A Poetry Thread

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The Slave in the Dismal Swamp
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1842

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;
He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse's tramp
And a bloodhound's distant bay.

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,
In bulrush and in brake;
Where waving mosses shroud the pine,
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine
Is spotted like the snake;

Where hardly a human foot could pass,
Or a human heart would dare,
On the quaking turf of the green morass
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,
Like a wild beast in his lair.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame;
Great scars deformed his face;
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
Were the livery of disgrace.

All things above were bright and fair,
All things were glad and free;
Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
And wild birds filled the echoing air
With songs of Liberty!

On him alone was the doom of pain,
From the morning of his birth;
On him alone the curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
And struck him to the earth!

After publishing Poems on Slavery in 1842, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) supported Senator Charles Sumner’s legislative efforts to end slavery, communicated with like-minded friends and colleagues through his correspondence, clubs, and other social gatherings, and used his growing influence and financial resources to quietly assist abolitionists and slaves seeking freedom. Richard Henry Dana, Jr., Charles Sumner, James Russell Lowell, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Lydia Maria Child, Susan Hillard, Lunsford Lane, Josiah Henson, and others shared Longfellow’s anguish about ending slavery in the United States. (source: The National Park Service)


 
“Yesterdays” By Robert Creeley.

Sixty-two, sixty-three, I most remember
As time W. C. Williams dies and we are
Back from a hard two years in Guatemala
Where the meager provision of being
Schoolmaster for the kids of the patrones
Of two coffee plantations has managed
Neither a life nor money. Leslie dies in
Horror of bank giving way as she and her
Sister and their friends tunnel in to make
A cubby. We live in an old cement brick
Farmhouse already inside the city limits
Of Albuquerque. Or that has all really
Happened and we go to Vancouver where,
Thanks to friends Warren and Ellen Tallman,
I get a job teaching at the University of British
Columbia. It’s all a curious dream, a rush
To get out of the country before the sad
Invasion of the Bay of Pigs, that bleak use
Of power. One of my British colleagues
Has converted the assets of himself and
His wife to gold bullion and keeps the
Ingots in a sturdy suitcase pushed under
Their bed. I love the young, at least I
Think I do, in their freshness, their attempt
To find ways into Canada from the western
Reaches. Otherwise the local country seems
Like a faded Edwardian sitcom. A stunned
Stoned woman runs one Saturday night up
And down the floors of the Hydro Electric
Building on Pender with the RCMP in hot
Pursuit where otherwise we stood in long
Patient lines, extending often several blocks
Up the street. We were waiting to get our
Hands stamped and to be given a 12 pack
Of Molson’s. I think, I dream, I write the
Final few chapters of The Island, the despairs
Gathering at the end. I read Richard Brautigan’s
Trout Fishing In America but am too uptight
To enjoy his quiet, bright wit. Then that
Summer there is the great Vancouver Poetry
Festival, Allen comes back from India, Olson
From Gloucester, beloved Robert Duncan
From Stinson Beach. Denise reads “Hypocrite
Women” to the Burnaby ladies and Gary Snyder,
Philip Whalen, and Margaret Avison are there
Too along with a veritable host of the young.
Then it’s autumn again. I’ve quit my job
And we head back to Albuquerque
And I teach again at the university, and
Sometime just about then I must have
Seen myself as others see or saw me,
Even like in a mirror, but could not quite
Accept either their reassuring friendship
Or their equally locating anger. Selfish,
Empty, I kept at it. Thirty-eight years later
I seem to myself still much the same,
Even if I am happier, I think, and older.

IMG_5098.jpeg


Robert Creeley was born on May 21 in 1926. He was a poet and a teacher. And to a degree, an adventurer. (There is an example of his poetic ‘style’ below. I like it.) He spent a couple-three years at Black Mountain College in Western North Carolina nearby Asheville. A few years after that Appalachian Sojourn he and his partner, Bobbie Louise Hawkins (also an artist and teacher) along with their five combined children spent 2 years teaching on a coffee finca on the South Coast of Guatemala.


Creeley would be 100 today. Here is a poem he wrote in 1977 called,





“Guatemala
When I heard
the story
in the company –

of the priest strung up
by his thumbs
while his humble young

woman servant was raped
and his moneys taken
I was impressed

And told my wife
All of it. Later
My sources explained to her,

the verbs and the noun
in Spanish, meant
the priest had lost

his gold. No one
was with him more
than his wanting.”


Creeley and Hawkins met in New Mexico in the time between Black Mountain and Guatemala. Their story was complicated, at times even tragic, but she wrote a barely fictional narrative of their time in Central America called ‘The Sanguine Breast of Margaret’ that is frank and poignant. Eventually they split and Hawkins went on to a career teaching composition at Naropa College. Creeley ended up teaching poetry at SUNY-Buffalo. Both truly lived lives of intense artistry. Creeley passed on in 2005. Hawkins more recently in 2018.


Here is a link to the piece about them: Black Mountain Poet Robert Creeley and Bobbie Louise Hawkins in Guatemala: 1959-61 - Black Mountain College Museum + Arts Center
 
Here dead we lie because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose.
But young men think it is, and we were young.

--Thomas Hardy
 
“(On this day (May 29), the anniversary of the birth of John Fitzgerald Kennedy in 1917, here's his favorite poem, "I Have a Rendezvous with Death," written by Alan Seeger in early 1916. JFK had the poem committed to memory, and would at times recite it to friends. Seeger, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion during World War I, died on July 4, 1916, during the Battle of the Somme. He was the uncle of folksinger Pete Seeger.)

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear ...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

(In "World War I and America," reprinted courtesy of the Library of America.)”
 
Was gonna put this on the Happy Pride but figured probably more appropriate here:
https://www.npr.org/2026/05/31/nx-s...brate-the-poet-allen-ginsbergs-100th-birthday

Howl
 
Many years ago Ginsburg donated to an organization I was working to start up. I couldn’t resist making a copy of the check.

IMG_5217.jpeg
 
Happy Birthday Allen Ginsberg, gone now 29 years.

[Ginsberg]
Starved in metropolis
Hooked on necropolis
Addict of metropolis
Do the worm on the acropolis
Slamdance the cosmopolis
Enlighten the populace

[Verse 1: Strummer]
Hungry darkness of living
Who will thirst in the pit?
(Hooked in necropolis)
She spent a lifetime deciding
How to run from it
(Addicts of metropolis)
Once fate had a witness
And the years seemed like friends
(Girlfriends)
Now her child has a dream
But it begins like it ends

[Ginsberg]
Shot into eternity
Methadone kitty
Iron serenity

[Chorus]
Ghetto defendant
It is heroin pity
Not tear gas nor baton charge
That stops you taking the city

(Strung out committee)
Walled out of the city
Clubbed down from uptown
Sprayed pest from the nest
Run out to barrio town
(The guards are itchy)
Forced to watch at the feast
Then sweep up the night
Flipped pieces of coin
(Broken bottles)
Exchanged for birthright

[Chorus]
Ghetto defendant it is heroin pity
(Strung out committee)
Not tear gas nor baton charge
That stops you taking the city
(Not sitting pretty)
(Grafted in a jiffy)
Not tear gas nor baton charge
That stops you taking the city

The ghetto prince of gutter poets
Was bounced out of the room
(Jean Arthur Rimbaud)
By the bodyguards of greed
For disturbing the tomb
(1873)
His words like flamethrowers
(Paris commune)
Burnt the ghettos in their chests
His face was painted whiter
And he was laid to rest
(Died in Marseille)

Ghetto defendant it is heroin pity
(Buried in Charleville)
Not tear gas nor baton charge
That stops you taking the city
(Shut up in eternity)

[Ginsberg]
Guatemala
Honduras
Poland
100 years war
TV re-run invasion
Death squad Salvador
Afghanistan
Meditation
Old Chinese flu
Kick junk
What else
Can a poor worker do?
[Chorus]
[Ginsberg chanting]

Beat poet Allen Ginsberg sings lyrics he wrote on this song as “the voice of God”. His lines are in brackets here.

The lyrics included in the Combat Rock booklet are for the Rat Patrol version of this song, and differ from what is actually sung on the album.

Three versions of this song exist: the original Rat Patrol recording, which features an entire extra verse compared to the other versions, a shorter version released on Combat Rock without the final verse and with some lyric changes, and a further “edited” version on Clash On Broadway which is around 30 seconds shorter and has an edited ending.

Combat Rock (1982)
The Clash

Credits
Featuring
Allen Ginsberg
Produced By
The Clash
Written By
Topper Headon, Mick Jones, Paul Simonon & Joe Strummer
Published By
Warner Music Group & Nineden
Bass
Paul Simonon
Guitar
Joe Strummer & Mick Jones

Lead Vocals
Allen Ginsberg & Joe Strummer
Harmonica
Joe Strummer
Sound Effects
Mick Jones
Drums



 
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