Speaker 1: Cool Zone Media bork Clorb bloork Clorb, bloork Clorb. Hello
Speaker 1: and welcome to Cool Zone Media bork Clorb, the only
Speaker 1: bork cloor board. You don't have to do the reading
Speaker 1: because I do it for you. Wait, No book club,
Speaker 1: the only book club where you don't have to do
Speaker 1: the reading because I do it for you. I'm your host,
Speaker 1: Margaret Kiljoy, and today I'm going to read some poetry.
Speaker 1: I'm going to read some poetry to you. I'm not sorry,
Speaker 1: because April is National Poetry Month, and so we figured
Speaker 1: we'd read you some poetry from a prominent anarchist, feminist, writer,
Speaker 1: and public speaker, Voltering Declaire. Voltering Declaire, if you haven't
Speaker 1: heard of her, she's like nineteenth century right. She was
Speaker 1: radicalized to anarchism by the Haymarket Affair of eighteen eighty
Speaker 1: six in Chicago. See the very first episode of the
Speaker 1: podcast Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff about that story?
Speaker 1: And why you have an eight hour work day? I
Speaker 1: don't know anyone who has an eight hour work day?
Speaker 1: Why we ostensibly have an eight hour work day? She
Speaker 1: was a lifelong advocate for free thought, women's liberation, atheism,
Speaker 1: and anti theism and anarchy and spoke fiercely against authoritarianism
Speaker 1: and state repression. She was a friend of Emma Goldman,
Speaker 1: Alexander Berkman, Lucy Parsons, the IWW, some of the people
Speaker 1: I talk about all the time on my podcast, and
Speaker 1: also the broader Philadelphia and Chicago anarchist scenes. Her politics
Speaker 1: were influenced by her lived experience with extreme poverty and
Speaker 1: gender based violence, as well as chronic illness and disability.
Speaker 1: She passed away in nineteen twelve at the age of
Speaker 1: forty five after a long and painful period of decline.
Speaker 1: She was buried in Waldheim Cemetery now called the Forest
Speaker 1: Home Cemetery in Chicago, which is kind of the pilgrimage
Speaker 1: place of choice for American anarchists, right next to the
Speaker 1: Haymarket Martyrs whose executions changed her life. And remember that
Speaker 1: name Waldheim because it will come up in her poems.
Speaker 1: After her death, she was remembered by her friend Emma
Speaker 1: Goldman as the quote most gifted and brilliant anarchist woman
Speaker 1: America ever produced. Maxnet Law honors are more simply as
Speaker 1: quote the pearl of anarchy. She was asked why she
Speaker 1: considered herself an anarchist and she responded because I cannot
Speaker 1: help it. And today we're going to read some of
Speaker 1: her poetry. She wrote prolifically her whole life and published
Speaker 1: in all the radical journals of the time. Newspapers were
Speaker 1: just a huge thing. Just every radical had their newspaper
Speaker 1: and they had huge distributions. You're talking tens hundreds of
Speaker 1: thousands of copies of things going around. So this is
Speaker 1: a bigger deal than it might sound when we think
Speaker 1: about like the newspapers of this or that radical clique
Speaker 1: right now, we aren't thinking in the same scale. Usually
Speaker 1: published in Lucifer the Light Bearer, The Rebel, Free Society,
Speaker 1: and Mother Earth, and will read her poems about revolution, martyrdom, grief,
Speaker 1: the systemic violence of racial capitalism, the Mexican Revolution, a
Speaker 1: lilting lyric poem that could probably best be described as
Speaker 1: an inside joke between friends, and one that I can
Speaker 1: only describe as heretic pride or maybe staging a revolution
Speaker 1: against God and Heaven. These poems come from a volume
Speaker 1: of her work edited by her longtime comrade and literary
Speaker 1: friend Sasha Berkman, who I haven't covered on the show yet. Besides,
Speaker 1: he shot a robber baron who was killing a bunch
Speaker 1: of workers. He tried to break out of prison. He
Speaker 1: was bisexual, king Yeah, Sasha Berkman's Cool. These were collected
Speaker 1: into a volume of her work edited by Sasha Berkman
Speaker 1: in tribute to her memory after her passing. So the
Speaker 1: poetry of altering declare the hurricane. We are birds of
Speaker 1: the coming storm. August spies. The tide is out, The
Speaker 1: wind blows off the shore, bare burn the white sands
Speaker 1: in the scorching sun. The sea complains, but its great
Speaker 1: voice is low, bitter, thy woes, O people, And the
Speaker 1: burden hardly to be borne, wearily grows, O people, all
Speaker 1: the aching of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn. But
Speaker 1: yet thy time is not and low, thy moaning desert
Speaker 1: thy sands. Not yet is thy breath hot, vengefully blowing.
Speaker 1: It wafts o'er lifted hands. The tide has turned, the
Speaker 1: vein veer slowly round. Slow clouds are sweeping o'er the
Speaker 1: blinding light, white crests curl on the sea. Its voice
Speaker 1: grows deep, angry, thy heart, O people, and it's bleeding fire,
Speaker 1: tipped with rising hate. Thy clasped hands part O people,
Speaker 1: for thy praying warmed not the desolation. God did not
Speaker 1: hear thy moan. Now it is swelling to a great
Speaker 1: drowning cry, a dark wind cloud, a groan now backward,
Speaker 1: veering from that death sky. The tide flows in, the
Speaker 1: wind roars from the depths the world white sand heaps
Speaker 1: with the foam, white waves, thundering, the sea rolls o'er
Speaker 1: the shell crunched wall. Strong is thy rage o people
Speaker 1: in its fury, hurling thy tyrants down. Thou meetest wage
Speaker 1: o people, very swiftly. Now that thy hate is grown.
Speaker 1: Thy time at last is come thou heapest anguish, where
Speaker 1: thou thyself wert bear no longer to thy dumb God.
Speaker 1: Clasped and kneeling, Thou answered thine own prayer. See Isle Sitty,
Speaker 1: New Jersey, August eighteen eighty nine. All right, next poem optimism.
Speaker 1: There's a love supreme in the great hereafter the buds
Speaker 1: of earth are bloom in heaven. The smiles of the
Speaker 1: world are ripples of laughter when back to its aiden,
Speaker 1: the soul is given, and the tears of the world,
Speaker 1: though long and flowing water the fields of the bye
Speaker 1: and bye, they fall as dews on the sweet grass. Growing,
Speaker 1: When fountains of sorrow and grief r undry, though clouds
Speaker 1: hang over the furrows now sowing, there's a harvest sun
Speaker 1: wreath in the after sky. No love is wasted, no
Speaker 1: heart beats vainly. There's a vast perfection beyond the grave,
Speaker 1: up the bays of heaven. The stars shine plainly, the
Speaker 1: stars lying dim on the brow of the wave. And
Speaker 1: the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane,
Speaker 1: they shall shine all undimmed in the ether nave, For
Speaker 1: the altars of gods are lit with souls, fan of
Speaker 1: flaming with love, where the star wind rolls Saint John's
Speaker 1: Michigan eighteen eighty nine. But do you know what isn't
Speaker 1: a poem but has its own certain poetry? That's right?
Speaker 1: Maybe advertisement is the poetry of our time in that
Speaker 1: most people don't want to listen to it. No, it's
Speaker 1: not poetry at all. It adds. It's just a thing
Speaker 1: that happens. I don't know. Here's the ads, and we're back.
Speaker 1: This poem is called at the Grave in Waldheim, which
Speaker 1: is yeah, where she is later buried next to some
Speaker 1: of her heroes, the Haymarket Martyrs. Quiet they lie in
Speaker 1: their shrouds of rest, their lids kissed clothes, the lips
Speaker 1: of peace over each pulseless and painless breast. The hands
Speaker 1: lie folded and softly pressed as a dead dove presses
Speaker 1: a broken nest. Ah, broken hearts were the price of these.
Speaker 1: The lips of their anguish are cold and still. For
Speaker 1: them are the clouds and the gloom all past. No
Speaker 1: longer the woe of the world can thrill the cords
Speaker 1: of those tender hearts, or fill the silent dead house.
Speaker 1: The people's will has mapped asunder the strings. At last,
Speaker 1: the people's will. Ah. In years to come, Dearly you'll
Speaker 1: weep that ye did not save. Do ye not hear
Speaker 1: now the muffled drum, the tramping feet, and the ceaseless
Speaker 1: hum of the million marchers, trembling dumb in their tread
Speaker 1: to a yawning giant grave. And yet, ah, yet there's
Speaker 1: a rift of white tis breaking over the martyr shrine.
Speaker 1: Halt there, ye, doomed. One bathes the night as lightning
Speaker 1: darts from its scabbard, bright and sweeps the face of
Speaker 1: sky with light. No more shall be spilled out the
Speaker 1: blood red wine. These are the words it has written
Speaker 1: there keen as the lance of the northern morn. The
Speaker 1: sword of Justice gleams in its glare, and the arm
Speaker 1: of Justice, upraised and bare, is true to strike, Aye,
Speaker 1: tis strong to dare it will fall where the curse
Speaker 1: of our land is born. No more shall the necks
Speaker 1: of nations be crushed, no more to dark tyrannies throne
Speaker 1: bend the knee. No more an abjection be ground to
Speaker 1: the dust by their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades,
Speaker 1: Trust by the brave heartbeat stilled by the brave voices hushed,
Speaker 1: We swear that humanity yet shall be free Pittsburgh, eighteen
Speaker 1: eighty nine. Its next poem is called Light upon Waldeim,
Speaker 1: and the figure on the monument over the grave of
Speaker 1: the Chicago Martyrs in the Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior
Speaker 1: woman dropping with her left hand a crown upon the
Speaker 1: forehead of a fallen man, just past his agony, and
Speaker 1: her right hand is drawing a dagger from her bosom.
Speaker 1: This is worth knowing Light upon Waldheim, And the earth
Speaker 1: is gray, a bitter wind is driving from the north,
Speaker 1: The stone is cold. The strange cold whispers say what
Speaker 1: do ye hear? With death. Go forth, go forth is
Speaker 1: this thy word, O mother, with stern eyes crowning thy
Speaker 1: dead with stone caressing touch. May we not weep o'er
Speaker 1: him that martyred lies slain in our name, for that
Speaker 1: he loved us much? May we not linger till the
Speaker 1: day is broad. Nay, none are stirring in the stinging dawn,
Speaker 1: None but poor wretches that make no moan to God?
Speaker 1: What use are these? O vow? With dagger drawn, go forth,
Speaker 1: go forth, stand not to weep. For these till weakened
Speaker 1: with your weeping Like the snow, ye melt dissolving in
Speaker 1: a coward piece. Light upon Waldheim, brother, Let us go, London,
Speaker 1: October eighteen ninety seven. Can The next poem is called
Speaker 1: The road Builders, opens with a little parenthetical aside, who
Speaker 1: built the beautiful roads? Queried a friend of the present order.
Speaker 1: As we walked one day along the macmadized driveway of
Speaker 1: Fairmount Park, I saw them toiling in the blistering sun,
Speaker 1: their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted
Speaker 1: fingers grasping the rude toombs, their rounded shoulders narrowing in
Speaker 1: their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads.
Speaker 1: I saw one fall his forehead on the rock, the
Speaker 1: helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth
Speaker 1: full of earth, and he was dead. His comrades gently
Speaker 1: turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon
Speaker 1: his eyes wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The
Speaker 1: blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended.
Speaker 1: He was quite quite dead, driven to death beneath the
Speaker 1: burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built.
Speaker 1: He was no hero. He a poor black man, taking
Speaker 1: the will of God and asking nought. Think of him. Thus,
Speaker 1: when next your horses feet strike out the flint spark
Speaker 1: from the gleaming road, think that for this, this common thing,
Speaker 1: the road, a human creature died. Tis a blood gift
Speaker 1: to an o'er reaching world that does not think ignorant,
Speaker 1: mean and soulless. Was he well still human? And you
Speaker 1: drive upon his co Worps, Philadelphia, July twenty fourth, nineteen hundred.
