Cat Has Had the Time of His Life

    thin line



Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number —

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you —

Ye are many — they are few.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley,

The Call to Freedom

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, Romantic atheist, pagan pamphleteer & poet. English Romantic poet whose works are generally considered among the greatest in the English language. Daily Bleed Saint August 4

"No living poet ever arrived at the fulness of his fame; the jury which sits in judgment upon a poet, belonging as he does to all time, must be composed of his peers: it must be impannelled by Time from the selectest of the wise of many generations."

Defence of Poetry


  Randolph Bourne (1886-1918). American literary radical, anarchist.

It is in literature itself that Randolph Bourne appears most unforgettably, in a haunting stanza from 1919 (1932), centerpiece of the U.S.A. trilogy by John Dos Passos:

This little sparrowlike man,
tiny twisted bit of flesh in a black cape,
always in pain & ailing,
put a pebble in his sling,
& hit Goliath squarely in the forehead with it.
. . . If any man has a ghost,
Bourne has a ghost,
a tiny twisted unscared ghost in a black cloak
hopping along the grimy old brick & brownstone streets
still left in downtown New York,
crying out in a shrill soundless giggle:
War is the health of the State.


loss of temper no problem
arrogance no problem
boxes of empty beer cans &
wine bottles no problem
thousands of styrofoam cups
no problem
Gregory Corso no problem
Allen Ginsberg no problem
Diane di Prima no problem
Anne Waldman's veins no

— Diane di Prima, No Problem Party Poem

[Note: This poem is one of the eight items cited for violation of the Espionage act from the August issue of The Masses, causing the magazine to fold. It is a tribute to Alexander Berkman and Emma Goldman.]

A Tribute

Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman
Are in prison,
Although the night is tremblingly beautiful
And the sound of water climbs down the rocks
And the breath of the night air moves through
     multitudes and multitudes of leaves
That love to waste themselves for the sake of
     the summer.

Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman
Are in prison tonight,
But they have made themselves elemental forces,
Like the water that climbs down the rocks:
Like the wind in the leaves:
Like the gentle night that holds us:
They are working on our destinies:
They are forging the love of the nations:
Tonight they lie in prison.

A Tribute

Josephine Bell

Published: The Masses, August, 1917


Hermann Hesse

from "The Glass Bead Game"

Maybe death's hour too
will send us out new-born
towards undreamed-lands,
maybe life's call to us
will never find an end
Courage my heart,
take leave & fare thee well.



In these hands, the cities; in my weather, the armies
Of better things than die
To the scaly music of war.

The different men, who are dead,
Had cunning; they sought green lives
In a world blacker than your world;
But you have nourished the taste of sickness
Until all other tastes are dull in your mouths;
It is only we who stand outside the steaming tents
Of hypocrisy & murder
Who are "sick" --
This is the health you want.

Yours is the health of the pig which roots up
The vines that would give him food;
Ours is the sickness of the deer which is shot
Because it is the activity of hunters to shoot him.

In your hands, the cities, in my world, the marching
Of nobler feet than walk down a road
Deep with the corpses of every sane & beautiful thing.

— Kenneth Patchen ?

                            I dig for my death
            in this thousand-watt dungheap.
            There isn’t even enough clean air.
To die in.
            O blood-bearded destroyer!

— Kenneth Patchen, excerpt, Irkalla's White Caves


'In the middle of the road of our life'
the attention advances & ignites
the balance
& the intuitive light
alive in any baby
              not mere lucence
       of places
              & plants

— Jackson Mac Low (1922-)




The Death of the Red Guardist

It was in Munich on the first of May,
a matter of life and death.
The whites were raging, the lead was flying,
grenades spat death and ruin.
Manning the machine gun at the Stachusskiosk,
a red guardist shot in all directions.
The bullets rang all around him.
He was bleeding from many a wound:
Just shoot! I'll serve until my death
- the revolution!

What does the bought soldier know
of the struggle of the oppressed masses?
Our blood is spilt for our freedom and future,
those who fall die for their class.
And nearer, ever nearer comes the white mob.
Already the bullets are running out.
Take up the Browning! What's death and danger!
Just shoot! You won't see me be a coward!
Here stands and falls a red guardist of
- the revolution!

