I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
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Late Poem to My Father
by Sharon Olds
Suddenly I thought of you
as a child in that house, the unlit rooms
and the hot fireplace with the man in front of it,
silent. You moved through the heavy air
in your physical beauty, a boy of seven,
helpless, smart, there were things the man
did near you, and he was your father,
the mold by which you were made. Down in the
cellar, the barrels of sweet apples,
picked at their peak from the tree, rotted and
rotted, and past the cellar door
the creek ran and ran, and something was
not given to you, or something was
taken from you that you were born with, so that
even at 30 and 40 you set the
oily medicine to your lips
every night, the poison to help you
drop down unconscious. I always thought the
point was what you did to us
as a grown man, but then I remembered that
child being formed in front of the fire, the
tiny bones inside his soul
twisted in greenstick fractures, the small
tendons that hold the heart in place
snapped. And what they did to you
you did not do to me. When I love you now,
I like to think I am giving my love
Directly to that boy in the fiery room,
As if it could reach him in time.
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A Selection from "Dialogue with the Pieces"
By L. R. Berger
You might have thought
it was the other story,
the one about rubble,
violence, catastrophe,
about the darkenss
undoing the world.
But not today. Today
the pieces are dictating
the headlines:
COMING APART, PREREQUISITE
FOR THE WORK OF ASTONISHMENT.
ALL THINGS CRACK OPEN
UNDER THE PRESSURE
OF LIGHT SEEKING YOU.
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes,
published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
Copyright (c) 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes.
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Worse than the War
David Krieger
Worse than the war, the endless, senseless war,
Worse than the lies leading to the war,
Worse than the countless deaths and injuries,
Worse than hiding the coffins and not attending funerals,
Worse than the flouting of international law,
Worse than the torture at Abu Ghraib prison,
Worse than the corruption of young soldiers,
Worse than undermining our collective sense of decency,
Worse than the arrogance, smugness and swagger,
Worse than our loss of credibility in the world,
Worse than the loss of our liberties,
Worse than learning nothing from the past,
Worse than destroying the future,
Worse than the incredible stupidity of it all,
Worse than all of these,
As if they were not enough for one war or country or lifetime,
Is the silence, the resounding silence, of good Americans.
David Krieger poet
60 years old
Santa Barbara, CA
David Krieger is a founder of the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation.
He is the author and editor of many books on peace, including
The Poetry of Peace.
This poem from: www.poetsagainstthewar.org
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Mark Twain's "The War Prayer" in
a nutshell
Our country was at war, flags were flying and patriotism was
at a fever pitch. Pastors were preaching devotion to flag and
country and those voicing disapproval or casting doubts were called
traitors and silenced.
At one particular service an old man with long white hair and
a robe entered the church and moved up the aisle. As the minister
was asking God to help the soldiers crush the enemy and bring
our country honor and glory, the stranger climbed the stairs,
touched the pastor's arm and motioned for him to step aside.
He then began to speak, saying he had a message from God. He
wanted everyone to know that God heard their prayer and was willing
to grant it if they were willing to listen to the unspoken part
of their prayer. When they prayed for victory they were also praying
for the unmentioned results that would follow it. He went on to
say that this is what they were also praying for:
-The enemy would be torn to shreds with our shells
-Their fields would be covered with their dead
-Our guns' sounds would drown out the cries of their wounded
-Their homes would be destroyed by fire
-Their innocent widows would have their hearts broken
-The women and children would be homeless
-People's lives would be destroyed
-Refugees would have no food, no clothing and nowhere to go
Then he told them that if they still wanted their "victory"
God was waiting for their answer. The congregation decided that
the stranger was a "lunatic" because he made no sense
and the service ended.
Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain
You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud
You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins
How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
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I Can't Appear without My Nanny Dick
by Calvin Trillin
(George W. Bush explains the interview arrangements
he's made with the 9/11 Commission)
When called upon to testify
I said I was a busy guy
So maybe we could do it on the phone.
They really want a face to face.
I said, OK, if that's's the case,
I'm certainly not doing it alone.
I can't appear without my nanny Dick.
for Nanny Dick I've got a serious jones.
