By Todd Swift
The main talked-about and winning booklet of modern years is released the following for the 1st time in paperback. "100 Poets opposed to The War," a trilogy of downloadable digital chapbooks was once first released on-line on January 27, 2003 and has considering made world-wide information from the "LA instances" to the Moscow dailies. This e-book holds the checklist for the quickest poetry anthology ever assembled and disseminated; first deliberate on January 20, 2003 and released during this shape on March three, 2003. The grass-roots charm of peace poetry has noticeable this publication shared by way of tens of hundreds of thousands, and skim at peace demonstrations from Seattle to the center East. It has spawned French, German and Brazilian types, and keeps to motivate those that oppose a unilateral, US-led strike opposed to the folks of Iraq. It marks a second within the historical past of resistance to battle.
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Extra resources for 100 Poets Against the War
We’ve watched television together, you and I. I know you didn't understand all you saw, but also felt your fear of the pill poppers. I don’t want to hand your care over to the world out there. all work just as well just do not call us “collateral damage” there are no clean words for some things There are no enemies insist your rugged hands and muscled backs half hidden in olive branches shading women darkly veiled. There are no enemies but the enemy of a piece of fruit, its oil, its balm for the rest of us who need to be so brave.
I have gasoline. I’ll pour it down their hole tonight and light the match. Late night another tickle along my throat I swat down on my knees now with my Buddha, my boo-dawg beside me sniffing the carpet to find that yellow spasm on its back. I swat swat swat at it with my tennis shoe. My hound awes over my power, God knows he might be next. Don't be scared booger, I say and we lower our noses together to sniff the little carcass. At least with the crusades all we had were swords to butcher each other.
January half over and the ground is wet with blood in the snow. the war, just over the next mountain, and threatening summer; a long way off. somewhere, between the white rock and blue sky, gray bones lie drying in the sand. the day is like a soldier, creeping slowly to a freshly dug grave, and mourning flowers on a hillside, somewhere near the far horizon & red desert morning. San Francisco, California untitled Kathleen Spivack although she moves in a personal winter -a red scarf against a black chair -that red gash widens like the outcry of a widow: a woman keens the world kills.
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