#poems of protest

[manwalksintobar]

A Song and the Sultan  // Mahmoud Darwish

It was no more than the description of a burst of rain and handkerchiefs of lightning which burned the secret of trees— then why did they resist her? When she said that something different from this water runs in the river and the people of the shore are statues and other things, why did they torture her? When she told them the forest was abounding with secrets and the moon was stabbed with a carving knife and the blood of the nightingale was on that stone, abandoned, why did they resist her? Why did they torture her? When she said, my country is a mountain of sweat and on the small bridge a man is dying and darkness burning the Sultan was angry and the Sultan is an imaginative creature. He said, “The fault is in the mirror so let your singer be silent and let my kingdom from the Nile to the Euphrates be.” and he shouted, “Put that poem in prison!” The torture room, for security, is a thousand times better than an anthem or a newspaper. Go and tell the Sultan that the wind cannot be wounded by the shake of a sword that millions of trees can become green in the cupped hand of a single letter. But the Sultan was angry, and the Sultan is everywhere on stamps, in psalms, and on his forehead is the tattoo of hunting. He shouted, “It is ordered! Execute this poem!” Execution Square is the best anthology for obstinate sons. Go and tell the Sultan that lightning cannot be imprisoned in a corncob that songs are the logic of the sun and the history of sheaves and the nature of earthquakes. That songs like tree trunks may die in one land but sprout in every country The blue sun was an idea the Sultan tried to submerge but it became the birthday of an ember and the red sun has become an ember which the Sultan in vain imprisoned and suddenly the fire is a revolution! The voices of blood have taken the tone of a tempest and the pebbles of the Square are becoming like open wounds and I laugh, awed by the birth of the wind. When the Sultan resisted me I grasped the key of the morning and groped my way with the lamps of wounds. Oh how wise I was when I gave my heart to the call of the tempest! Let the tempest roar, O let the tempest roar … !

[news4dzhozhar]

Alot happened in the past few days so I'm playing catchup here.

[certainunkownlove2]

They can take our mouths

And make us speak no more

But we will learn to write

They can take our paper

And make us write no more

But we will learn to sign

They can take our hand

And make us sign no more

But we will learn to talk with our eyes

They can take our eyes

And make us blink not more

They can burn can burn us like witches

But when we can communicate no more

We will find a way to scream

"No more"

"No more"

"No more"

(this is a poem I wrote while brushing my teeth this morning. It's about kosa but also other protests. It means that even if the government takes our social media to try and silence us, we will find a way to fight back.

This situation we are in is like when workers unions where kinda banned in some companies because the bosses didn't want people to work together. They still found a way to meet and to protest together. I believe that as queer people, we too can fight for freedom and the ability to talk without our government interfering.

So fight against kosa, email your reps. Fight against the homophobe and transphobia that is happening in Africa by learning more about what's going on and how you can help at @queer-africa.

Fight and when you have been silenced, find a way to scream)

[thoughtportal]

this is why we dance

[sanddollarpoems]

They're all the bold faced liars

selling us slop for the price of our souls.

"If you just keep scrolling

You might not feel the tape over your mouth.

You might not feel us bind your wrists."

"Just spend your life savings

on our passive income scheme."

"This won't hurt, you'll only feel a pinch."

We watch our differences become

the driving force dividing us.

We watch pieces of our human race

labeled and declared a sub class.

There's always an excuse to kill the weak.

I hate this world, but what can I do?

We feel the helplessness of the last three generations,

hanging around our necks like a gold chain.

This is the privilege of a first world view,

we see every single blast

but don't have to smell the smoke and death.

We can't give up on trying to stand.

How did these people get put in charge anyway?

And are you ready to fight your way out?

Do you think we've got a chance?

[joy-haver]

Blessed is the aging activist,

Old beyond repair.

Planting trees they will not see the shade of.

Holding what was there.

Beloved is the old ecologist,

Seeds saved for me.

Taking time to tell the story,

Lineage braided into beads.

Beautiful is the old AIM sailor,

Ghost dance at Alcatraz.

Carving trails before we walked the way,

Tying future into past.

Blessed is the old abortionist,

Self trained nurse Jane.

Changing course of shifting rivers.

She held us through the pain.

Beloved is the Catholic worker

His Blood on atom bomb,

Knowing above, below, are together,

And that heaven is earth-to-come.

Beautiful is the old musician,

Protest song on tongue,

Taking the time to tell the story,

Of what has and will come.

[fairiedance]

This poem, If We Must Die by Claude McKay was written during the Red Summer, 1919. It has since been adopted to represent many groups facing persecution. I pair it here with a field of poppies and a faint keffiyeh pattern, emblematic of the Palestinian struggle. I may make a more elaborate version in the future, I have some ideas. For now, this is available on stickers, shirts, prints, etc.