Grenades hit the Charles Square.
The church windows shatter.
The red soldier stands there alone, bleeding.
He greets the enemy without trembling.
Then a blow from a rifle butt makes him keel over,
and in dying he threatens the whites:
You cannot take my beliefs from me,
even though I myself am lost:
I die but it lives on
- the revolution!


Mühsam - who fought in the 1919 Munich soviet - was murdered by the Nazis on 10th July 1934.

I am purely evil;
Hear the thrum
of my evil engine;
Evilly I come.
The stars are thick as flowers
In the meadows of July;
A fine night for murder
Winging through the sky.

— Ethel Mannin, 'Song of the Bomber'


Triumphant at the final breath,
Their senile God, their cops,
All the authorities & friends pro tem
Passing her pillow, keeping her concerned.
But the cowardly obit was already written:
Morning would know she was a common slut.

— Karl Shapiro, "Death of Emma Goldman," From Person, Place, & Thing (1942)

Shapiro's early poem, "Death of Emma Goldman," described that passionate anarchist, "dark conscience of the family" (her own and humanity's), with gentle appreciation. At the same time, it reviled the people who, after her death, called her immoral because she never married her lover, Alexander Berkman:


The centuries have changed little in this art,
The subjects are still the same.
“For Christ’s sake take off your clothes & get into bed,
We are not going to live forever.”
“Petals fall from the rose,”
We fall from life,
Values fall from history like men from shellfire,
Only a minimum survives,
Only an unknown achievement.
They can put it all on the headstones,
In all the battlefields,
“Poor guy, he never knew what it was all about.”
Spectacled men will come with shovels in a thousand years,
Give lectures in universities on cultural advances, cultural lags. . . .
This year we made four major ascents,
Camped for two weeks at timberline,
Watched Mars swim close to the earth,
Watched the black aurora of war
Spread over the sky of a decayed civilization.
These are the last terrible years of authority.
The disease has reached its crisis,
Ten thousand years of power,
The struggle of two laws,
The rule of iron & spilled blood,
The abiding solidarity of living blood & brain.

Kenneth Rexroth,
“August 22, 1939,”
(The anniversary of Sacco & Vanzetti’s execution tonite in 1927, actually the 23rd)


Diane Di Prima (1934 - ) Diane di Prima
loss of temper no problem
arrogance no problem
boxes of empty beer cans &
wine bottles no problem
thousands of styrofoam cups
no problem
Gregory Corso no problem
Allen Ginsberg no problem
Diane di Prima no problem
Anne Waldman's veins no


  — "No Problem Party Poem"

Diane di Prima is an American poet whose work has been identified with the Beat Generation. In addition to writing poetry, she has held numerous editorial positions: co-editor with Le Roi Jones (Imamu Amiri Baraka) of Floating Bear (1961-1963) & sole editor from 1963-1969; contributing editor to Kulchur (1960-1961); associate editor of Signal Magazine (1963-1965); publisher/editor of The Poets Press, New York (1964-1969); editor/publisher of Eidolon Editions, Point Reyes, California (1972-1976). She has also been associated with Wingbow Press, Berkeley, California & an instructor at the Naropa Institute & the New College of California. Di Prima was also a co-founder of the American Theatre for Poets.


I have seen criminals & whores
& spoken with them. Now I inquire
If you believe them made as now they are
To drag their rags in blood & mire
Preordained, an evil race?
You to whom all men are prey
Have made them what they are today.

Louise Michel


Buffeted against the storm's sullen breath
the lark rises
over the grey dried grasses
rises & sings.

— Herbert Read, from "The Contrary Experience,"
A World Within A War (1945)

You are murdering the young men. . . .
The hyena with polished face & bow tie,
In the office of a billion dollar
Corporation devoted to service;
The vulture dripping with carrion,
Carefully & carelessly robed in imported tweeds,
Lecturing on the Age of Abundance;
The jackal in the double-breasted gabardine,
Barking by remote control,
In the United Nations...
The Superego in a thousand uniforms,
You, the finger man of the behemoth,
The murderer of the young men...


