 shortly before he and Sacco were executed.

Vivem em nós inúmeros

Vivem em nós inúmeros;
Se penso ou sinto, ignoro
Quem é que pensa ou sente.
Sou somente o lugar
Onde se sente ou pensa.

Tenho mais almas que uma.
Há mais eus do que eu mesmo.
Existo todavia
Indiferente a todos.
Faço-os calar: eu falo.

In memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

You knew

Yes,

you knew it.

You knew that death stalked you.

You knew it with certainty.

Your black brothers knew it

and your white brothers knew it.

We all knew that you were going to leave us,

your life cut short, suddenly,

violently,

with that swift, cruel, inhuman impact

that has abruptly ended so many lives.

Today you leave us orphaned of your words,

of your apostolic presence,

and your prophetic vision.

America is orphaned.

What a grief! What a grief, America!

What a grief! What a grief oh World!

But all Mankind

cannot lose your soul

because you have blessed us

with the best of your essence.

Yes, human feelings

could not survive

without this inheritance

you have bequeathed us.

Federico Arcos

(Picture: Hommage à Martin Luther King, Alfred Manessier)

On the eve

The Frost has not yet lifted his eyes from off the fields,

The forests still stand meek and mute—all leafless are their bowers;

And yet methinks I feel the earth already thrill and throb

Unsteadily and softly with the springing of the flowers.

The traces of chill, gloomy tears have not yet dried away,

The song of grief and suffering has not died upon the air,

Yet in my heart there swells again, sweet as the breath of spring,

The music of a joyous hope, a dream most glad and fair.

G. Galin

translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

(Picture: Decorative panel, Odilon Redon)

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Edna St. Vincent Millay


(Picture: Nasturtiums, Odilon Redon)