[identity profile] iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com
How to keep the promise of a promised land?
Not only a name, a place, a flag.
It’s an end to wandering in the wilderness,
the wilderness inside ourselves.
It’s singing sweeter than scorpions.
It’s touching everywhere softer than snakes.
It’s not letting hyenas teach babies to howl.
It’s families trusting without cactus spines
coming from inside our skins.
No more sand blowing between kisses.
In a promised land we are not made in the desert’s image.
We do not think with rocks in our heads
or take counsel with storms.
A promised land is promised to us.
But we are also promised
and to keep that promise we must learn
not to become hungry prowling lions
but to look at each other with gathering awe
as if we had never seen another human
so close, so real.
[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com

Ginsberg

No blame. Anyone who wrote Howl and Kaddish
earned the right to make any possible mistake
for the rest of his life.
I just wish I hadn’t made this mistake with him.
It was during the Vietnam war
and he was giving a great protest reading
in Washington Square Park
and nobody wanted to leave.
So Ginsberg got the idea, “I’m going to shout
‘the war is over’ as loud as I can,” he said
“and all of you run over the city
in different directions
yelling the war is over, shout it in offices,
shops, everywhere and when enough people
believe the war is over
why, not even the politicians
will be able to keep it going.”
I thought it was a great idea at the time
a truly poetic idea.
So when Ginsberg yelled I ran down the street
and leaned in the doorway
of the sort of respectable down on its luck cafeteria
where librarians and minor clerks have lunch
and I yelled “the war is over.”
And a little old lady looked up
from her cottage cheese and fruit salad.
She was so ordinary she would have been invisible
except for the terrible light
filling her face as she whispered
“My son. My son is coming home.”
I got myself out of there and was sick in some bushes.
That was the first time I believed there was a war.

by Julia Vinograd

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War Poetry

January 2017

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