In a Surrealist Year…… Ferlinghetti

Camden Street, Dublin, Carole Craig

In a surrealist year,
of sandwhichmen and sunbathers
dead sunflowers and live telephones
house-broken politicos with party whips
performed as usual
in the rings of their sawdust circuses
where tumblers and human cannonballs
filled the air like cries
when some cool clown
pressed an inedible mushroom button
and an inaudible Sunday bomb
fell down
catching the present at his prayers
on the 19th Green
Oh it was a spring
of fur leaves and cobalt flowers
when cadillacs fell thru the trees like rain
drowning the meadows with madnesss

while out of every imitation cloud
dropped myriad wingless crowds
of nutless nagasaki survivors
And lost teacups
full of our ashes
floated by

Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919 — )

I thought this was exactly the right poem for the time in which we find ourselves.

This copy of the poem comes from Poems of Protest Old and New, edited by Arnold Kenseth, 1969. However I believe the original is in Coney Island of the Mind. I apologize that WordPress no longer allows me to keep the layout I have typed in. Until I figure out a way around it, I cannot publish Ferlinghetti’s graceful original layout.

Nothing else to say except that my fervent wish is that we continue to find strength and compassion for one another for whatever lies ahead

no one leaves home unless

 

Rally 1-1

Famine Statue, Dublin Ireland 5th September 201

HOME  –  Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbours running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
Rally 2-1
On the 5th of September at the Famine Monument on the River Liffey, a thousand people held a minute’s silence for refugees.  In the Great Famine/An Gorta Mor of 1842 to 1845, Ireland lost a quarter of its population to death and emigration.
Twelve thousand Irish people have so far offered beds in their homes to the refugees trying to find safety in Europe.  The government’s first offer was to admit 600.
 Born in Kenya in 1988 to Somali parents, Warsan Shire was raised and still lives in London.