I can't appear without my Nanny Dick.
I love the way he cocks his head and drones.
Cartoonists show me as a dummy,*
With voice by Cheney (or by Rummy).
I am the butt of every late-night satirist.
But I just can't go solitaire.
I need the help that's due an heir.
I need a dad, and dad's a multilateralist.
I can't appear without my Nanny Dick.
He brings along a gravitas I lack.
I can't appear without my Nanny dick—
The one who knows why we attacked Iraq.
Yes, Condi Rice is quite precise
With foreign policy advice
On who's Afghani and who's Pakistani.
I like to have her near in case
I just can't place some foreign face,
But Condoleezza Rice is not my nanny.
I can't appear without my Nanny dick.
I wouldn't know which facts I should convey.
I can't appear without my Nanny Dick.
It's Nanny Dick who tells me what to say.
*Though Charlie McCarthy's the dummy
Whose name has been most often heard,
Some folks who remember that act say
I'm close to Mortimer Snerd.
***
A Short History of Dick Cheney as Minder
by Calvin Trillin
At first, we thought we should be glad
To have a nanny for the lad—
Young Bush, who might be overawed,
Who'd barely even been abroad,
Who seemed to us a lightweight laddie
Who'd need a sitter sent by Daddy.
But Cheney's shop became the place
Where fantasists would make their case;
Iraqis threaten. At the least,
We'd rearrange the Middle East
And rule the world forevermore
If we just smashed them in a war.
Dick bought this bunk, and sold it, too.
he lied back then, and he's not through.
He'd fooled the rubes like you and me
Who never thought that he would be
A zealot once he got installed.
Stealth Nanny's what he should be called.
This poem was written in the belly of the beast,
dedicated to those on the margins, those who have the least.
I didn't outsource a single word or rhyme,
as one might expect in this crazy profit-driven time.
No foreign labor was employed,
no third world economy destroyed.
All words constructed here at home,
lest American capital abroad should roam.
There was no Mexican or Haitian exploitation,
'cause I was content to simply use my own imagination.
An American-made poem through and through,
revealing capitalism's cruelty so undeniably true.
Shopping malls, urban sprawl, reality TV,
the pale lifeless culture of American democracy.
People driving Hummers while soldiers die for oil,
cause me to rant and rave and make my blood boil.
The rich getting richer day by day,
while workers labor for declining pay.
Corporations metastasize, enlarging their share,
while workers struggle just to keep their health care.
Homeless people begging in the street,
hungry for a job and something to eat.
Disposable people in a heartless nation,
might someday lead to a tragic conflagration.
Driving while black is a serious crime,
but crooked CEOs never seem to do time.
And what sense does it make to cut funds for family planning,
while railing against abortions and calling for their banning?
People marching worldwide demanding their say,
so we'd best get to steppin' or there's gonna be hell to pay.
The job of corporate media is to ignore and conceal,
but we all know what's going on, we all know what's real.
Our President wears cowboy boots and thinks he's cool,
but this macho wannabe is a dangerous fool.
He's terrified of that jive 9/11 Commission,
fearful they might stumble upon a hint of suspicion.
Now Dick Clarke was angry and laid it out,
causing George Dubya to fuss and shout.
So the Prez told Condi go and testify,
but be damn sure to filibuster, obfuscate and mystify.
But when the Prez sat down to chat with the Commission,
he had Cheney by his side to ensure the truth's omission.
No recordings were allowed, no notes could be taken,
lest the nation's trust in Dubya would be shaken.
Invading Iraq for oil and empire,
any fool could have told you was sure to backfire.
It was neo-con madness of the highest measure,
driven by their lust for power and treasure.
Bush believes he's waging a messianic crusade,
which he thought would be greeted by cheers and a parade.
His reckless Middle East policy foments rage against the West,
from which I fear long memories will grant us little rest.
These are frightening times and that's for sure,
there's only one remedy, only one cure.
Ain’t no time for fussing and crying,
'cause we got that sick mother up there lying.
Mini nukes and depleted uranium,
must be something loose in his cranium.
Disposable soldiers and children dying,
can't he hear Mother Earth is crying.