Speaker 1: The next poem is called marsh Bloom, and it's dedicated
Speaker 1: to Gaetano Breshi. Gaetana Brushy. I don't have my notes
Speaker 1: in front of me, but he was this Italian immigrant
Speaker 1: who lived in Patterson New Jersey worked as a shoemaker,
Speaker 1: and one day when the Italian King Mberto two, I think,
Speaker 1: gave an award to a man who had gonned down
Speaker 1: hundreds and hundreds of workers who had peacefully demonstrated for bread.
Speaker 1: You know, they had been like, hey, we're hungry, and
Speaker 1: the government had killed them all. Gaetano Breshi was like,
Speaker 1: you know, I can't really just sit around and make
Speaker 1: shoes in New Jersey. So he bought a gun in
Speaker 1: a one way ticket to Italy and he killed King
Speaker 1: Emberto two and his comrades then raised his kid. That's
Speaker 1: Gaetana Brushy. This poem is called marsh Bloom Requiem, Requiem
Speaker 1: blood red blossom of poisoned stem broken for man, swamp
Speaker 1: sunk leafage and dungeon bloom seated bearer of royal doom?
Speaker 1: What now is the ban? What to thee is the
Speaker 1: island grave? With desert wind and desolate wave? Will they
Speaker 1: silence death? Can they weight thee now with the heaviest stone?
Speaker 1: Can they lay aught on thee with thee alone? Thou
Speaker 1: hast conquered breath? Lo it is finished a man for
Speaker 1: a king mark you well, who have done this thing?
Speaker 1: The flower has roots bitter and rank grow the things
Speaker 1: of the sea. Ye shall know what sap ran thick
Speaker 1: in the tree when ye pluck its fruits. Requiem, Requiem, Requiem,
Speaker 1: sleep On, sleep on, ac cursed of them who work
Speaker 1: our pain, A wild marsh blossom shall blow again from
Speaker 1: a buried root in the slime of men. On the
Speaker 1: day of the Great Red Rain, Philadelphia, July nineteen oh one.
Speaker 1: That line, on the day of the Great Red Rain. Yeah, anyway,
Speaker 1: but do you know what won't sweep away the existing
Speaker 1: order in a wash of blood? Our advertisers, they are
Speaker 1: the existing order, and we're back. Okay. This next poem
Speaker 1: is called Love's Compensation. I went before God and he said,
Speaker 1: what fruit of the life I gave? Father? I said,
Speaker 1: it is dead, and nothing grows on the grave, where
Speaker 1: ofth was the Lord and stern has how not to
Speaker 1: answer me? Shall the fruitless root not burn and be wasted? On? Early? Father?
Speaker 1: I said, forgive, for thou knowest what I have done
Speaker 1: that another's life may live. Mine turned to a barren stone.
Speaker 1: But the Father of life sent fire and burned the
Speaker 1: root in the grave. And the pain in my heart
Speaker 1: is dire for the thing that I could not save
Speaker 1: for the thing. It was laid on me by the
Speaker 1: Lord of life, to bring fruit of the ungrown tree
Speaker 1: that died for no watering. Another has gone to God,
Speaker 1: and his fruit has pleased him well, for he sitteth
Speaker 1: high while I plod the dry ways down towards hell.
Speaker 1: Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord, whose tears made that
Speaker 1: fruit's root wet. Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,
Speaker 1: and thy guards by the gate are set. Thou wilt
Speaker 1: give me up to the fire, and none shall deliver me.
Speaker 1: For I followed my heart's desire, and I labored not
Speaker 1: for thee I labored for him. Thou hast set on
Speaker 1: thy right hand, high and fair. Thou lovest him, Lord,
Speaker 1: And yet twas my love won him there. But this
Speaker 1: is the thing that thou hast been, hath been since
Speaker 1: the world began, that love against self must sin, and
Speaker 1: a woman must die for a man. And this is
Speaker 1: the thing that shall be, shall be till the whole
Speaker 1: world die. Kiss met. My doom is upon me? Why murmur?
Speaker 1: Since I am I Philadelphia, August eighteen ninety eight. This
Speaker 1: next poem is called a novel of color, And this
Speaker 1: is the one that's probably inside joke, but it's just
Speaker 1: kind of neat, and it opens with the parenthetical aside.
Speaker 1: The following is a true and particular account of what
Speaker 1: happened on the night of December eleventh, eighteen ninety five,
Speaker 1: but it is likely to be unintelligible to all save
Speaker 1: the chipmunks and the elephant, who, however, will no doubt
Speaker 1: recognize themselves. Chapter one. Chipmunks three sat on a tree,
Speaker 1: and they were as green as green could be. They
Speaker 1: cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late, and chirruped and chirrupped,
Speaker 1: and ate and ate. Tis a pity of chipmunks without
Speaker 1: nuts and a gnawing hunger in their guts. But they
Speaker 1: should be wise like you and me, and color themselves
Speaker 1: to suit the tree. Achi Achi Achi Achi gay chaps?
Speaker 1: Are we we chipmunks three? An elephant, white and sorry, plight,
Speaker 1: hungry and dirty and sad. But night straggled one day
Speaker 1: on the nutting ground, lo chattered the chipmunks Our chances found.
Speaker 1: Behold the beast's color were he as we? Green and
Speaker 1: sleek and nut full were he. But the beast is big,
Speaker 1: and the beast is white, and his skin full of emptiness,
Speaker 1: serves him right, achi achi achi achi, Let us sit
Speaker 1: on him, sit on him. Chipmunks three, Chapter two. Three
Speaker 1: chipmunks green right gay were seen to leap on the
Speaker 1: beast his brows between. They munched at his ears and
Speaker 1: chiffeted his chin, and satin sat and satin on him.
Speaker 1: Not a single available spot of hide where a well
Speaker 1: sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride, but was chipped and
Speaker 1: chipped and chip chipmunked till aught. But an elephant must
Speaker 1: have flunked. Achi Achi achi achi, What a ride we're having?
Speaker 1: We chipmunks three, Chapter three burn chapter four? What was it? Blue?
Speaker 1: A wu a woo? Three green chipmunks have all turned blue.
Speaker 1: The elephant smiles a peaceful smile and lifts off a
Speaker 1: tree trunk sends haste or guile. Seize him, seize him.
Speaker 1: He's stealing our tree. We are undone. Undone, shrieked the chipmunks. Three.
Speaker 1: The elephant calmly upraised his trunk and said, did I
Speaker 1: hear a green chipmunk? Achi a chi a chi a
Speaker 1: chu chippy? You're blue? So are you? So are you? Philadelphia,
Speaker 1: December eighth, teen ninety five. And this next poem I
Speaker 1: actually I think first heard about because the person who
Speaker 1: did our theme music for cool people who did cool
Speaker 1: stuff is a amazing songwriter and cellist named Unwoman, and
Speaker 1: she at one point set this poem to music. And
Speaker 1: this poem is called written in red. It's gonna be
Speaker 1: really interesting to not try and read it in the
Speaker 1: same cadence as the song. This is dedicated to our
Speaker 1: living dead in Mexico's struggle. This was about the Mexican Revolution.
Speaker 1: Written and read. Their protest stands for the gods of
Speaker 1: the world to see. On the dooming wall. Their bodyless
Speaker 1: hands have blazondo farsan and flaring brands I loom. The
Speaker 1: message sees the lands, open the prisons and make men free.
Speaker 1: Flame out the living words of the dead, written in red.
Speaker 1: Gods of the world, their mouths are your guns have spoken,
Speaker 1: and they are dust. But the shrouded living, whose hearts
Speaker 1: were numb, have felt the beat of awakening drum within them,
Speaker 1: sounding the dead man's tongue calling smite off. The ancient
Speaker 1: rust have beheld, resurrects it the word of the dead
Speaker 1: written and read, bear it aloft a roaring flame skyward
Speaker 1: aloft where all may see slaves of the world are
Speaker 1: caused the same. One is the immemorial shame, one is
Speaker 1: the struggle, and in one name manhood, we battle to
Speaker 1: set men free. Uncurse us the land Burn the Words
Speaker 1: of the Dead written and read. I think this was
Speaker 1: vulturing into Claire's last poem. Then she wrote, Uncurse us
Speaker 1: the land Burn the Words of the Dead. Yeah, I
Speaker 1: don't know. I don't have them blot specifically to say
Speaker 1: about the poetry. Besides, I like that she has a
Speaker 1: lot of different stuff. I actually really like the Chipmunk
Speaker 1: poem might be my favorite poem of it. I don't
Speaker 1: know the fuck it's about, but it's really fun to read,
Speaker 1: and I would read a kid's book of it anyway.
Speaker 1: Vaguely speaking of Haymarket and may Day, which I was
Speaker 1: a while ago, because some of these poems are about that.
Speaker 1: We have some exciting stuff happening on book club for you.
Speaker 1: We're going to do an experiment, because this is always
Speaker 1: the book club where we do the reading for you,
Speaker 1: but we're going to try a thing where we listen
Speaker 1: to what you have to say about some stuff. We
Speaker 1: have some reading that I'm not going to do for
Speaker 1: you ahead of time that you have to go and
Speaker 1: read yourself these stories. I believe in you. I trust you.
Speaker 1: I believe in your capacity to read two short stories
Speaker 1: so that when we talk about it in early May,
Speaker 1: we'll be able to include your words. I want you
Speaker 1: to read the stories. They're both by Ursula k Legwin.
Speaker 1: One is very very short. It's called the Ones who
Speaker 1: Walked Away from om A Loss ome E La s
Speaker 1: and the other story is called The Day Before the Revolution,
Speaker 1: both by Ursula kay Legwin. You can find them both online.
Speaker 1: I believe in you, and then we're going to talk
Speaker 1: about them. I'm going to talk with some other people
Speaker 1: about these stories, but we're also going to include your words.
Speaker 1: And I think the way that we're going to do this,
Speaker 1: I will update you if this is not the way
Speaker 1: we're doing it is that I'm going to make a
Speaker 1: post on the it could Happen here Reddit. I never
Speaker 1: use Reddit, That's not true. I lurk on Reddit, not
Speaker 1: the podcast reddits. I can't bring myself to do that,
Speaker 1: but I do like Reddit. But I'm going to post
Speaker 1: on that it could happen here Reddit and people can
Speaker 1: add their comments about those stories there and we'll kind
Speaker 1: of curate them and include them in our discussion. We'll
Speaker 1: make it a good and proper book club with your help.
Speaker 1: I believe in you anyway. I'm Margaret Kiljoy. You can
Speaker 1: find me on the Internet at Margaret kildoy and on
Speaker 1: Blue Sky and Instagram in particular, as well as my
Speaker 1: substack where I write about things every week. And I'll
Speaker 1: find you on the Internet. I don't know how m
Speaker 1: I'll be able to find you, but maybe I am
Speaker 1: paying attention to your web traffic. I'll find you reading
Speaker 1: The Ones who Walked Away from Omelas and the Day
Speaker 1: Before the Revolution by Ursula k Legwin, for example, on
Speaker 1: the Anarchist Library. There's a very large library on the
Speaker 1: Internet called the Anarchist Library that has a lot of texts,
Speaker 1: and I believe it includes those texts. All right, take
Speaker 1: care of each other, Fuck Ice, free Palestine, Up the punks.
Speaker 1: I never say up the punks anymore. How Come people
Speaker 1: don't say up the punks? I guess because we moved
Speaker 1: beyond subculture. But I still believe we shout up the punks.
Speaker 1: It could happen here as a production of cool Zone Media.
Speaker 1: For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website
Speaker 1: cool zonemedia dot com, or check us out on the
Speaker 1: iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts,
Speaker 1: you can find sources. It could happen here, Updated monthly
Speaker 1: at coolzonemedia dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening.