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 problem   — 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





Steps 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.



http://www.gss.ucsb.edu/projects/hesse/

-- 

HAVE YOU KILLED FOR YOUR MAN TODAY? 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 http://www.connectotel.com/patchen/ http://www.tc.umn.edu/~hreh0001/patchen.html






--

I dig for my death             in this thousand-wattdungheap.             There isn’t evenenough clean air. To die in.             O blood-beardeddestroyer!  — Kenneth Patchen, excerpt, Irkalla's White Caves http://www.satya.com/images/before.htm




--



'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-)  "15TH LIGHT POEM: FOR SUSAN WITLIN -- 11 AUGUST 1962"  9 LIGHT POEMS spunk.org/library//poetry/light_du/

--

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!



ERICH MÜHSAM



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



---




--

I ampurely evil;
Hear thethrum
of my evilengine;
EvillyI come.
The starsare thick as flowers
In themeadows of July;
A finenight for murder
Wingingthrough 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)  anarchist

-- 

Diane Di Prima(1934 - )



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 problem      — "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. . . .
You,
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
recollectionbooks.com/bleed/Encyclopedia/RexrothKenneth.htm

-- 

"Floating" — 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 UP RISING PASSAGES 25  http://www.angelfire.com/mn2/anarchistpoetry/Duncandir/Duncan.html

-- 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.


--



AugustSpies 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.

--



AlbertParsons 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.

--



LouisLingg 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-terNovember 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.

--

ANARCHY

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".

--