He doesn't give a damn about global warming,
even though the climate it is deforming.
And as for the International Criminal Court,
he was so eager to abort.
"No Child Left Behind" sounded good on paper,
but it was just another clever White House caper.
And instead of allocating money for the AIDS pandemic,
cutting taxes for the rich was simplyacademic.
For Bush salvation comes through Christ alone,
so how explain his love affair with Ariel Sharon?
Their unlikely friendship couldn't be stranger,
but the hatred each has wrought has put the world in danger.
Dubya's lies and hypocrisy know no shame,
but his arrogant religion he's quick to proclaim.
Talk of the rapture and Armageddon,
scares me witless 'cause I know where we're headin'.
He talks with the assurance of God in heaven,
but what about his role in 9/11?
He trashed our Bill of Rights and our Constitution,
so we'd best get down and figure a solution.
Compassionate conservatism--a bold-faced lie,
so what if the poor have to grovel, starve and die.
Talking democracy while stealing an election,
we need a new president and a new direction.
Saint Mathew, former Jerusalem tax collector, was in charge of
receiving prayers as they floated into Heaven. Some of the Saints
said that he ran the Post Office in the Sky but others compared
him to a Nielsen pollster.
The recent flood of requests from Earth had been wearing on St.
Matt. Wars always increased the volume. All day long, St. Matt
logged prayers, worthy or not. After logging, he sent them on
to 2nd Heaven and forwarded a copy to St. Peter's Front Gate Office
as future evidence for or against future knockers who arrived.
According to office gossip, the entreaties were then organized
by category: insignificant and selfish or prayers for health,
peace, and other more serious matters. The rejects were sent to
Cloud 13. Priority was given to prayers that came from two or
more gathered.
St. Matt had heard that 3rd Heaven sorted them by religion and
sect because ever since the demolition of Babel's tower, the Almighty
One has been given a multitude of names by the unenlightened earthlings.
The current war had brought a lot of Arabic Moslem and English
Christian prayers. During the Irish wars, the Protestant and Catholic
prayers were divided.
4th Heaven, it seemed, was where the 'alikes' were grouped and
the 'uniques' were singled out in search of inventiveness.
What happened in the 5th and the 6th, St. Matt had no clue. Everything
in Heaven, despite the rumors, was on a 'need to know' basis.
St. Matt had never seen the Almighty One, who was said to live
in 7th Heaven. Very few ever did, probably only the elite of Heaven
like Jesus, Muhammad, and Buddha. Last time there was a communique
from the top floor was for Mother Theresa's welcoming ceremony.
One day at break time, St. Matt arrived late and the only cloud
available was next to a small flock of Saints drinking mugs of
Celestial Seasoning's tea. St. Matt sat carefully, cautious not
to spill his 'Heavenly Mocha' and cause insomniac rain on ol'
Terra below.
"Hey Saintly ones!" remarked St. Phillip, trying to
be funny. "Here comes Matt, the collector of human yearnings."
St. Thomas, forever the skeptic, muttered, "I doubt if prayers
even work."
St. Phil went on. "Matt! Don't you know that the Almighty
One has The Plan and does not take advice from anybody? A-One
is the wisest One in the Universe and knows what was, is, and
will be. Solicitations that fit The Plan are the only answered
prayers."
"You're saying that it's the Almighty One's plan for humans
to suffer?" St. Francis queried, a bird perched on his head.
"I think that the One Creator provides the canvas and colors,
and humans may paint whatever they wish," declared St. Michelangelo.
"Humans don't get what they ask for. They get what they
deserve." Karma spoke through St. Mark.
St. Francis commented again. "How do they have a choice
if it's all up to a Master Plan?"
"Maybe the Almighty One is impromptu. Goes with the best
prayer. Or the sincerest. Or maybe the 'most prayers win' rule
controls the world." St. Luke, St. Matt's assistant, was
trying to defend the Holy Theory of Prayer.
St. Matt finally edged in with "I don't question my role
in Heavenly affairs. I am happy doing what I am doing. I even
took my kids to the Pearly Gates Amusement Park last summer. I
just try to go with the Holy flow."
