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The only Borg clorb where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. Wait, no, book club. The only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. I'm your host, Margaret Giljoy, and today I'm going to read some poetry. I'm going to read some poetry to you. I'm not sorry because April is National Poetry Month. And so we figured we'd read you some poetry from a prominent anarchist, feminist writer and public speaker, Volterine DeClair. Volterine DeClair, if you haven't heard of her, she's like 19th century, right? She was radicalized to anarchism by the Haymarket affair of 1886 in Chicago. See the very first episode of the podcast, Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff about that story and why you have an eight hour workday. I don't know anyone who has a eight hour workday. Why we ostensibly have an eight hour workday. She was a lifelong advocate for free thought, women's liberation, atheism and anti-theism and anarchy and spoke fiercely against authoritarianism and state repression. She was a friend of Emma Goldman, Alexander Bergman, Lucy Parsons, the IWW, some of the people I talk about all the time on my podcast, and also the broader Philadelphia and Chicago anarchist scenes. Her politics were influenced by her lived experience with extreme poverty and gender based violence, as well as chronic illness and disability. She passed away in 1912 at the age of 45 after a long and painful period of decline. She was buried in Waldheim Cemetery, now called the Forest Home Cemetery in Chicago, which is kind of the pilgrimage place of choice for American anarchists, right next to the Haymarket martyrs whose executions changed her life. And remember that name, Waldheim, because it will come up in her poems. After her death, she was remembered by her friend Emma Goldman as the quote, most gifted and brilliant anarchist woman America ever produced. Max Netlau honors her more simply as quote, the pearl of anarchy. She was asked why she considered herself an anarchist and she responded, because I cannot help it. And today we're going to read some of her poetry. She wrote prolifically her whole life and published in all the radical journals of the time. Newspapers were just a huge thing. Just every radical had their newspaper and they had huge distributions. You're talking tens, hundreds of thousands of copies of things going around. So this is to bigger deal than it might sound. When we think about like the newspapers of this or that radical click right now, we aren't thinking in the same scale usually. Published in Lucifer the Lightbearer, the Rebel, Free Society and Mother Earth. And we'll read her poems about revolution, martyrdom, grief, the systemic violence of racial capitalism, the Mexican Revolution, a lilting lyric poem that could probably best be described as an inside joke between friends. And one that I can only describe as heretic pride or maybe staging a revolution against God and heaven. These poems come from a volume of her work edited by her longtime comrade and literary friend, Sasha Berkman, who I haven't covered on the show yet. Besides he shot a robber baron who was killing a bunch of workers. He tried to break out of prison. He was bisexual king. Yeah, Sasha Berkman's cool. These were collected into a volume of her work edited by Sasha Berkman and tribute to her memory after her passing. So the poetry of Ultrin DeClaire. The hurricane. We are birds of the coming storm, August spies. The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore. Bear burn the white sands and the scorching sun. The sea complains, but its great voice is low. Bitter thy woes, O people, and the burden hardly to be born. Wearily grows, O people, all the aching of thy pierced heart bruised and torn. But yet thy time is not and low thy moaning. Desert thy sands, not yet is thy breath hot, vengefully blowing. It wafts or lifted hands. The tide has turned the vein veers slowly round. Slow clouds are sweeping or the blinding light. White crests curl on the sea. Its voice grows deep. Angry thy heart, O people, and it's bleeding fire tipped with rising hate. Thy clasped hands part, O people, for thy praying warmed not the desolation. God did not hear thy moan. Now it is swelling to a great drowning cry. A dark wind cloud, a groan now backward veering from that death sky. The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths. The world white sand heaps with the foam white waves. Thundering the sea rolls over the shell crunched wall. Strong is thy rage, O people. In its fury hurling thy tyrants down, thou meetest wage, O people. Very swiftly, now that thy hate is grown, thy time at last has come. Thou heapest anguish where thou thyself were to bear, no longer to thy dumb, God-clasped and kneeling. Thou answered thine own prayer. See Isle