— Excerpt from Kenneth Rexroth's 20-minute poem
"Thou Shalt Not Kill"
(with a free-jazz accompaniment),
a memorial poem for Dylan Thomas


Kenneth Rexroth

Kenneth Rexroth

. . . We are tired of paddling.
All afternoon we have climbed the weak current,
Up dim meanders, through woods and pastures,
Past muddy fords where the strong smell of cattle
Lay thick across the water; singing the songs
Of perfect, habitual motion; ski songs,
Nightherding songs, songs of the capstan walk,
The levee, and the roll of the voyageurs.


— back of the scene: the atomic stockpile; the vials
of synthesized diseases eager biologists have developt
over half a century
dreaming of the bodies of mothers & fathers &
children & hated rivals swollen with new plagues,
measles grown
enormous, influenzas perfected; & the gases of
despair, confusion of the senses, mania, inducing
terror of the universe, coma,
existential wounds, that chemists we have met at
cocktail parties, passt daily & with a happy "Good
Day" on the way to
classes or work, have workt to make war too terrible
for men to wage — raised this secret entity of
America's hatred of Europe,
of Africa,
of Asia ...

Robert Duncan (1919-1988), exerpt from

-- Real Audio- My mother would be a falconress

Robert Duncan


"I am an atheist who says his prayers. I am an anarchist, &
a full professor at that. I take the loyalty oath."

— Karl Shapiro, "The Bourgeois Poet"
Karl Shapiro (1913-2000). American poet, professor & Pulitzer Prize-winner in 1945.

"Shapiro Is All Right!"

Thus exclaimed the title of a review, years ago, of one of Karl Shapiro's books in the New York Times Book Review. The reviewer was William Carlos Williams...

"When I first got into poetry around 1946, Karl Shapiro was a significant presence," poet Philip Levine commented. "That he could write in spoken American English & in traditional forms, the forms we typically associate with English poetry, was enormously important to me. Here was a modern urban guy who spoke right to me."

But as his career progressed, Shapiro challenged the value of his early work, viewing the traditional form as stifling to the poet's creativity. In lectures & essays he championed the free verse of Walt Whitman & the Beat poets. He later criticized such modern poetic heavyweights at T.S. Eliot & Ezra Pound, whom Shapiro (much like Kenneth Rexroth) believed were making poetry "a diseased art."

Triumphant at the final breath,
Their senile God, their cops,
All the authorities & friends pro tem
Passing her pillow, keeping her concerned.
But the cowardly obit was already written:
Morning would know she was a common slut.

— Karl Shapiro, excerpt, "Death of Emma Goldman," From Person, Place, & Thing (1942)

The golden lemon is not mase
but grows on a green tree:
A strong man & his crystal eyes
is a man born free.

The oxen pass under the yoke
& the blind are led at will:
But a man born free has a path of his own
& a house on the hill.

And men are men who till the land
& women are women who weave
Fifty men own the lemon grove
& no man is a slave.

      Herbert Read, "A Song for the Spanish Anarchists",       
from Thirty-five Poems, 1940


They found no clue to home or name,
     But tied with ribbon blue
They found a package, & it held
     A baby's tiny shoe.
Half worn & old, a button off,
     It seemed a sacred thing:
With reverence they wrapped it close
     & tied the faded string...

— excerpt, "The Dead Tramp"

from, The Alarm. December 12, 1885. Vol.II, no.9.


August Spies

by David Edelshtat

Calm and proud like the great Socrates,
He on the gallows stood;
Each of words was a holy deed,
A death-blow to wild tyrants!

Seldom a human spirit rises
More heroically, higher!
The hangmen became pallid, the criminals- pale;
He--unfrightened and bold!

From the dreadful gallows, as from a tribune,
Like an inspiring prophet,
With the fire of the proud commune
To his murderers he said:

"A time will come, when from our coffins
"Will rise a powerful voice,
"Stronger than that which you want now to choke,
"A thousand times stronger, more striking!"

These were the last words of Spies...
Hangmen, what do you gain from this?
Did you annihilate the spiritual giant?
Did you extinguish the sun?