All of a sudden a mighty gust of wind swept through the bevy
of Saints and blew their clouds far beyond the Heavenly Horizon.
The Saints, themselves slightly higher in density than clouds,
remained in their original positions albeit a bit wind-blown.
They looked toward the eternally Celestial Cosmos.
The Almighty One spoke. In more languages than have ever been
babbled. In a tone tuned to the vibration of all souls. With
overwhelming power and irresistible gentleness. One Word from
the One Almighty One.
LOVE.
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This Is The House, That George Bought
This is the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
These are the beliefs, that created the land,
that fought the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
This is the soldier, that did his duty,
to protect the beliefs, that created the land,
that fought the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
This is the family, that mourns the soldier, that did his duty,
to protect the beliefs, that created the land,
that fought the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
This is the Country, we’re told is evil, that born a man,
that fired a shot,
that made the family, that mourns the soldier, that did his duty,
to protect the beliefs, that created the land,
that fought the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
These are the contracts, to rebuild the cities, paid with the
profits,
that came from the oil, that’s pumped from ground,
that’s in the Country, we’re told is evil, that born
a man, that fired a shot,
that made the family, that mourns the soldier, that did his duty,
to protect the beliefs, that created the land,
that fought the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
These are the campaign contributions, made to the leaders,
that failed the Nation, by selling our trust, to the allied firms,
that got the contracts, to rebuild the cities, paid with the profits,
that came from oil, that’s pumped from the ground,
that’s in the Country, we’re told is evil, that born
a man, that fired a shot,
that made the family, that mourns the soldier, that did his duty,
to protect the beliefs, that created the land,
that fought the War, planned in the house, that George bought.
Revision to the Poem “The house that Jack built”
Mother Goose 1916
Pass it on or publish at will. If you publish it, please be
kind enough to drop me an email letting me know that you have.
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Wage Peace
by Judith Hill
Wage peace with your breath.
Breathe in firemen and rubble,
breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds.
Breathe in terrorists
and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.
Breathe in confusion
and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen
and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.
Wage peace with your listening:
hear sirens, pray loud.
Remember your tools:
flower seeds, clothespins, clean rivers.
Make soup.
Play music,
learn the word thank you in three languages.
Learn to knit, and make a hat.
Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,
imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty
or the gesture of fish.
Swim for the other side.
Wage peace.
Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious.
Have a cup of tea and rejoice.
Act as if armistice has already arrived.
Celebrate today.
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A symbol of peace and hope
After September 11, a lot of people put up American flags--physical
ones on their homes and businesses and "virtual" ones
on their web sites. I wanted an alternative that was more inclusive
and expressed my hope that we can all begin to see ourselves as
one global family. I asked my husband to create a graphic for
me, and he made me an image of the earth with a flickering candle
in front of it.
This is not about protest or debate for me, but about holding
up an alternative vision of the world as a global family. It seems
sometimes like that vision has been lost, or at least deeply buried.
Seeing the headlines as the current conflict presses on, I can
feel helpless and voiceless. We are offering the image my husband
created to anyone who would like to use it, either on their desktop
or their web site, as a symbol of hope and peace.
Please feel free to pass this along to anyone else who might be
interested in using this image.
Advancing down the road from Niniveh
Death paused a while and said 'Now listen here.
You see the names of places roundabout?
They're mine now, and I've turned them inside out.
Take Eden, further south: at dawn today
I ordered up my troops to tear away
its walls and gates so everyone can see
that gorgeous fruit which dangles from its tree.
You want it, don't you? Go and eat it then,
and lick your lips, and pick the same again.
Take Tigris and Euphrates; once they ran
through childhood-coloured slats of sand and sun.
Not any more they don't; I've filled them up
with countless different kinds of human crap.
Take Babylon, the palace sprouting flowers
which sweetened empires in their peaceful hours --
I've found a different way to scent the air:
already it's a by-word for despair.
Which leaves Baghdad - the star-tipped minarets,
the marble courts and halls, the mirage-heat.
These places, and the ancient things you know,
you won't know soon. I'm working on it now.'
