Minute’s of silence pt. 2

A MOMENT OF SILENCE, BEFORE I START THIS POEM

EMMANUEL ORTIZ, 11 Sep 2002.

    emmanuel-ortiz2  

        Before I start this poem, I’d like to ask you to join me

        In a moment of silence

        In honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the

        Pentagon last September 11th.

        I would also like to ask you

        To offer up a moment of silence

        For all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned,

        disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes,

        For the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.

       

        And if I could just add one more thing…

        A full day of silence

        For the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the

        hands of U.S.-backed Israeli

        forces over decades of occupation.

        Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people,

        mostly children, who have died of

        malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S.

        embargo against the country.

       

        Before I begin this poem,

        Two months of silence for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa,

        Where homeland security made them aliens in their own country.

        Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

        Where death rained down and peeled back every layer of

        concrete, steel, earth and skin

        And the survivors went on as if alive.

        A year of silence for the millions of dead in Vietnam – a people,

        not a war – for those who

        know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their

        relatives’ bones buried in it, their babies born of it.

        A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of

        a secret war … ssssshhhhh….

        Say nothing … we don’t want them to learn that they are dead.

        Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia,

        Whose names, like the corpses they once represented, have

        piled up and slipped off our tongues.

       

        Before I begin this poem.

        An hour of silence for El Salvador …

        An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua …

        Two days of silence for the Guatemaltecos …

        None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.

        45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas

        25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found

        their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could

        poke into the sky.

        There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains.

        And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of

        sycamore trees in the south, the north, the east, and the west…

       

        100 years of silence…

        For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half

        of right here,

        Whose land and lives were stolen,

        In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand

        Creek,

        Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears.

        Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the

        refrigerator of our consciousness …

       

        So you want a moment of silence?

        And we are all left speechless

        Our tongues snatched from our mouths

        Our eyes stapled shut

        A moment of silence

        And the poets have all been laid to rest

        The drums disintegrating into dust.

       

        Before I begin this poem,

        You want a moment of silence

        You mourn now as if the world will never be the same

        And the rest of us hope to hell it won’t be. Not like it always has

        been.

       

        Because this is not a 9/11 poem.

        This is a 9/10 poem,

        It is a 9/9 poem,

        A 9/8 poem,

        A 9/7 poem

        This is a 1492 poem.

       

        This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written.

        And if this is a 9/11 poem, then:

        This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971.

        This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa,

        1977.

        This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison,

        New York, 1971.

        This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.

        This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes

        This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told

        The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks

        The 110 stories that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and

        Newsweek ignored.

        This is a poem for interrupting this program.

       

        And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?

        We could give you lifetimes of empty:

        The unmarked graves

        The lost languages

        The uprooted trees and histories

        The dead stares on the faces of nameless children

        Before I start this poem we could be silent forever

        Or just long enough to hunger,

        For the dust to bury us

        And you would still ask us

        For more of our silence.

       

        If you want a moment of silence

        Then stop the oil pumps

        Turn off the engines and the televisions

        Sink the cruise ships

        Crash the stock markets

        Unplug the marquee lights,

        Delete the instant messages,

        Derail the trains, the light rail transit.

       

        If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window

        of Taco Bell,

        And pay the workers for wages lost.

        Tear down the liquor stores,

        The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the

        Penthouses and the Playboys.

       

        If you want a moment of silence,

        Then take it

        On Super Bowl Sunday,

        The Fourth of July

        During Dayton’s 13 hour sale

        Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful

        people have gathered.

       

        You want a moment of silence

        Then take it NOW,

        Before this poem begins.

        Here, in the echo of my voice,

        In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand,

        In the space between bodies in embrace,

        Here is your silence.

        Take it.

        But take it all…Don’t cut in line.

        Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime. But we,

        Tonight we will keep right on singing…For our dead.

Comedy wordplay

One of my favourite scenes from the shamefully cancelled Naked Gun series in the 1980s

“When I first heard the shot. As I turned Jim fell”

“He’s the teller Frank”

“Jim Fells the teller?”

“No Jim Johnson.”

“Who’s Jim Fell?”

“He’s the auditor frank”

“He had the flu so Jim filled in.”

“Phil who?”

“Phil Dinn, he’s the night watchman Frank…”

 

In the same vein as the infamous


And my favourite Abbott and Costello sketch

 

What should be done?

I want a little corner of the internet to call my own so I am going to carve out a space for that purpose.

I will be posting all kinds of things here.

The title of the site is taken from Joyce

— Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
— I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom
That and other semi pretentious, semi portentious tid bits will be coming your way, shoudl you care to peruse. This isn’t designed to change anything – because at this stage we have to ask ourselves what can be changed – but it is intended to provide some idle amusement whilst we while away our days waiting for the end of days.

The hate-on-immigrants playbook

Concerning current debates on immigration, this is pertinent

“On the issues dealt with by the Bill we are in the grip of forces which, because of
the large influx of immigrants into Britain, we now seem unable to control. Racial
violence is occurring with increasing frequency. The British people are sick at
heart about it all. We badly need honest and forthright politicians to express their
feelings without fear of being condemned on moral grounds.”

That is a quote from Tory MP Ivor Stanbrook during a debate on the Immigration Bill in 1981. Continue reading The hate-on-immigrants playbook