Red Pills: Bad For Your Blood Pressure

Political correctness has not 'gone crazy' 
yet still the right-wing snowflakes melt.
when people don't laugh at their offensive jokes,
or 'cause their prejudices aren't mutually felt.
Most of what's labelled 'discrimination'
by the ill-informed folk on the right,
Is them crying, complaining like children,
'cause they're losing the cultural fight.

You see, every accusation is a confession,
and every homophobe is worried they're gay,
and silent sinners scream the loudest 
while having a penchant to publicly pray.
Every insecurity is a projection.
"oppressed" 'cause they're not allowed to oppress.
Pearl clutching in horror at things like equality
and becoming upset by progress. 

Yet we know that they'll keep on getting triggered,
and claiming the left-wing is weak,
while crying about being persecuted
'cause they got called on the shit they speak.
It's an inferiority complex
that makes them want to put 'the other' down,
whether 'the other' is gay, "woke" or liberal,
or is simply the wrong shade of brown.

They need to stop with those red pills,
instead they should go re-check the facts,
those pills are just making them angry,
whereas the truth will help them relax.
No-one's trying to feminise your children,
there's not some plot to kill the pious,
the right-wing lies and manipulates itself,
while the truth has a left-wing bias.

Just find it hilarious that the right wing can't see how babyish they have become.  Bless them.  Hopefully this will wake some of them up.

"Habitation" by Margaret Atwood

 

"Habitation" by Margaret Atwood

at the back where we squat 

outside, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far

we are learning to make fire

  

Poem of the Ring

Original par J.R.R. Tolkien

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

Par Chiara Cadrich

Aux Elfes trois Anneaux pour régner sur la Terre,
Sept aux Seigneurs des Nains dans leurs salles de pierre,
Neuf aux hommes ci-bas destinés au trépas,
Un pour le prince noir couronné de ténèbres
Au Pays de Mordor où s'étendent les ombres.
Un Anneau suprême pour les dominer tous
Rameuter leurs terreurs et les enchainer tous
Au Pays de Mordor où s'étendent les ombres

Dada poem

 At brb f charger by they egg net bag brandy by eng

I'm drum hedge hem hem and get dnt brush by f be

Judge he he my f gndhd. HD HD and venue HD

Judge run run they run run run run they n nd turn g

Greg she dun he he tnx dh d h eh Sydney eh 

Dv bent fund he bent run fund funny shud he

Burnt fund th fund h  fund g dun th Bush end g

They'd my then but be gen d budget th run

Tend the tend then much then hd hd dh hd 

Bugs but he dg dg he dg. eh eh dgdg dgn

I have never seen "Volcanoes" — (175) BY EMILY DICKINSON

  I have never seen "Volcanoes" — (175)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

I have never seen "Volcanoes" —

But, when Travellers tell

How those old — phlegmatic mountains

Usually so still —

Bear within — appalling Ordnance,

Fire, and smoke, and gun,

Taking Villages for breakfast,

And appalling Men —

If the stillness is Volcanic

In the human face

When upon a pain Titanic

Features keep their place —

If at length the smouldering anguish

Will not overcome —

And the palpitating Vineyard

In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary,

On Resumption Morn,

Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!

To the Hills return!

"Bird-Understander" by Craig Arnold

 

2. "Bird-Understander" by Craig Arnold

These are your own words

your way of noticing

and saying plainly

of not turning away

from hurt

you have offered them 

to me    I am only 

giving them back 

if only I could show you

how very useless 

they are not

The raw honesty of Craig Arnold’s poetry makes ‘Bird-Understander’ an easy pick for our list of the most beautiful love poems. In this piece, Arnold recounts a moment with his partner that makes his love grow even stronger. The language is simple yet evocative, putting a strong metaphor in the reader’s mind and facilitating a deeper understanding of Arnold’s feelings.

AMEN

 AMEN

The betrayer who is betrayed.

The deceiver deceived.

Away! Away!

What away?

Away to where

in the yellow air?

To the meadow that was?

To the lambs just birthed?

To the falling birds?

In our standing up, though a little bent—dayenu.

With our eyes seeing though blurred—dayenu.

With our ears almost hearing—dayenu.

Upon our lieing down and our rising—dayenu.

On our remembering our beloved’s name—dayenu.

On our kneeling down—dayenu.

By the skin of our teeth—dayenu.

In our heart that expands and contracts—dayenu.

In our worried heart, fearful and afraid—dayenu.

Amen.

***

(January 2016)

Translated from Hebrew by Rachel Tzvia Back.

This article was originally published on April 20, 2016.

Pre-eminent Hebrew poet Tuvia Ruebner was born in Slovakia in 1924, immigrated to Mandate Palestine in 1941 and settled in the Jezreel Valley kibbutz of Merchavia, where he lives until today. His parents, little sister and grandparents who remained behind were all murdered in Auschwitz in the summer of 1942. Ruebner has published 16 collections of poetry and received numerous awards in Israel and Europe. The collection of his poetry in English, In the Illuminated Dark: Selected Poems of Tuvia Ruebner (HUC and University of Pittsburgh Presses), translated, annotated and introduced by Rachel Tzvia Back, was a finalist for both the National Translation Award and National Jewish Book Award in Poetry (2015). At the age of 92, Ruebner continues writing and publishing.

Russian love song

 

Rumi

 💗“I choose to love you in silence…

For in silence I find no rejection,

I choose to love you in loneliness…
For in loneliness no one owns you but me,

I choose to adore you from a distance…
For distance will shield me from pain,

I choose to kiss you in the wind…
For the wind is gentler than my lips,

I choose to hold you in my dreams…
For in my dreams, you have no end.”
― Rumi

Devonport by Chloe Honum

 

Devonport

Chloe Honum

The man has chosen that he wants his ashes scattered from the end of the pier where he used to fish with his buddies. They’d sit on overturned paint buckets. Sometimes the waves gusted up and the hems of his pants got wet and salty. He liked the gulls that stood on the railing, all puffed up with sky. Having made the decision, he walks at dusk to the end of the pier and looks out at the sea. As he turns away, he sometimes gives a small, happy nod, like a man thinking yes, I will buy this house.

.George Orwell Sometimes in the middle autumn days

 🍔

George Orwell

Sometimes in the middle autumn days

Sometimes in the middle autumn days,
The windless days when the swallows have flown,
And the sere elms brood in the mist,
Each tree a being, rapt, alone,

I know, not as in barren thought,
But wordlessly, as the bones know,
What quenching of my brain, what numbness,
Wait in the dark grave where I go.

And I see the people thronging the street,
The death-marked people, they and I
Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,
Blind to the earth and to the sky;

Nothing believing, nothing loving,
Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream
Of precious life that flows within us,
But fighting, toiling as in a dream.

So shall we in the rout of life
Some thought, some faith, some meaning save,
And speak it once before we go
In silence to the silent grave...

⛄Welcome to Indian Country BY RENA PRIEST

  Welcome to Indian Country

BY RENA PRIEST

Where is Indian Country?

It’s everywhere we stand.

It’s anywhere we dance.

It’s where the earth loves

the feel of our feet.

Welcome to Indian Country.

What does that mean?

It means this is where

we lift our voice in song

and make a joyful drumbeat

so our hearts can sing along.

Welcome to Indian Country.

This beloved country here,

where we honor our ancestors

by growing stronger every year,

by making laughter the answer

that wipes away our tears.

Welcome to Indian Country.

What does the future hold?

In uncertain times like these

we reach for words like hope

and things we can be sure of—

sunrises, beauty, and love.

Welcome to Indian Country.

It’s everywhere we dance and

where the feast is truly grand.

Welcome to Indian Country.

Now give us back our land!

Dada poem

 Cent ten n they rhythm dumb d eggs m burn tenet then eggs m

Greet he ten gent ten then ten tents ten ten ten he he he her h

Handy she msg bench nudge me helmet gd d theme eggs msg

The eh net net st gen agents then gen genre gangs then gen mgmt

Internet entry he ginger tents ten ten ten Danny eng entry nd burn gen

Egg he gen tents breech synch tents eng genre rent n genre genre

Best why eng when gen gen gets meth bench net vs n get eng d bent he

🎀 .“It Out-Herods Herod. Pray You, Avoid It.”

 .“It Out-Herods Herod. Pray You, Avoid It.”

BY ANTHONY HECHT

Tonight my children hunch

Toward their Western, and are glad   

As, with a Sunday punch,

The Good casts out the Bad.

And in their fairy tales

The warty giant and witch

Get sealed in doorless jails

And the match-girl strikes it rich.

I’ve made myself a drink.

The giant and witch are set

To bust out of the clink

When my children have gone to bed.

All frequencies are loud

With signals of despair;

In flash and morse they crowd   

The rondure of the air.

For the wicked have grown strong,   

Their numbers mock at death,   

Their cow brings forth its young,   

Their bull engendereth.

Their very fund of strength,   

Satan, bestrides the globe;

He stalks its breadth and length   

And finds out even Job.

Yet by quite other laws

My children make their case;   

Half God, half Santa Claus,   

But with my voice and face,

A hero comes to save

The poorman, beggarman, thief,   

And make the world behave   

And put an end to grief.

And that their sleep be sound   

I say this childermas

Who could not, at one time,   

Have saved them from the gas.

Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade

This poem was written to memorialize a suicidal charge by light cavalry over open terrain by British forces in the Battle of Balaclava (Ukraine) in the Crimean War (1854-56). 247 men of the 637 in the charge were killed or wounded. The date of the Battle was October 25, 1854 and Tennyson wrote this famous poem in the same year. 

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
`Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
`Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

THE VILLAGE CHOIR Anon.

 Half a bar, half a bar,

Half a bar onward!

Into an awful ditch

Choir and precentor hitch,

Into a mess of pitch,

They led the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,

Tenors to left of them,

Basses in front of them,

Bellowed and thundered.

Oh, that precentor’s look,

When the sopranos took

Their own time and hook

From the Old Hundred!

 

Screeched all the trebles here,

Boggled the tenors there,

Raising the parson’s hair,

While his mind wandered;

Theirs not to reason why

This psalm was pitched too high:

Theirs but to gasp and cry

Out the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,

Tenros to left of them,

Basses in front of them,

Bellowed and thundered.

Stormed they with shout and yell,

Not wise they sang nor well,

Drowning the sexton’s bell,

While all the Church wondered.

 

Dire the precentor’s glare,

Flashed his pitchfork in the air

Sounding fresh keys to bear

Out the Old Hundred.

Swiftly he turned his back,

Reached he his hat from rack,

Then from the screaming pack,

Himself he sundered.

Tenors to right of him,

Tenors to left of him,

Discords behind him,

Bellowed and thundered.

Oh, the wild howls they wrought:

Right to the end they fought!

Some tune they sang, but not

Not the Old Hundred.

Evolution - this I know!

 Evolution - this I know!

Charles Darwin tells me so!

It's the strong against the weak!

Only Jesus loves the meek!

Yes, evolution!

Yes, evolution!

Yes, evolution,

For Darwin tells me so!

[O were my love yon Lilac fair] Robert Burns

 

[O were my love yon Lilac fair]

Robert Burns

O were my love yon Lilac fair,  
  Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,  
  When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn         
  By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,  
  When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 
O gin my love were yon red rose,  
  That grows upon the castle wa';    
And I myself a drap o' dew,  
  Into her bonie breast to fa'!
O there, beyond expression blest,  
  I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
  Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light!

By Your Hand Haʻåni Lucia Falo San Nicolas for Deon

 

By Your Hand

Haʻåni Lucia Falo San Nicolas

for Deon I peer at the ridges of your palm rested along the crevice of mine, while tracing your jagged vasculature with a delicate press of my finger, and I explore every uneven wrinkle, every pronounced callus, every rounded mole like it is the hilly, stone-ridden backyard of my childhood home in Mongmong. I know this place. I have been here before. I read the swirls inscribed into your firm dark skin, sound out each node and connecting branch, sew syllables into words that spell out gima’: home. I raise your hand transposed against the evening sky, clear of clouds, and I can find the constellations within you. Did you know our forefathers did this at sea— placed their arm to the heavens to translate the stars? Master navigators of the open ocean, yet you, my love, are more than a map; I dare not fold nor decipher your complexity. You are the beloved, longed-for destination at the end of the journey, the place that our ancestors craved return, the reason for the expedition—refuge, promise, hope. You are home.

Epitafio del hipócrita (Epitaph of a Hypocrite) by Rosario Castellanos

 

Epitafio del hipócrita (Epitaph of a Hypocrite)

Quería y no quería.
Quería con su piel y con sus uñas,
con lo que cambia y cae; negaba con ‘sus vísceras,
con lo que de sus vísceras no era aserrín, con todo
lo que latía y sangraba en sus entrañas.

Quería ser él y el otro.
Siamés partido a la mitad, buscaba
la columna de hueso para asirse, colgar
su cartilaginosa consistencia de hiedra.

Mesón desocupado,
actor, daba hospedaje al agonista.
Gesticulaba viendo su sombra en las paredes,
deglutía palabras sin sabor, eructaba
resonando en su vasta oquedad de tambor.

Ensayaba ademanes
–heroico, noble, prócer–
para que al desbordarse la lava del elogio
lo cubriera cuajando después en una estatua.

No a solas inunca a solas!
dijo el brindis final,
alzó la copa amarga de cicuta.

(Mas no bebió su muerte sino la del espejo).

 

Epitaph of a Hypocrite

He wanted and he did not want.
He wanted with his skin and with his nails,
with that which changes and falls; he denied with his guts, with all of his gut
that was not sawdust, with all
that throbbed and bled in his entrails!

He wanted to be him and another.
Siamese twins parted in the middle, he searched
the column of bone to seize it, to hang
his cartilage like the consistency of ivy.

Empty inn,
an actor, he gave lodging to the agonized.
He gestured, watching his shadow on the walls,
swallowed words without flavor, belched
resounding in his vast drum hollow.

He tested gestures
–heroic, noble, illustrious–
so as to be overcome by the lava of praise
covering him, congealing afterward into a statue.

Not alone, never alone!
He said the final toast,
raised the bitter glass of hemlock.

(But he did not drink his death, rather that of the mirror).