City, New Jersey, August 1889. All right, next poem. Optimism. There's a love supreme in the great hereafter. The buds of earth are bloom in heaven. The smiles of the world are ripples of laughter when back to its aid in the soul is given. And the tears of the world, though long and flowing, water the fields of the by and by. They fall as do's on the sweet grass growing when fountains of sorrow and grief run dry. Though clouds hang over the furrows now sowing, there's a harvest sun wreath in the after sky. No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly. There's a vast perfection beyond the grave. Up the bays of heaven, the stars shine plainly. The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave. And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they shall shine all undimmed in the other nave. For the altars of gods are lit with souls, fanned to flaming with love where the starwind rolls. St. John's, Michigan, 1889. But do you know what isn't a poem but has its own certain poetry? That's right. Maybe advertisement is the poetry of our time in that most people don't want to listen to it. No, it's not poetry at all. It's just a thing that happens. I don't know. Here's the answer. And we're back. This poem is called at the grave in Waldheim, which is, yeah, where she is later buried next to some of her heroes, the Haymarket martyrs. Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest, their lids kissed clothes, and the lips of peace over each, pulseless and painless breast, the hands life folded and softly pressed. As a dead dove presses a broken nest, broken hearts were the price of these. The lips of their anguish are cold and still, for them are the clouds and the gloom all past. No longer the woe of the world can thrill. The cords of those tender hearts or fill the silent dead house. The people's will has mapped asunder the strings at last. The people's will, ah, in years to come, dearly you'll weep that you did not save. Do you not hear now the muffled drum, the tramping feet in the ceaseless hum of the million marchers trembling dumb in their tread to a yawning giant grave? And yet ah, yet there's a rift of white, just breaking over the martyr's shrine. Halt there ye doomed one, it scades the night, as lightning darts from its scabbard bright, and sweeps the face of sky with light. No more shall be spilled out the blood-red wine. These are the words it has written there, keen as the lance of the northern morn. The sword of justice gleams in its glare, and the arm of justice, upraised and bare, is true to strike eye, to strong to dare, and will fall where the curse of our land is born. No more shall the necks of nations be crushed. No more to dark tyranny's throne bend the knee. No more an objection be ground to the dust. By their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades trust. By the brave heartbeats stilled, by the brave voices hushed, we swear that humanity yet shall be free. Pittsburgh, 1889. This next poem is called Light Upon the Waldeim, and the figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in the Waldeim cemetery is a warrior woman dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and her right hand is drawing a dagger from her bosom. This is worth knowing. Light upon the Waldeim, and the earth is gray, a bitter wind is driving from the north. The stone is cold, the strange cold whispers say, What do ye hear with death? Go forth, go forth. Is this thy word, O mother, with stern eyes, crowning thy dead with stone caressing touch? May we not weep over him that martyred lies slain in our name, for that he loved us much? May we not linger till the day is broad? Nay, none are stirring in the stinging dawn. None but poor wretches that make no moan to God. What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn? Go forth, go forth. Stand not to weep for these, till weakened with your weeping like the snow ye melt, dissolving in a cowered peace. Light upon Waldeim, brother, let us go. London, October, 1897. Can the next poem is called The Road Builders? Opens with a little parenthetical aside. Who built the beautiful roads queried a friend of the present order as we walked one day along the Macamedai's driveway of Fairmount Park? I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone. Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest. The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth, and he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an ore-reaching world that does not think. Ignorant, mean, and soulless was he, well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. Philadelphia, July 24th, 1900. The next poem is called Marsh Bloom, and it's dedicated to Gaetano Bresci. Gaetano Bresci, I don't have my notes in front of me, but he was this Italian immigrant who lived in Patterson, New Jersey, worked as a shoemaker. And one day when the Italian King Umberto II, I think, gave an award to a man who had gunned down hundreds and hundreds of workers who had peacefully demonstrated for bread. You know, they'd been like, hey, we're hungry and the government had killed them all. Gaetano Bresci was like, you know, I can't really just sit around and make shoes in New Jersey. So he bought a gun and a one-way ticket to Italy, and he killed King Umberto II. And his comrades then raised his kid. That's Gaetano Bresci. This poem is called Marsh Bloom. Requiem, requiem, requiem, blood-red blossom of poisoned stem, broken for man, swamp-sunk leafage and dungeon bloom, seeded bearer of royal doom. What now is the ban? What to thee is the island grave, with desert wind and desolate wave? Will they silence death? Can they wait thee now with the heaviest stone? Can they lay awth on thee with thee alone? Thou hast conquered breath? Low, it is finished. A man for a king. Mark you well who have done this thing. The flower has roots. Bitter and rank grow the things of the sea. Ye shall know what sap ran thick in the tree, when ye pluck its fruits. Requiem, requiem, requiem, sleep on, sleep on, a curse of them who work our pain. A wild Marsh blossom shall blow again, from a buried root in the slime of men, on the day of the great red rain. Philadelphia, July 1901. That line on the day of the great red rain. Yeah. Anyway, but do you know what won't sweep away the existing order in a wash of blood? Our advertisers, they are the existing order. And we're back. Okay, this next poem is called Love's Compensation. I went before God and he said, What fruit of the life I gave? Father, I said it is dead, and nothing grows more. Nothing grows on the grave. Wroth was the Lord and stern. Hath thou not to answer me? Shall the fruitless root not burn and be wasted utterly? Father, I said forgive, for thou knowest what I have done, that another's life may live, mine turned to a barren stone. But the father of life sent fire and burned the root in the grave, and the pain in my heart is dire for the thing that I could not save. For the thing it was laid on me by the Lord of life to bring, fruit of the ungrown tree that died for no watering. Another has gone to God and his fruit has pleased him well, for he sitteth high while I plod, the dry ways down towards hell. Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord, whose tears made that fruit's root wet, yet thou drivest me forth with a sword, and thy guards by the gate are set. Thou wilt give me up to the fire, and none shall deliver me, for I followed my heart's desire, and I labored not for thee. I labored for him thou hast set on thy right hand high and fair. Thou lovest him, Lord, and yet it was my love won him there. But this is the thing that thou hath been, hath been since the world began, that love against self must sin, and a woman must die for a man. And this is the thing that shall be, shall be till the whole world die. Kismet, my doom is upon me. Why murmur since I am I. Philadelphia, August, 1898 This next poem is called A Novel of Color, and this is the one that's probably an inside joke, but it's just kind of neat, and it opens with the parenthetical aside. The following is a true in particular account of what happened on the night of December 11, 1895, but it is likely to be unintelligible to all save the chipmunks and the elephant who, however, will no doubt recognize themselves. Chapter 1 Chipmunks three sat on a tree, and they were as green as green could be. They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late, and chirrupt and chirrupt and ate and ate. Tis a pity of chipmunks without nuts and annoying hunger in their guts, but they should be wise like you and me, and color themselves to suit the tree. Achii, achii, achii, achii, gay chaps are we, we chipmunks three. An elephant white in sorry plight, hungry and dirty and sad benight, straggled one day on the nutting ground. Low cheddar the chipmunks, our chances found. Behold the beast's color, where he as we, green and sleek and not full were he. But the beast is big and the beast is white, and his skin full of emptiness serves him right. Achii, achii, achii, achii, let us sit on him, sit on him, chipmunks three. Chapter 2 Three chipmunks green, right gay, were seen, to leap on the beast, his brows between. They munched at his ears and chifford his chin, and sat and sat and sat on him. Not a single available spot of hide where a well-sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride. But was chipped and chipped and chip chip munked, till ought but an elephant must have flunked. Achii, achii, achii, achii, achii. What a ride we're having we chipmunks three. Chapter 3 BRRRR. Chapter 4 What was it blue? Awoo, awoo. Three green chipmunks have all turned blue. The elephant smiles a peaceful smile, and lifts off a tree trunk sans haste or guile. Seize him, seize him, he's stealing our tree. We're undone, undone, shriek the chipmunks three. The elephant calmly upraised his trunk and said, Did I hear a green chipmunk? Achii, achii, achii, achii. Chippy, you're blue, so are you, so are you. Philadelphia, December 1895. And this next poem, I actually, I think first heard about because the person who did our theme music for Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff is an amazing songwriter and cellist named Unwoman. And she at one point set this poem to music. And this poem is called Written in Red. It's going to be really interesting to not try and read it in the same cadence as the song. This is dedicated to our living dead and Mexico's struggle. And this was about the Mexican Revolution. Written in red, their protest stands for the gods of the world to see. On the dooming wall, their bodiless hands have blazed into farsen and flaring brands. Allume the message, seize the lands, open the prisons and make men free. Flame out the living words of the dead. Written in red. Gods of the world, their mouths are dumb. Your guns have spoken and they are dust. But the shrouded living whose hearts were numb have felt the beat of awakening drum. Within them sounding, the dead man's tongue calling, smite off the ancient rust. Have beheld, resurrects it, the word of the dead. Written in red. Barrett aloft, a roaring flame. Skyward aloft, where all may see. Slaves of the world are cause is the same. One is the immemorial shame. One is the struggle and in one name. Manhood, we battle to set men free. Uncurs us the land, burn the words of the dead. Written in red. I think this was Voltaire De Clairs last poem that she wrote. Uncurs us the land, burn the words of the dead. Yeah, I don't know. I don't have a lot specifically to say about the poetry besides I like that she has a lot of different stuff. I actually really like the Chipmunk poem. Might be my favorite poem of it. I don't know the fuck it's about, but it's really fun to read and I would read a kid's book of it. Anyway, vaguely speaking of Haymarket and Mayday, which I was a while ago because some of these poems are about that, we have some exciting stuff happening on Book Club for you. We're going to do an experiment because this is always the book club where we do the reading for you, but we're going to try a thing where we listen to what you have to say about some stuff. We have some reading that I'm not going to do for you ahead of time, that you have to go and read yourself these stories. I believe in you. I trust you. I believe in your capacity to read two short stories so that when we talk about it in early May, we'll be able to include your words. I want you to read the stories. They're both by Ursula K. Le Guin. One is very, very short. It's called The Ones Who Walked Away from Omaloss O M E L A S. And the other story is called The Day Before the Revolution, both by Ursula K. Le Guin. You can find them both online. I believe in you. And then we're going to talk about them. I'm going to talk with some other people about these stories, but we're also going to include your words. And I think the way that we're going to do this, I will update you if this is not the way we're doing it, is that I'm going to make a post on the It Could Happen Here Reddit. I never use Reddit. That's not true. I lurk on Reddit, not the podcast reddits. I can't bring myself to do that, but I do like Reddit. But I'm going to post on the It Could Happen Here Reddit, and people can add their comments about those stories there, and we'll kind of curate them and include them in our discussion. We'll make it a good and proper book club with your help. I believe in you. Anyway, I'm Margaret Kildrew. You can find me on the internet at Margaret Kildrewing and on Blue Sky and Instagram in particular, as well as my sub-stack, where I write about things every week. And I'll find you on the internet. I don't know how many people find you, but maybe I am paying attention to your web traffic. I'll find you reading the ones who walked away from Omelos and the Day Before the Revolution by Ursula K. Le Guin. For example, on the Anarchist Library, there's a very large library on the internet called the Anarchist Library that has a lot of texts, and I believe it includes those texts. All right, take care of each other. Fuck ice. Free Palestine. Up the punks. I never say up the punks anymore. How come people don't say up the punks? I guess because we moved beyond subculture. But I still believe we should up the punks. It Could Happen Here is a production of CoolZone Media. For more podcasts from CoolZone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here updated monthly at coolzonemedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. This is an iHeart podcast. 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