Awake mid slumber
Sounds move through me
Like a chill
Iraqi child crying out
Or is it screams of bombs
Raining down
Or both
Before they become one
His screams
Bomb screams
One scream
His eyes burn
With the flash
That cuts through night
Night to day
In an instant
And to blackness again
Walls rattle like
His rusty bed
His unfed bones
Water barrel shakes
Side his kitchen cot bed
Sends out smells of unclean
Putrid water from a distant trough
That killed his brother
From other side of curtain
Mother softly comforts
But in her heart moaning
Let this one live
Not like the first born of '91
The second in fever death
And we the silent partner
in this horror, this fear
but no more
he has called to me
I his voice to shout
I his feet to march
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Making Peace
by Denise Levertov
A voice from the dark called out,
"The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war."
But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can't be imagined before it is made,
can't be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.
A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.
A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses. . . .
A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light--facets
of the forming crystal.
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WORLD WAR III
Before they take us away, I
want you to know this, you
whom I have loved, whom I
have admired: my tears are
not for us, we are too many
and cannot be destroyed. I
cry instead for love itself, all
burnt the remnants of God’s
gift: yes to rise again, yes to
certainly thrive, because life
knows no sweeter memory -
but at what cost; as though I
and you knew no better, as
though we were the fools on
hatred’s errands, as if death
could teach us more than all
Portland, Oregon, 3/8/03
International Women’s Day
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Slaughter
of Innocents
Pablo Picasso has words for Colin Powell from
the other side of death
by Ariel Dorfman
Yes, even here, here more than anywhere else,
we know and watch what is going on
what you are doing with the world
we left behind
What else can we do with our time?
Yes, there you were, Mr. Secretary,
I think that is how they call you
there you were
standing in front of my Guernica
a replica it is true
but still my vision of what was done
that day to the men to the women
and to the children to that one child
in Guernica that day in 1937
from the sky
Not really standing in front of it.
It had been covered, our Guernica,
covered so you could speak.
There in the United Nations building.
So you could speak about Iraq.
Undisturbed by Guernica.
Why should it disturb perturb you?
Why did you not ask that the cover
be
removed
the
picture
be
revealed?
Why did you not point to the shrieking
the horse dying over and over again
the woman with the child forever dead
the child that I nurse here in this darkness
the child who watches with me
as you speak
and you speak.
Why did you not say
This is why we must be rid of the dictator.
Why did you not say
This is what Iraq has already done and undone.
Why did you not say
This is what we are trying to save the world from.
Why did you not use
Guernica to make your case?
Were you afraid that the mother
would leap from her image and say
no he is the one
they are the ones who will bomb
from afar
they are the ones who will kill
the child
no no no
he is the one they them
from the distance the bombs
keeping us always out of sight
inside death and out of sight
Were you afraid that the horse
would show the world the near future
three thousand cruise missiles in the first hour
spinning into Baghdad
ten thousand Guernicas
spinning into Baghdad
from the sky
Were you afraid of my art
what I am still saying
more than sixty five years later
the story still being told
the vision still dangerous
the light bulb still hanging
like an eye from the dead
my eye that looks at you from the dead
beware
beware the eye of the child
in the dark
you will join us
the child and I
the horse and the mother
here on the other side
you will join us soon
you will journey here
as we all do
is
that why you were
so
afraid of me?
join us
and spend the rest of eternity
watching
watching
watching
next to us
next to the remote dead
not only of Iraq
not only of
is
that why you were
so afraid of that eye?
watching
your own eyes sewn open wide looking
at the world you left behind
there is nothing else to do
with our time
sentenced to watch
and watch
by our side
until
there will be no Guernicas left
until the living understand
and then, Mr. Secretary,
and then
a world with no Guernicas
and then
yes then
you and I
yes then
we can rest
you and I and the covered child
Ariel Dorfman's latest books are "Exorcising
Terrror: The Incredible Ongoing Trial of General Augusto
Pinochet" and the poems, "In Case of Fire in a Foreign
Land (Duke University Press)." He has just completed a play
about Picasso during the Nazi occupation of Paris. 03/09/03
(A one act, one scene play with a potentially horrific end.)
Setting: A War Crimes Tribunal, somewhere in Europe.
