The trial of Ernst Zundel has gone down in Canadian history.
quote by Ernst Zundel
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A Canadian Poet Since You Asked
A Canadian poet since you asked.
I’m madder than the landscape.
Glaciers have scarred me
retreating north like my father.
My heart has been shaped by neolithic chisels
into a dolmen of Michelangelo’s David
with a silver bullet and a rock in his hand
and the determination of a statue
who refuses to be intimidated by a scarecrow.
The end of an ice age.
No leftovers.
The platter scraped clean as the Canadian Shield.
Savage runes carved in rock by rock.
Older than the Rosetta Stone
my silence is indecipherable.
I mean marrow.
I mean broken bones.
I mean blood on the snow.
The moon comes like a nurse to the wounded pines
and applies a cool poultice of light to their limbs
in a season of storms
when the lake raves
and the fish dive deeper into themselves
and the bears huddle up under their layers of fat
in caves they’ve turned into dream wombs
and I burn underground like the root-fire
of a radical evangelist
among survivalist cedars
gathering under tents of snow
to be born again in the blood of the Caribou.
There are more heretics in the wilderness
than there are saints.
Whatever it takes to keep warm.
There are nights when my spirit is so cold
it congeals on my eyes
like breath on a windowpane
and I’d say anything
without amending an iota of it
just to be burnt at the stake
and thaw the chandeliers of frozen tears
that hang over me like the sword of Damocles
or the brittle radiance of the Pleiades
where they pick glass apples from sapphire trees
or the crystal castles of Arianrod in Corona Borealis
where everything turns like a Sufi top
but no one ever gets vertigo
and the Celts pay back money they owe the dead
after they die
if you can imagine that.
I make a significant Doppler Shift in my lifelines
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
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Junle Law And Refusal To Forgive
When Israelis captured Eichmann and
decided they would put him up for trial
many people thought their conduct vile,
claiming Israel's acts were grossly out of hand.
The Washington Post said this was 'jungle law, '
while William Buckley called on Israel to
forgive its enemies. Arendt, a Jew,
called Hausner 'a Galician who knew
no languages.' No Jews would turn their cheek
towards the enemies not just outside,
but those within, and chose to override
complaints of those who said, 'We must be meek.'
Few understood the shift in paradigm
initiated by the judges, Jews
who were not merely plaintiffs who accuse,
but people justly punishing a crime.
This poem was written fifty years after execution of Adolf Eichmann, at around midnight on 5/31/62.
Franklin Foer, reviewing Deborah Lipstadt's The Eichmann Trial in the NYT,4/8/11 ('Why the Eichmann Trial Really Mattered') wrote:
To write about the trial of Adolf Eichmann is to put its most notorious court reporter, Hannah Arendt, in the dock. In the nearly 50 years since its publication, her account of those proceedings, 'Eichmann in Jerusalem, ' has come to overshadow its subject. The book, it is true, commands attention. It is a breathtaking admixture of genres (history, philosophy, journalism) and contains strong, often unconventional, moral judgments (especially her contempt for the Jewish leaders who cooperated with their murderers) . It aims to render grand historical conclusions but remains unintentionally and inescapably personal.
'The Eichmann Trial, ' by Deborah E. Lipstadt, can't entirely avoid Arendt, but it does manage to keep her largely offstage until the very end. Lipstadt has done a great service by untethering the trial from Arendt's polarizing presence, recovering the event as a gripping legal drama, as well as a hinge moment in Israel's history and in the world's delayed awakening to the magnitude of the Holocaust.
Aside from Eichmann's trial, in 1961, the Holocaust has been the subject of at least two other memorable legal battles. The first, of course, was the Nuremberg tribunals — proceedings that occurred amid the ruins of war and concentrated on the crimes of the Nazis, giving little voice to the still dazed survivors of the genocide. The second featured none other than Lipstadt herself. In 2000, she found herself the defendant in a British libel suit unsuccessfully brought by the writer David Irving, who protested her characterization of him as a Holocaust denier. This experience has made her a sensitive guide to the awkward complexities of squeezing the crimes of the Holocaust into the constricting confines of the courthouse.