As usual, ALL PROCEEDS from this are for my Palestinian best friend, to help his girlfriend afford to join him safely in America and to help his friends and family in Palestine and around the rest of the Levant who are being hurt directly and/or financially by the attacks on Gaza, the increasing Israeli raids in the West Bank and the collateral damage in surrounding countries. You can find this design here. All designs here. By the way you can change the color on the shirts if you don't like the white background.

Thank you to everyone who has contributed!

[env0writes]

Janus Estuaries Vol. 3, 1.11.24 “Midwest Madness"

A sickness grew within me Festering between my heart and lungs Every time it might be expelled I caught it before recitation, regurgitation Center of the country, heartland Homeland America and more than crops rot Hearts rot on the freeways Crosscountry, a place to pass by Not to be That sickness spread down streets Corners and capillaries Always caught in cul’de’sacs Always close to throwing up I am nauseous I read that after near-thirty Cells die faster than they regenerate That is the line in the sand, In our hand, life line When we begin to die Marked for death But I am sick, to death When it caught hold Cradling my feelings, my words It fatigues me faster than round-a-bouts I gave up waiting for it to pass Beneath the freeways of my organs From me, from my center-state home It could not be expelled and it could not be tolerated Enumerated or exonerated but persists Perhaps the coming year’s resolutions, revolutions Send cries of kindness in protest to the skies Hear the words, spit past blockade teeth Boiling words that waited throbbing deep How beautiful the world full of kindness Plucked like spring flowers Placed in cheap plastic vases It makes me, my home; sick

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist!   Photo by @env0

[sfsolstice]

s. f. solstice, "call it what it is"

mutual aid projects and resources via operation olive branch

daily click for palestine

[cassemiah]

I think I expected to be angry

Because I have been

Kids are dying

Women are losing children

Men being forgotten

So I deserve to be angry

But I can only think

of the son who fell asleep

on his father on the bus

I should be angry

But there was a baby

And he smiled and I knew

He'd grow up with parents who cared

I think they want me angry

But half of the things they said

Were about loving

Them and each other

I'm not sure I want to be angry

Because grandmother's

Will always feed children

Even if they're grown and travelling alone

How can I be angry

When humans all

So clearly and so freely

Love simply

[park-bench-poet]

Book of Ruth

All I have ever been is willing. 

I wear my fingers to the bone but 

there is never enough

work for these hands. 

I am ready to believe if you 

would just tell me what god to kneel to-- 

give me a place and I will go there,

give me a direction and I will walk,

give me a new name and I will answer.

.

My arms can hold enough wheat 

to feed us all winter.

I will wring myself out in the fields

and the daily death of sunset

will make me fresh again.

Please don’t worry,

like an overripe orchard,

I need to be harvested.

I can be both the fire and the fuel 

as long as I am keeping someone warm.

.

I spend all my nights awake–

what need have I for rest?

I have seen your lantern burning too

and it takes all my strength to keep

my wanderings from ending at your door.

Oh, stay up with me on the threshing floor,

pluck these fruits in the darkness!

Let me scrape the loneliness off

your skin with my strong fingers.

I am so good at suffering, please

let me do some of yours for you. 

.

I don’t even want a corner of your 

cloak to wrap around myself.

There is no one else waiting,

there is only me in the darkness.

Take my shawl and lay back;

I am not asking you to redeem me

or make me whole,

just let me fall asleep at your feet. 

[manwalksintobar]

In order for me to write... / Marwan Makhoul

In order for me to write poetry that isn't political, I must listen to the birds and in order to hear the birds the warplanes must be silent.

[therealteslathedog]

It’s getting worse to be trans in America, so I made this.

[drdamiang]

WHEN

WHEN

when the students

protest against

you

against your policies

hold out your hand

to greet

embrace

the wrong side

of history

and, should there

be exchange

discussion,

try to remember to ask

how much time

you have left

[ryvenpoetry]

How beautiful it is to

Witness the rise of

A thousand muted mouths

Ten thousand averted eyes

A hundred thousand covered ears

A million closed minds

All be awoken by the

Sound of the youth crying out.

That the seeds they sewed that grew on

Spilt blood rise from the ground

And refuse to reap another harvest.

That the cogs in the machine that

Are so oft replaced when they are

No longer of use refuse to turn.

And the boars released to trample the

Crops meet the resistance of roots long

Dug to disregard the swine's boots.

And the foremans dispatched to

Remove the defective parts are met

With the entire machine refusing to

Let go of the pieces around them.

For no amount of sense can

Refuse the facts any longer.

And if the screams of a thousand

Dying children aren't enough to stir

Your sympathy, allow the children

You raised to be heartless & mute

To defy your every expectation,

And not fear your attempt to

Silence us.

-Ry V.

04/26/24

[apollon-emos]

For the poems for Palestine would it be ok if I split my donations? Like say sent 5$ to Anera and 5$ to PCRS would it still count?

absolutely!