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Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, Book 1 “Inferno,” Canto 5 [tr. James (2013)]

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Late September Walk, 7:26 pm

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A View of Naples through a Window, 1824. Franz Ludwig Catel

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Like my father. A Poem by Coyote Poetry  Blood of father flowed in my vein and I can see his face.                                        Like my father.. I look in the mirror.What do I see?Have I become what I despised all my life?I have my father’s eyes.Now I know my father’s pain.Have my eyes become cold?Is violence and anger my strength?Each day I learned loss.Loss of dreams and…

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Until It Isn't

death becomes exciting tolls, pictures, videos tweeting carnage instagramming collapse hearts racing to break

24-hour entertainment every glimpse, splinter and particle of pain jammed into torsos and cheekbones

loved ones want to sit for a minute and cry quietly

no words, no poetry before Internet and dialed-up emotions before black and white ideologies

before a person I called friend defended massacres before the victims were laid to rest before chemical weapons ravaged insides before refugee meant grandmother

suffering 2.0 keyboard clicks like bombs so effortlessly dropping

all damage collateral never personal voyeurs hop on and off like carnival rides

death becomes exciting until it isn’t until boredom sets in and desensitization begins until the next ride emerges somewhere else more captivating

by Remi Kanazi, New York-based Palestinian poet

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How does it feel, to have bone crunch between your teeth?

How does it feel, to hold the knife that sinks into soft flesh?

How does it feel, to have hot, boiling red blood on your hands, dripping off the tips of your fingers?

Take that hide and stretch it over the war drum, call it a herald of a new age and of a new world.

Take that hide from a child's back, from a mother's womb, from a father's chest, and stretch it over a wardrum. Call it a herald of a new time and a new hierarchy.

Take that hide from the bodies of the infants, who lie on the side of destroyed roads. Infants, bloody and beaten to death for crimes neither they nor their parents committed.

Bang the wardrum to cover the sound of the screams and call it music.

Bang the wardrum to cover the sound of exploding bombs and call it music.

Bang the wardrum, bang the wardrum, war is here in the guise of festivity.

A festivity, not of food and music and dance, but of blood and gore and the search for false glory.

You hold the knife, you hold the gun, you hold the drum beater.

You bring war in the guise of festivity.

You bring war without admitting that it is one, while mothers, fathers, children, soldiers lie on destroyed grounds with blank eyes and bloody temples.

You bang the wardrum, bang the wardrum, bang the wardrum.

War is here.

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Do Blame the Children

Do Not Blame the Children

K.K.W

Do not blame the children

They know not what’s been done

It’s not their fault that they were born

In the land were war’s not won

So do not blame the children

It’s not their fault you see

They did not choose their race or size

Or place in time to be

So do not blame the children

They haven’t done a thing

The planes and bombs and genocide

Are not theirs to guide

So do not blame the children

You are not in their shoes

Some don’t have a place to go

And none of them are you

So do not blame the children

Because they’re not your own

Their little faces cry just like

The ones you have at home

So do not blame the children

For things they have not done

Their homes and lives are all but gone

And all they have is none

So do not blame the children

For coming here this far

They’re looking for a better place

They’re looking for a start

So do not blame the children

Because they’re different from you

Their lives matter just as much

And they don’t blame you

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the empress of emperors

the bathtub fills me I think about the feeling, the being –– mindfulness they said eat raisins with mindfulness I listen to the poetry of Varity Spott dragging the neoliberal elite and talking about wars, wars, wars as if Syria would scream in the bubbles when I wash my hair

I remember the days before the now when I was begging for water, water from space I said, E.T. would take you to the space so the cosmic water can make me the Emperor of Earth and Space and I would make you the Knight of Space Water you said “Empress not Emperor” fuck those genders we were so high and thirsty

the bathtub fills me the bathtub feels me slow-motion e-motions no more bubbles just washed off shampoo with hot water I want to be pure but the wars, wars, wars…! I am tired of mindfulness the vampire who sucks your blood is not your lover nor your Daddy it’s capitalist boss with the commodity fetish peace gets dirty like my hair after three days the bathtub feeling and mindfully eating raisins fades away the poetry reading has ended if only the wars –– the sound of BBC News notification breaks the silence on my reading Capital Volume I

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when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever

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Help a Family in Need💔

I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.

Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.

As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.

In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.

Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.

For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.

Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.

Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.

Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.

Adam

Please donate & share: Donation Link

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- A Psalm for the Wild-Built, Becky Chambers // kagonekoshiro

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bitch this is all you’re gonna get. this life, this face, this body. you better not ‘maybe in another universe’ your way out of everything. sit your ass down and face this. go make tea and have a picnic and read a goddamn book. kiss your loved ones, send that damn text, and hug your siblings. this is all you’re gonna get.

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Switching between these every day

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Maria Gray, from “Bad Nostalgia”

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Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness