Peace

The Republic of Poetry
"The Republic of Poetry is a state of mind. It is a place where creativity meets community, where the imagination serves humanity. The Republic of Poetry is a republic of justice, because the practice of justice is the highest form of human expression. This goes beyond the tired idea of “poetic justice,” because all justice is poetic."

"In the words of Walter Lowenfels, “everyone is a poet, a creator, somewhere, somehow…It’s in the sense of helping to create a new society that we are poets in whatever we do. And it is our gesture against death. We know we are immortal because we know the society we are helping to build is our singing tomorrow."

"In the Republic of Poetry there is no war, because phrases like “weapons of mass destruction,” “shock and awe,” “collateral damage” and “surge” are nothing but clichés, bad poetry by bad poets, and no one believes them. They bleed language of its meaning, drain the blood from words."

"The Republic of Poetry has no borders. In this republic no human being is illegal. In this republic no one is thrown on the other side of the fence after building the fence. Every time the fence goes up, you must tear it down."

"Make sure that compassion is the guiding principle of your republic, the pulse of your poetry. Walt Whitman, the bard of prisoners, prostitutes, and slaves, insists that, “whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to/ his own funeral dressed in his shroud.”"

"In the Republic of Poetry, the poet is the true self, whoever that may be. The poet within us rebels against conformity, decorum and obedience, saying the unsayable before the moment passes"

"This is Eduardo Galeano on the subject of utopia: “She’s on the horizon…I go two steps closer, she moves two steps away. I walk ten steps and the horizon runs ten steps ahead. No matter how much I walk, I’ll never reach her. What good is utopia? That’s what: it’s good for walking.”


De "El libro de los abrazos", van tres textos de Eduardo Galeano. Uno de los constructores más lúcidos de la Paz. Un habitante increíble de la República de la Poesía…

Los nadies

Sueñan las pulgas con comprarse un perro y sueñan los nadies con salir de pobres, que algún mágico día llueva de pronto la buena suerte, que llueva a cántaros la buena suerte; pero la buena suerte no llueve ayer, ni hoy, ni mañana, ni nunca, ni en lloviznita cae del cielo la buena suerte, por mucho que los nadies la llamen y aunque les pique la mano izquierda, o se levanten con el pie derecho, o empiecen el año cambiando de escoba.

Los nadies: los hijos de nadie, los dueños de nada.

Los nadies: los ningunos, los ninguneados, corriendo la liebre, muriendo la vida, jodidos, rejodidos:

Que no son, aunque sean.

Que no hablan idiomas, sino dialectos.

Que no profesan religiones, sino supersticiones.

Que no hacen arte, sino artesanía.

Que no practican cultura, sino folklore.

Que no son seres humanos, sino recursos humanos.

Que no tienen cara, sino brazos.

Que no tienen nombre, sino número.

Que no figuran en la historia universal, sino en la crónica roja de la prensa local.

Los nadies, que cuestan menos que la bala que los mata.

THE NOBODIES

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that, one magical day, good luck will suddenly rain down on them – will rain down in buckets.

But good luck doesn’t rain down, yesterday, today, tomorrow or ever.

Good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day on their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing.

The nobodies: the no-ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who are not, but could be.

Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.

Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.

Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.

Who don’t have culture, but folklore.

Who are not human beings, but human resources.

Who do not have faces, but arms.

Who do not have names, but numbers.

Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the crime reports of the local paper.

The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.

La noche

1

No consigo dormir. Tengo una mujer atravesada entre los párpados. Si pudiera, le diría que se vaya; pero tengo una mujer atravesada en la garganta.

2

Arránqueme, señora, las ropas y las dudas. Desnúdeme, desnúdeme.

3

Yo me duermo a la orilla de una mujer: yo me duermo a la orilla de un abismo.

4

Me desprendo del abrazo, salgo a la calle.

En el cielo, ya clareando, se dibuja, finita, la luna.

La luna tiene dos noches de edad.

Yo, una.

Divorces

Our system is one of detachment;
to keep silenced people from asking questions,
to keep the judged from judging,
to keep solitary people from joining together,
and the soul from putting together its pieces.

Eduardo Galeano (Uruguay 1940)

John Fogerty’s song "Déjà Vu (All Over Again)" seems likely to be one of the most enduring antiwar songs of our time. There it goes…

DÉJÀ VU (ALL OVER AGAIN)


By John Fogerty

Did you hear them talking about it on the radio?
Did you try to read the writing on the wall?
Did that voice inside you say, ‘I’ve heard it all before’?
It’s like déjà vu all over again.

Day by day, I hear the voices rising —
Started with a whisper, like it did before.
Day by day, we count the dead and dying —
Ship the bodies home, while the networks all keep score.

Did you hear them talking about it on the radio?
Could your eyes believe the writing on the wall?
Did that voice inside you say, ‘I’ve heard it all before’?
It’s like déjà vu all over again.

One by one I see the old ghosts rising,
Stumbling across Big Muddy, where the light gets dim.
Day after day, another momma’s crying.
She’s lost her precious child to a war that has no end.

Did you hear them talking about it on the radio?
Did you stop to read the writing at The Wall?
Did that voice inside you say, ‘I’ve seen this all before’?
It’s like déjà vu all over again.

It’s like déjà vu all over again.

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