Oh, no! Martyrs live on--and the singer
Feels now his free mood:
He touches now his harp with holy finger,
He is singing to me the holy song!

And I see the sun breaking through the mists,
The darkness is sinking to the ground,--
The slave wakes up! Shiver tyrants,
Your last hour is striking!

The free, bright morning is come,
When a powerful voice will rise--
Stronger than that which you have now stifled,
A thousand times stronger, delivering the heavy blows!...

Oct 10, 1890; translated from Yiddish by Ori Kiritz from, Kiritz, Ori. The Poetics of Anarchy: David Edelshtat's Revolutionary Poetry. Frankfurt: Lang, Europaischer Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1997.


Albert Parsons

by David Edelshtat

He, like a powerful oak tree
Stood in the stormy wind!
The people's tribune was his home,
The people--his loved one, his child!

No one had, like him, understood
So well the spirit of the people,
And no one was by wild tyrants
Mercilessly persecuted.

He spoke to the people in their language,
Used for them intelligent weapons.
He was a fighter, a freedom prophet
Of the white and black slaves!

He traveled much in the slave-world
And with tears moistened their chains!
Everywhere his free spirits used
To spread its proud wings!

Among the stone-breakers, smiths and weavers
In every slave tent--
He, in the mines of coal diggers
Placed his free tribune!

Under the open skies, in rain and frost
He preached freedom!
And with his thundering protest
The suffering slaves he defended!

He was a Marat in his blazing speeches,
A Spartacus in resistance!
A man of the people, a permanent testimony
Of workers' tears and shame!

In front of his spiritual eye always hovered
The great revolution.
He breathed, lived with her
With his blood colored her banner!

He heard in the sound of their chains
The groan of the wounded freedom,--
Which was oppressed by bloody sword,
Disgraced by human stupidity!

His heart was an open holy book
Of a serious fighter and thinker--
How bitter, how cruel must be our curse
To his persecutors and hangmen!

People! He loved you endlessly,
More than himself, his wife and child!
He lived and died for you--
Finish his work now!

November 7, 1890; translated from Yiddish by Ori Kiritz from, Kiritz, Ori. The Poetics of Anarchy: David Edelshtat's Revolutionary Poetry. Frankfurt: Lang, Europaischer Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1997.


Louis Lingg

by David Edelshtat

He stands in from of me in a stream of light
On the world's blood-stained stage;
On his beautiful face rests
Freedom's holy divine presence.

Young and strong, in black curls
With a sharp eagle-look;
Like Brutus proud and unfrightened
He was in freedom's war!

A lion in battle--in his heroic chest
Was a beating flower-heart!
Who knew with the holiest love
To love that which is beautiful and exalted!

How powerful his voice thundered,
He made false justice notorious!
What bitter, evil truths
He threw in the face of the enemy!

"Tyrants! I hate you and your law,
With its sinister statutes!
Which capture the poor people in a net
And force them to suffer and bleed!"

"I say to you openly! I believe in force,
The force of the ranks of the workers!
Violence enslaved our world
And violence will liberate it!"

"To your bloody muder-canons
Will will answer with dynamite!
W will destroy the chains and thrones
With our gigantic steps!"

"You are laughing--thinking: 'Wait, brother, wait,
We will choke, destroy your voice.'
Murderers! Choke me! A second will soon
Take my place on the holy post!"

"And will continue our holy cause
With more fire and iron-like courage!
Tyrants! he will take revenge on you
For our innocent blood!"

"I condemn your murderous attempt
To choke the free thinkers!
I hate you, I send you a three-fold curse!
Hand me for this, you hangmen!..."

Whether he was murdered by the oppressors
Or he himself with his free hand
Shattered his proud head to pieces--
This is unknown to us.--

But Lingg is not dead...Above the battle barricades
Still hovers his spirit!  And you hear
How he shouts to us: "Forward, comrades!
Forward with armor and sword!"

"Our red banner must become even redder
In the last freedom war!
The graves of the fighters are a holy ladder,
Which leads to freedom and happiness!"

Thus tells us Lingg.  His voice thunders
And wakes us to our duty!
And the sun of the twentieth century
Shines on his proud face...

October 24, 1890; translated from Yiddish by Ori Kiritz from, Kiritz, Ori. The Poetics of Anarchy: David Edelshtat's Revolutionary Poetry. Frankfurt: Lang, Europaischer Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1997.


Der 11-ter November

by David Edelshtat

Again the blood-red banners are fluttering!
Freedom's holy voice is ringing!
Again the people are reminded
Of the fighters who lived and died for them!

In world history again we will
Turn over and find the page of martyrs
Which is still fresh with the blood of our brothers,
Murdered by money-sacks, church and state!

Five spirits stained with blood will hover
Over the people's-tribune among suffering slaves;
And they will give us invincible courage
To live and die for freedom and justice!

They will remind us of the will
Which they left for the workers:
"Fight for your freedom! No evil beast
Should drive you away from the holy post!"

"Don't be afraid of the hangmen and their gallows!
Fight and ring the freedom-bell!
And announce to the slaves of all the world
That that very day would be the day of liberation!"

And on both shores of the great ocean
The slaves of all the nations
Will give each other in friendship a brother-hand
And swear to annihilate chains and thrones...

November 7, 1890; translated from Yiddish by Ori Kiritz from, Kiritz, Ori. The Poetics of Anarchy: David Edelshtat's Revolutionary Poetry. Frankfurt: Lang, Europaischer Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1997.



Ever reviled, accursed, ne'er understood,
Thou art the grisly terror of our age.
"Wreck of all order," cry the multitude,
"Art thou, & war & murder's endless rage."
0, let them cry. To them that ne'er have striven
The 'truth that lies behind a word to find,
To them the word's right meaning was not given.
They shall continue blind among the blind.
But thou, O word, so clear, so strong, so true,
Thou sayest all which I for goal have taken.
I give thee to the future! Thine secure
When each at least unto himself shall waken.
Comes it in sunshine? In the tempest's thrill?
I cannot tell - but it the earth shall see!
I am an Anarchist! Wherefore I will
Not rule, & also ruled I will not be!

— John Henry Mackay


I remember, said Emma, the cairn on the mountain ridge
a heap of broken stones & broken branches
with tokens attached of horsehair or rag
& the cry: "The waters before us
flow now to the Amur.
No mountains more to cross."

— excerpt from the poem, The Death of Kropotkin, by Herbert Read


[...] of homespun of oatmeal gray
         without a blazon is the flag
         that I hold up & do not wag.

Paul Goodman, excerpt, "Little Te Deum".

E. Armand
J'ai cloué sur le mur un portrait de Reclus,
Dans un cadre en carton, car je ne suis pas riche.
Je gard' ce portrait, non pas comme un fétiche,
Mais comme un souvenir de celui que n'est plus.

J'aime, si vous saviez, son regard tendre et clair:
Ce regard tout empreint d'une bonté profonde.
---Consolante bonté, baume ô merveilleuse onde
Qui passe, adoucissant le sort le plus amer-

Injuste qui tairait sa vaste connaissance..
Mais qu'il m'est doux penser que jamais l'indulgence
Ne déserta son coeur et qu'en toute saison

Plus on était meurtri, las, bas tombé, coupable,
Plus on trouvait son âme ouverte et secourable..
Oh! comme ce regard raconte qu'il fut bon!


— Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled
place, I would keep our governments, our civilization,
& all other spirit-forsaken & corrupt institutions.

— Kenneth Patchen, excerpt from
"There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left",
The Love Poems of Kenneth Patchen




This archive contains samples of work from dozens of radical poets. It's not intended to be a comprehensive or exhaustive archive, but to give exposure to beautiful passionate radical poetry. It's also not intended to cheat the artists out of royalties but to increase the exposure and demand for their writings, (since I don't post complete works) resulting in higher quality popularity and more book sales. So spread the poetry around, and buy from indie book stores! this archive is dead electric current take this poetry to the living, it's a spoken storytelling so speak it, and use it to inspire spontaneously on windowboxes or soapboxes, it's time for poetry to breathe again.

This page is no longer online, but you can access the poets via the Internet Archive (Wayback Machine),
(except for Voltairine de Cleyre; we've included the old material from here into our own dedicated poetry page)

Kenneth Rexroth Kahlil Gibran
Percy Shelley

About Voltairine de Cleyre
  • The Poems of Voltairine de Cleyre
  • Carl Sandburg

    Federico Garcia Lorca

    Oscar Wilde

    Ralph Waldo Emerson

    William Blake

    Diane Di Prima

    George Woodcock

    Robert Creeley

    Robert Duncan

    Michael McClure

    Gary Snyder

    John Henry Mackay

    Parker Tyler

    Herbert Read

    Conrad Aiken

    Weldon Kees

    Alex Comfort

    B. Traven

    William S Burroughs

    Judith Malina

    Allen Ginsberg

    Monica Sjoo

    Elizabeth Smart

    Dave Cunliffe

    Tom Earley

    Lawrence Ferlinghetti

    James Laughlin

    Ursula Le Guin

    Philip Levine

    Marge Piercy

    Patricia V T West

    Kenneth Patchen

    Adrian Mitchell

    Tina Morris

    Muriel Rukeyser

    John Cage

    City Lights Books Phone 1-415-362-8193 Fax: 1-415-362-4921 261 Columbus Avenue San Francisco, CA 94133 City Lights Bookstore run by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and publisher of a good number of the poets sampled on this page.

    ~ Autonomedia ~ Radical Publisher Box 568 - Williamsburg Station , Brooklyn, NY 11211-0568 Phone/Fax: 1-718-963-2603 - E-mail:
    Autonomedia/ Semiotexte Homepage

    Viet Nam Generation, Inc. & Burning Cities Press ~ 201 E. 50 Street, New York, NY Phone 1-800-726-0600 Viet Nam Generation, Inc. & Burning Cities Press
    PO Box 13746, Tucson, AZ 35732-3755
    FAX: 520/733-3755 ~

    Charles H Kerr Publishing Company- radical Publisher started by an anarchist named CHarles Kerr right before Haymarket. Has published sandburg, london, and mother Jones among others.
    "At the age of 111 in 1997, the Kerr Company---a not-for-profit, worker-owned cooperative educational association---is not only a living link with the most vital radical traditions of the past, but also an organic part of today's struggles for peace and justice in an ecologically balanced world. Unlike most other alternative publishers, the Kerr Company has never been subsidized by any political party, never had any "angels," never received any grants. Our aim today remains what it always has been: to publish books that will make this planet a good place to live!"

    Black Planet Books - Anarchist and Radical Publisher

    AK Press is the biggest anarchist distro and publisher in the US

    Left Bank Books

    Recollection Used Books

    Support your local anarchist poets!

    -- See also"

    2.Léo Ferré : l'Anarchie 3.Léo Ferré : les Anarchistes 4.Léo Ferré : L'Oppression 5.Aldous Huxley : Temps Futurs (extraits) 6.Alfred Jarry : Ubu Roi (Théâtre) 7.Théodore J. Kaczynski : La nef des fous (fable) 8.Louis Loréal : Chant du Drapeau noir 9.Octave Mirbeau : Journal d'une femme de chambre (roman — en travaux) 10.Mérinos : La fin du monde 11.Eugène Pottier : L'Internationale 12.Jean Richepin : Les oiseaux de passage 13.Jose Saramago : Venham leis (Que viennent les lois) 14.Gilles Servat: Je ne hurlerai pas avec les loups 15.Eugène Vermersch : Les Incendiaires 16.Serge Utge-Royo : Juillet 1936 17.XXX : La Ravachole (chanson politiquement pas correcte...) 18.Le Prisonnier, série allégorique & CHANSONS


    Gustave Thibon, How Simone Weil Appeared to Me/3

    Kisses and embraces disgusted her.
    I never saw her cry.
    She loved tobacco.
    Of all the things belonging

    to material life, tobacco
    was the only one
    she was almost certain
    to accept. This smoke

    has been transformed into pages
    covered with writing
    in my copybooks, she said.
    She was counting out one time

    the money she had earned
    harvesting grapes. I told her
    I had no illusions about
    the destination

    of this sum, whereupon
    she replied with disarming
    spontaneity, But
    I shall certainly also buy a few books.

    Simone Weil

    See The Red Virgin: A Poem of Simone Weil by Stephanie Strickland (won the Brittingham Prize in Poetry in 1993. This is one of the shorter poems).

    Hayden Carruth, anarchist & poet


    Antologia de poemes de revolta


    Salvador, per a tu no hi ha Amnistia;
    cap joc de queixes no té res a fer;
    però el teu pensament, gall guerriller,
    recosirà la llum en el nou dia.

    M'empeny el seny, i aquesta ofrena té
    afany de lluita que el fullam canvia;
    el teu exemple, vora l'alegria,
    darà salut a qui no perd carrer.

    La Llibertat, columna de la fruita,
    fa clara la diada de la lluita,
    que a poc a poc va esdevenint filó.

    Rellotge sempre de la gent que lluita,
    obres la gàbia a muntanyes. No
    has caiguit pas! Puig Antich, Salvador!

    2 de març de 1976
    Joan Brossa (1919 -1998)


    Huang Yongping, was a founder of 'Xiamen Dada' in his southern Chinese hometown . Huang's 'A History of Chinese Painting' & 'A Concise History of Modern Painting' Washed in a Washing Machine for Two Minutes (1987/1993) reduced two standard art-historical texts by Wang Bomin & Herbert Read, to a pile of pulp, which was then placed on the museum floor, as if to declare a parodic Year Zero for art.

    — Nicholas Jose, "Pulping Herbert Read in a Washing-Machine"

    -- "Lucy Parsons", a poem by Aaron Kramer, appears in the Sunday Worker December 5, 1937.

    Patchen with Mingus; source

    What has been separated from the mother,
    Must again be joined; for we were born of spirit,
    & to spirit all mortal things return,
    As it is necessary in the method of the earth.
    So sings the parable of singleness.
    My comforter does not conceal his face;
    I have seen appearances that were not marshalled
    By sleep.

    — Kenneth Patchen, excerpt, "The Cloth of the Tempest"

    -- Corridos sobre Emiliano Zapata y los Zapatistas. - [ Translate this page ] Autor: José Muñoz Cota. Muñoz Cota, José, Corridos de Ricardo Flores Magón, Biblioteca de literatura mexicana, Editorial Cultura, 1963, México.

    -- See Also

    Author: Voltairine de Cleyre De Cleyre

    « O révolution, mère qui nous dévore
    Et que nous adorons, suprême égalité!
    Prends nos chemins brisés pour en faire un aurore!
    Que, sur nos morts chéris, plane la liberté!
    Quand mai sinistre sonne, éveille-nous encore
    à ta magnifique clarté! ».

    — Poem by Louise Michel, dedicated to Marie Ferré
    Ferré was the best friend of Louise Michel

    0 --

    It is snowing white documents
    The very rich
    get richer still
    A white gloved hand
    still reaches out the window
    for the money in the cup
    Liberty is not free
    Some poor still ride some trains
    The angel
    stands on the edge
    of the station platform
    slowly moving its large white wings
    which look too fragile
    to lift the body of being
    which still breathes the anarchist air
    & the train
    the train made of nothing but boxcars
    jammed with three billion people
    still stands in the station

    — Lawrence Ferlinghetti, excerpt, "White on White"
    (After reading Breyten Breytenbach,
    imprisoned Afrikaans white poet)

    0 --

    Who's this bum
    crept in from the streets
    blinking in the neon
    an anarchist among the floorwalkers

    — Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Director of Alienation

    1 --

    Des âges évolus j’ai remonté le fleuve
    Et, le cœur enivré de sublimes desseins,
    Déserté le Hadès et les ombrages saints,
    Où l’âme d’une paix ineffable s’abreuve.

    — Laurent Tailhade, "Helene (Le laboratoire de Faust à Wittemberg)"

    Laurent Tailhade (1854-1919), French poet, writer, anarchist polemist, opium addict (La noire idole), translator (Satyricon de Pétrone). His first poems were published in 1880, but it was his polemical writings which gained the most attention, costing him a year in jail for "provoking murder".

    See the Daily Bleed, April 16, 1854.

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