Thursday, September 27, 2012

Surviving Progress


I saw this film Surviving Progress. It reminds me of why I write. Why I write poetry, which has no real monetary value. Which will not earn me money, will not keep me or others dry from the rain. Will not make me or others eat better. Will not save me or others from progress.

*

Why do I write? Why do I fling myself against progress?

*

 In high school my English teacher played a documentary for us titled Berkeley in the 60s. I remember Mario Savio:

There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious—makes you so sick at heart—that you can't take part. You can't even passively take part. And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all. 

I imagined Mario Savio placing his little bones between the teeth of the gears of the great machine.

*

I imagined Mario cut to pieces, those violent pieces are like walls where the graffiti of love and tenderness endures.

*

I am laying down my poems in the teeth of the great machine of progress.

*

Sometimes poems have to be like Mario. Mario stuck his hands in the teeth of the great machine.

*

Sometimes hands get amputated, bitten off by the teeth of the great machine.

*

The hands died and their finger nails still grew.

*


"The arms they manufacture shall be turned against them
Their political systems shall be erased from the earth
and their political parties
shall exist no longer
The plans of their technicians shall serve for nothing
The great powers
                          are as the flowers of the field


Imperialisms
                  are as smoke

All day long they spy upon us
Already they have the sentences prepared
yet will the Lord not deliver us to their police
he will not allow us to be condemned at the Judgement
I saw the dictator's picture everywhere
                                   --it spread itself like a green
                                          bay tree--
and I turned to pass again
                                      and it was no longer
I searched for it and found it not
I searched for it and now there was not any picture
and his name could not be spoken"

Ernesto Cardenal

*

Lord the gilded boars are sodomizing me. 






No comments:

Post a Comment