Actors: Three Judges; an international war crimes Prosecutor;
a Court Clerk; two armed court officers; Donald Rumsfeld
Act 1
Scene one. A black curtain is slowly drawn to reveal a somber
setting. Three Judges ( A President of the Court; the Judge on
the President’s right; The Judge on the President’s
left); two armed guards; a Court Clerk who reads the charges;
the Prosecutor; Donald Rumsfeld, standing as an accused before
the Tribunal.
President ( looking at Rumsfeld): Mr. Rumsfeld you have been
brought before this Tribunal for reason that by international
consensus, a vast majority of people in the world had petitioned
for your trial for complicity in crimes against humanity. Should
this Tribunal find you guilty, you can be sentenced to life imprisonment.
Do you understand?
Rumsfeld: Yes I do.
President: Is there anything you wish to say before the trial
commences?
Rumsfeld: I am an American citizen, and this court has no jurisdiction
over me. I am American, I am above international law, and in fact
I am a law unto myself.
President: Precisely, and it is with those misconceived notions
which got you into this predicament in the first place. Commence
with the charges.
Court Clerk: Reads a long list of jurisprudential formalities,
and then adds…
“ facilitating the procurement of chemical weapons , namely
bis- ( 2-cholorethyl) – sulfide ( more commonly known as
mustard gas) for sale to the Government of Iraq under the rule
of Saddam Hussein.”
Rumsfeld: Is that supposed to be a charge?
President: Mr. Rumsfeld the international law applicable to your
alleged heinous conduct was read out to you previously. Would
you care to have the passages repeated?
Rumsfeld: What’s this international law, international law
indeed! I told you already I don’t give a damn about any
international law – I am an American citizen.
President: ( looking at Prosecutor) : Please begin questioning.
Prosecutor: Mr. President there is one more charge.
President: Clerk, please read the charge.
Clerk: “Facilitating the procurement of chemical weapons
, namely ethyl N, N-dimethylphosphoroamidocyanidate ( more commonly
known as Tabun) for sale to the Government of Iraq under the rule
of Saddam Hussein.”
Rumsfeld: And that’s what you call a charge? So I helped
in getting and approving sales of chemical weapons, and a lot
of other weapons for Saddam Hussein, and what of it? There is
no crime in that. We sold him weapons because it was in the interest
of the United States to sell weapons to him and his bunch of bandits
in Iraq . Don’t you understand that he was conducting a war
with Iran, and we needed to have a no win situation. It was in
US interest. I did my law abiding duty to my country. ( Rumsfled
turns from his focus on the President, looks slowly to the center
of the court room, lowers his head, and almost sotto voce says)
– and I don’t see why I am in this damn court for all
the good that I have done for God and country.
President: Mr. Prosecutor – you may begin questioning.
Prosecutor: Your name is Donald Rumsfeld, and you held office
under President Reagan, and you have been Secretary of Defence
for the United Stares of America?
Rumsfeld: Yes.
Prosecutor: During the period of the Iran- Iraq War – do
you recall being an envoy to Baghdad?
Rumsfeld: Yes.
Prosecutor: And at the time you carried a hand-written letter
and personally delivered it to Iraq’s President, Saddam Hussein?
Rumsfeld: Yes.
Prosecutor: It is also true to say that at the time of your visit
to Iraq you were the highest ranking United States official to
have visited Iraq in the previous six years.
Rumsfeld: Probably.
Prosecutor: It was either so or it wasn’t. Are you able
to name anyone in the preceding six years, prior to your visit
to Baghdad, who held higher office than yourself who had visited
Baghdad; or, more precisely had at all visited Iraq?
Rumsfeld: No.
Prosecutor: So…
Rumsfeld: Look, it’s all lawyers’ games, if this then
that, so what ? O.K. yes I was the top guy who visited.
Prosecutor: Would you have a look at the three exhibits which
I am about to hand up to you - listed “A” , “B”
and “C’ for ease for reference.
( papers are handed to Rumsfeld)
Prosecutor: Please look at “ A”. And you accept that
in March 1984 you were in Baghdad.
Rumsfeld: Yes.
Prosecutor: Now turn to “B”. From that United Press
International report, you accept that it was reported internationally
that, and I quote in part, “ Mustard gas laced with a nerve
agent has been used on Iranian soldiers in the 43-month Persian
Gulf War between Iran and Iraq….” And it goes on “
Meanwhile, in the Iraqi capital of Baghdad, U.S. presidential
envoy Donald Rumsfeld held talks with Foreign Minister Tarek Aziz
on the Gulf War before leaving for an unspecified destination.”
Do you accept that report as factually accurate?
Rumsfeld: Well I already told you that I was in Baghdad, but
I wasn’t there doing the gassing.
Prosecutor: Do you have reason to doubt that at the time it was
reported, you personally knew, and the day before your meeting
with Tariq Aziz it had been reported that some 600 Iranian soldiers
had been gassed with chemical weapons on the southern front.
Rumsfeld: I told you I wasn’t there gassing, so how am I
to know?
Prosecutor: Look at exhibit “C” Mr. Rumsfeld. By reference
to that document, is it no less a person than US Ambassador Jeane
Kirkpatrick, who acknowledged, “ We think the use of chemical
weapons is a very serious matter. We’ve made that clear in
general and particular.” Now, do you deny that as a very
senior US official you knew and were fully aware of the gassing
with chemical weapons?
Rumsfeld: O.K., you got me on that one.
Prosecutor: And on March 29, 1984, it was reported in the New
York Times, “ American diplomats pronounce themselves satisfied
with relations between Iraq and the United States and suggest
that normal diplomatic ties have been restored in all but name.”
Rumsfeld: Look, I am no dummy, my name is Donald, not George,
you are going to go to some paper and ask this, and question the
other , and therefore this, and all that lawyer bullshit. Let
me just tell you plain and straight. In May, 1984, I resigned.
You want to suggest that I am the facilitator who gave support
when Iraq was actively using chemical weapons. You are then going
on to say that during my period Iraq was actively purchasing weapons
and chemical agents from American firms. Well let me tell you
something Buddy, that’s just how the world is. I did it for
my country, The U.S. of A. which I love. Look, I am not some kind
of Milosovic, or some criminal, who you put in some monkey cage
and get away with it. We will bomb the shit out of this court
before that is allowed to happen. You guys just don’t get
it, yes we sold – yes I helped procure the weapons. I did
what was right for my country at the time. I came back and I have
loyally served George W. Yes, Saddam gassed the Kurds in 1988.Yes
we sold him 60 Hughes helicopters and more stuff too.
President: Mr. Rumsfeld, just a couple questions.
Rumsfeld: Sure.
President: Having just admitted as you did, you have been a great
help to this Tribunal, and have probably shortened the trial considerably
– however, just for the record, a couple points. Do you,
personally, not feel any sense of remorse for the complicity in
first facilitating the Iraqi government’s atrocities, and
then never having done anything about it?
Rumsfeld: Look, under Clinton I signed a letter saying that we
should get rid of Saddam.
President: But when you were in a position to inform the world
about the atrocities you were totally silent.
Rumsfeld: You just don’t get it. We sold him the stuff,
and we needed him then, so why should I have said anything? It
would not be logical. It would not have made sense. But when Geroge
W. got back in we are focused on oil and we moved aggressively
after him. The guy is a tyrant, so he had to be got rid of.
Prosecutor: Mr. Rumsfeld…
Rumsfeld: I have had enough of this court crap.
Rumsfeld turns and walks towards the main doors of the court,
and as he does so he is approached by the court’s two armed
officers. Rumsfeld turns and says…
“If one of you so much as puts a hand on me, the Marines
will be here quicker than you can say ‘Saddam Hussein’
. I am out of here guys, back to God’s own country, the U.S.of
A.”
As he walks through the court’s doors a loud mocking laugh
is heard.
The End.
From: "Guest"
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Collateral Damage
by David Glick
What does it take to stop the madness
of war?
Can't you see that I am not collateral damage?
You have emptied words of their meaning.
You have murdered language,
corrupted its use.
You have destroyed the fragile bridge
that helps us feel the pain of one another.
In your arsenal of weapons of mass
destruction,
words are the most insidious weapon of all.
You use words to mystify.
You wo