The book begins with the daughter of an Argentine man dating the son of a German refugee. The Argentine man was himself German-born and half Jewish. Many fathers expect the worst from the boys their daughters bring home — but the man's suspicions about this one's family grew thanks to the boy's obvious anti-Semitism and his evasive answers to basic biographical questions. The man began to assume the worst and outlined his fears in a letter to a German prosecutor who happened to be Jewish. The prosecutor enlisted the man and his daughter in a stealth operation, and in the course of her snooping, the possibility arose that she was stalking Adolf Eichmann. When her father reported this astonishing finding to the prosecutor, he forwarded the tip to the Mossad, Israel's intelligence agency.
The Mossad wasn't initially enthusiastic. But once it grasped the importance of its target, it unleashed a risky kidnapping scheme, what Lipstadt describes as the prototype of the brash, clever operations that are the foundation of the Mossad's mythic reputation. The Israelis drugged Eichmann and dressed him as an El Al crewman to get him past the Argentine authorities.
Much of Western opinion, Lipstadt reminds us, was not pleased. Argentina demanded Eichmann's repatriation, and the American establishment agreed. The Washington Post editorial page condemned Israel's 'jungle law'; The Christian Science Monitor equated Israel's claims to those of the Nazis. William F. Buckley Jr. said the kidnapping was symptomatic of the Jewish 'refusal to forgive.' Even the American Jewish Committee asked the Israeli prime minister, David Ben-Gurion, to cede the prosecution to Germany or an international tribunal. But these challenges only made Ben-Gurion a more vociferous champion of the trial.
A principal villain of Arendt's book is Gideon Hausner, who had recently been installed as attorney general and who assigned himself the first chair in the prosecution. He was a strange choice for the job. There was little in his background as a commercial lawyer that suggested he had the courtroom skills to battle a cunning defendant, which Eichmann turned out to be. Indeed, Arendt accused Hausner of being more of a demagogic politician than a rule-abiding barrister. She disparaged his emotionalism and his aggressive effort to pin every crime of Nazi Germany on Eichmann. In one of her less-than-¬attractive letters from the trial, Arendt accused Hausner of having a 'ghetto mentality' and of being a 'typical Galician Jew,... one of those people who don't know any language.'…
It is always bracing to recall the world in which the Eichmann trial was held — where the slaughter was largely unacknowledged (and even unknown) . That's why Ben-Gurion and Hausner were spectacularly right to exploit the Eichmann prosecution for pedagogical purposes. They forced the Nazi genocide onto the front pages of the world's newspapers. Nearly 20 years after the fact, the Holocaust finally began to find a place in the public consciousness that reflected the size of the atrocity. (Indeed, the trial was largely responsible for making 'Holocaust' the universal term for the genocide.) Critics of the trial insinuated that the Israelis were somehow transgressing the bounds of fairness and justice by pressing these larger points. But Ben-Gurion and Hausner served precisely these goals by giving a voice to Eichmann's victims.
6/1/12 #10380
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Trial By Fire
Only got one life to live, Im gonna live it, oh yeah
Some people say I go to far
I dont care, reachin for the stars
Gonna climb that ladder to the top
Nothin can stop me now
Well, look out world
cause here I come
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Lifes a trial by fire
Im gonna live my life, oh yeah
Its a trial by fire
So just roll the dice, oh yeah
And Ill take what I get
Cant listen to nobody else, you just got to believe in yourself
Theyll criticize you and lay down the law
Theyll say, just who do you think you are
Gonna live it till the rivers run dry
Whatve I got to lose
They just try and stop me, go ahead and try, oh yeah, oh yeah
Lifes a trial by fire
So Im gonna live it up, oh yeah, oh yeah
Trial by fire
So just roll the dice, oh yeah, oh yeah
Trial by, trial by fire
Never gonna give it up, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah
People say Im crazy
They dont understand
They havent got a clue, oh no
They say, tell me everything
They say, let me hear you sing
I say, tell you what Im gonna do, oh yeah
cause Im gonna live my life the way I want to
Live it, live it the way I want ti
Trial by fire
Im gonna live my life, oh yeah, oh yeah
Trial by, trial by fire
So just roll the dice, oh yeah, oh yeah
Trial by, trial by fire, fire
Im gonna live it up, oh yeah, oh, oh, oh yeah
Trial by, yeah, fire, yeah
Im gonna live it up, oh yeah
Trial by, yeah, yeah, fire, yeah
Im gonna live my life, oh yeah
song performed by Kiss
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Dagmar Topf: A Defence Of Family Furnaces
ghettoes, massacres, concentration camps,
the moral decadence, of rich war profiteers,
yet impossible, to keep pace, with final solution,
dispose of thousands, of bodies daily, without Toft,
Dagmar Toft, in the 1990s, seeks legal restitution,
compensation, for Topf property, seized by the Soviets,
represents, dispossessed offspring, confiscated inheritance,
them Russians heap bad people, we want to
count recoup regain our assets, confiscated
by those terribly bad communist people, regain
millions of dollars of our property, after all it
was our company “our engineers and bricklayers
installed the ovens at Aushwitz Buchenwald
Dachau and other camps” for this great service
to the nation the fatherland: “we demand the
return of our factory site where the furnaces
were fabricated” contracts fulfilled with zeal
Kurt Prufer, a Topf & Soehe company engineer,
patented his 'Auschwitz style' twin-chambered
oven “boasting that its burning capacity - 30 to 36
corpses in 10 hours - easily beat the competition.
Dagmar Topf said “Yes, it's true that the company
built four big crematoria at Auschwitz” “But at that
time, you could have called them civil crematoria.”
“You have to understand about German history” “If
you did not go along with the system, you had lots of
problems” Yet the eleven million 'enemies' the Nazi’s
killed butchered received absolutely no compensation.
Can you be the judge? Put Ernst Wolfgang
and Ludwig Topf to the test! The brothers
joined the National Socialist Party in 1935,
to early to make their defense, being forced
to join plausible. Yet Dagmar Topf claims
maintains they joined “only under pressure
from the Nazis”. Is she bearing false witness?
The acid test must be, exactly what did Ernst
and Ludwig Topf know about mass murders?
'Nothing insists Dagmar Topf: “I feel quite sure
that they didn’t know how their ovens were being
used.”' All fresh evidence chillingly indites them.
The importance of being earnest serious solem,
exhibiting a spirit of deep sincerity conviction,
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The History Of Tomorrow
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of light
By dumping us in the dark with pits everywhere
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of food
By asking us to chop several fire-woods to heat up a pot full of stones
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of job creation
By making us slaves on our own soil
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of education
By dumping us in dilapidated buildings without teachers
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of accountability
By looting our treasury and asking us for yet another term in office
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of safety
By leaving pot holes large enough to swallow countless accident victims on our roads
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our bows and arrows
Would secure our future
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless heroes
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless robbers
Robbers with fame
Robbers without shame
Robbers that we would roast with flame
© Adegbenro Adekunle Jacob
Tomorrow’s history is today. All world leaders must make real democracy work. They must be selfless. We must not wait until there is horror and terror before we learn. Nigerian leaders must shun CORRUPTION.
poem by Adegbenro Adekunle
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I. The Ring and the Book
Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.
Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Trial by Jury
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE LEARNED JUDGE
THE PLAINTIFF
THE DEFENDANT
COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF
USHER
FOREMAN OF THE JURY
ASSOCIATE
FIRST BRIDESMAID
SCENE - A Court of Justice, Barristers, Attorney, and Jurymen
discovered.
CHORUS
Hark, the hour of ten is sounding:
Hearts with anxious fears are bounding,
Hall of Justice, crowds surrounding,
Breathing hope and fear--
For to-day in this arena,
Summoned by a stern subpoena,
Edwin, sued by Angelina,
Shortly will appear.
Enter Usher
SOLO - USHER
Now, Jurymen, hear my advice--
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern, judicial frame of mind
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried.
CHORUS
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried.
[During Chorus, Usher sings fortissimo, "Silence in Court!"]
USHER Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:
Observe the features of her face--
The broken-hearted bride.
Condole with her distress of mind:
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
[...] Read more
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems
March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan
Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.
Sincerely,
George W. Bush
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.
They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.
The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.
They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.
The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.
[...] Read more
poem by Tom Zart
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Sir Wilfrid Laurier -- Diplomatist
I live on Canada en Bas --
De fines' lan' you see --
An' Oncle Sam, a fr'en of mine,
He live nex' door to me.
Now, long tam' Sam an' me mak' trade,
W'enever that we meet,
An' Sam, he drive de bargain hard,
Sometime bigarre! he sheat.
I not say mooch about it, me,
I never t'ink no harm
Before I fin' mon Oncle Sam
He wan' my little farm.
An' w'en I not to heem will give
De lan' my fader hown,
Den Sam get mad an' say to me,
"I'll play my hand alone.
You kip away; I not will trade,
Don' come my place about!"
Ah! den I see hees leetle game
Was w'at you call "freeze-hout."
Mais, I can stan' de fros', for hice
To me is not'ing new;
Sir John mak' freeze agains' de Yanks --
See if dey lak' it, too.
But w'en Sir John t'row up his han'
An' die, 'twas change indeed;
No par'ner lef' could follow up
De fin' ole chieftain's lead.
An' de Canadian peup' was tire,
For dey was not mooch please
For pay big price for jus' to nurse
Les enfants industries.
Dey say, "We wan' to buy our t'ing
On some mooch sheaper shop,
Dose enfants industries are sure
Long tam' for growing hup."
For eighteen year dey pull l'argent
From bottom of de purse,
We t'ink it ees long tam' enough
For dem to be on nurse.
[...] Read more
poem by Alexander MacGregor Rose
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The Odyssey: Book 21
Minerva now put it in Penelope's mind to make the suitors try
their skill with the bow and with the iron axes, in contest among
themselves, as a means of bringing about their destruction. She went
upstairs and got the store room key, which was made of bronze and
had a handle of ivory; she then went with her maidens into the store
room at the end of the house, where her husband's treasures of gold,
bronze, and wrought iron were kept, and where was also his bow, and
the quiver full of deadly arrows that had been given him by a friend
whom he had met in Lacedaemon- Iphitus the son of Eurytus. The two
fell in with one another in Messene at the house of Ortilochus,
where Ulysses was staying in order to recover a debt that was owing
from the whole people; for the Messenians had carried off three
hundred sheep from Ithaca, and had sailed away with them and with
their shepherds. In quest of these Ulysses took a long journey while
still quite young, for his father and the other chieftains sent him on
a mission to recover them. Iphitus had gone there also to try and
get back twelve brood mares that he had lost, and the mule foals
that were running with them. These mares were the death of him in
the end, for when he went to the house of Jove's son, mighty Hercules,
who performed such prodigies of valour, Hercules to his shame killed
him, though he was his guest, for he feared not heaven's vengeance,
nor yet respected his own table which he had set before Iphitus, but
killed him in spite of everything, and kept the mares himself. It
was when claiming these that Iphitus met Ulysses, and gave him the bow
which mighty Eurytus had been used to carry, and which on his death
had been left by him to his son. Ulysses gave him in return a sword
and a spear, and this was the beginning of a fast friendship, although
they never visited at one another's houses, for Jove's son Hercules
killed Iphitus ere they could do so. This bow, then, given him by
Iphitus, had not been taken with him by Ulysses when he sailed for
Troy; he had used it so long as he had been at home, but had left it
behind as having been a keepsake from a valued friend.
Penelope presently reached the oak threshold of the store room;
the carpenter had planed this duly, and had drawn a line on it so as
to get it quite straight; he had then set the door posts into it and
hung the doors. She loosed the strap from the handle of the door,
put in the key, and drove it straight home to shoot back the bolts
that held the doors; these flew open with a noise like a bull
bellowing in a meadow, and Penelope stepped upon the raised
platform, where the chests stood in which the fair linen and clothes
were laid by along with fragrant herbs: reaching thence, she took down
the bow with its bow case from the peg on which it hung. She sat
down with it on her knees, weeping bitterly as she took the bow out of
its case, and when her tears had relieved her, she went to the
cloister where the suitors were, carrying the bow and the quiver, with
the many deadly arrows that were inside it. Along with her came her
maidens, bearing a chest that contained much iron and bronze which her
husband had won as prizes. When she reached the suitors, she stood
by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof of the cloister,
holding a veil before her face, and with a maid on either side of her.
[...] Read more
poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Paradise Lost: Book 09
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam'd. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death's harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous'd;
Or Neptune's ire, or Juno's, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea's son:
If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor'd,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas'd me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem'd chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign'd; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon'd shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall'd feast
Serv'd up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem. Me, of these
Nor skill'd nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress'd; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
[...] Read more
poem by John Milton
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Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Makin History
Tonight theres a magic that I cant explain
Tune-up and start the show all set now ready to go
This bands gonna really rock tonight
Steppin out upon the stage
Under those lights again
Were gonna shake the place tonight
They gotta new song high in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
When that flat top starts that picking
Hear the bass drum start that kicking
The joint is really jumpin now
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Its a strange kinda magic that never seems to age
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Rock on
They gotta new song
High in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
Hear the start and the jumbo gibson
You dont know what youre missing if youre not
Painting the town tonight
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory that is rocknroll
Mama its so exiting-oh oh
Dont you find the beat exiting
song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
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The History of Now
The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.
The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.
Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.
We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.
The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.
The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.
poem by David SmithWhite
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The second trial was a fair trial. I do not call it a second trial. I call it a fair trial, as opposed to the first trial, which was an unfair trial, a Roman holiday.
quote by Sam Sheppard
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sinking From the Weight
Sinking from the weight of,
Denial.
We put on trial,
People we choose to deceive.
And...
Sinking from the weight of,
Denial.
We put on trial,
People we choose to deceive.
Is it an offense or a needless crime,
To defy fighting against...
Your own kind?
With selected ones chosen,
To occupy our minds.
For purposes to protect.
Their interests kept.
Even though we who are selected...
To do these deeds,
By those in sheltered discreet...
We remain despised,
By those who disrespect.
And fed from birth,
To know when to cheat...
Spy, lie and use alibis.
Is it an offense,
To not follow rules...
That make no sense.
As we must listen to 'authorities'
Who attempt to convince.
If a certain status given,
Is that of a minority....
Concerns of the majority,
Is a worthless expense.
And given less attention.
Is any seriousness mention.
Since no rights have been given,
A worthiness to drive 'unimportant' lives.
You may ride as a passenger...
But not permitted,
To make decisions from front seats.
And to speak,
Only when spoken to!
With a preferred silence.
To make what is done...
Even sweeter to complete.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Diplomatist
I live on Canada en Bas —
De fines' lan' you see —
An' Oncle Sam, a fr'en of mine,
He live nex' door to me.
Now, long tam' Sam an' me mak' trade,
W'enever that we meet,
An' Sam, he drive de bargain hard,
Sometime bigarre! he sheat.
I not say mooch about it, me,
I never t'ink no harm
Before I fin' mon Oncle Sam
He wan' my little farm.
An' w'en I not to heem will give
De lan' my fader hown,
Den Sam get mad an' say to me,
'I'll play my hand alone.
You kip away; I not will trade,
Don' come my place about!'
Ah! den I see hees leetle game
Was w'at you call 'freeze-hout.'
Mais, I can stan' de fros', for hice
To me is not'ing new;
Sir John mak' freeze agains' de Yanks —
See if dey lak' it, too.
But w'en Sir John t'row up his han'
An' die, 'twas change indeed;
No par'ner lef' could follow up
De fin' ole chieftain's lead.
An' de Canadian peup' was tire,
For dey was not mooch please
For pay big price for jus' to nurse
Les enfants industries.
Dey say, 'We wan' to buy our t'ing
On some mooch sheaper shop,
Dose enfants industries are sure
Long tam' for growing hup.'
For eighteen year dey pull l'argent
From bottom of de purse,
We t'ink it ees long tam' enough
For dem to be on nurse.
[...] Read more
poem by Alexander MacGregor Rose
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History Stones People.
History stones people.
They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see
Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.
Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.
History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.
History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.
All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.
All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.
You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.
They are there captive
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Katz
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On Passing Cromwell Street
In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.
He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.
In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.
To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.
I think of the untruths of history each time I drive by Cromwell street
The history written by winners their history of lies and deceit
I say to myself they honour a tyrant and I struggle for to understand
Why they name a street after somebody who oppressed the poor of Ireland.
Andrew Marvell in verse glorified Cromwell but he was one who would not know
What Cromwell and his army got up to in Ireland in those bleak times centuries ago
But he only believed what they told him and they told him what he wanted to hear
History often written by unworthy people those who rule by terror and fear.
In Melbourne streets named in his honour his poor victims long forgotten and gone
Into the World of the forgotten but Cromwell's fame is living on
And the lessons we should have learned from history did not lead to a fair go for all
And the winners only write the story though the real truth they never recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ten Words Circularly
History is ‘Nothing to be done’; and Time passes circularly.
Nothing passes circularly: History and Time is to be done.
Time is circularly Nothing and History passes to be done.
History circularly passes Time and Nothing is to be done.
To be Nothing, Time passes and History is circularly done.
Nothing is to be done: Time and History circularly passes.
Nothing is History and, to be done, Time circularly passes.
To be is History; and Time done circularly passes Nothing.
Time is to be; and Nothing circularly done passes History.
Nothing passes History and Time to be done circularly is.
To be is: Nothing done circularly passes History and Time.
poem by Alex Hamilton
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