[NewPacifica] Fwd: You asked for my poetry. Here it is



>From: William Mandel <wmmmandel@earthlink.net>
>Reply-To: wmmmandel@earthlink.net
>To: Mary Ann Freiberg <" mafnana"@aol.com>
>Subject: You asked for my poetry. Here it is
>Date: Tue, 02 Sep 2003 21:41:46 -0700
>
>
>
>
>Dear Bill,
>
>Let us decide whether it stands up as poetry or not!  You can hardly be
>the
>judge of that. <grin>
>Please pass it on......
>
>All the best,
>Richard Menec
>PS: A cheque is forthcoming for two autographed copies of your book.
>
>----- Original Message -----
>From: "William Mandel" <wmmmandel@EARTHLINK.NET>
>To: <SOCIALIST-REGISTER@YORKU.CA>
>Sent: Thursday, August 28, 2003 12:44 PM
>Subject: Re: Statement on DuBois
>
>
> > I'll have to think about the poem. While it possesses the qualities
> > Larry Pinkney (today a dear personal friend and recent house guest)
> > decribes, and my daughter is very fond of it, I don't think it really
> > stands up as poetry. That's why I omitted it from my autobiography,
> > where you can read a better one, "New Trial in Richmond," with an
> > approving postcard from Langston Hughes.
> >                                 Bill Mandel
> >
> > Floro Quibuyen wrote:
> > >
> > > Thanks to both of you, Bill Mandel and Bill Fletcher, for the stories
>and
> > > statement--they are beautiful. Would you please share us your poem, 
>"For
>My
> > > Children, To Dr. DuBois".
> > > Floro
>
>   Those requests were from Canada. Someone in Los Angeles wrote: "I feel
>cheated that Mr. Mandel did not include the poems [mentioned in my post
>on knowing Dr. Dubois]...in their entirety."
>   Another in Australia wrote: "Please post your poem, 'For My Children,
>to Dr. DuBois,' and at least a few others."
>
>
>             FOR MY CHILDREN, TO DR. DUBOIS
>       (November 1951; DuBois had just been acquitted
>       of conspiracy for heading the collection of a
>       million American signatures to a petition
>         against another use of the nuclear bomb)
>
>I, a white man, speak these lines for my children
>too young to write, but old enough to know of jails and war.
>Bobby is seven and Davey is five.
>My little boys want to stay alive.
>Bobby, he asked me the other day:
>"Daddy, will I have to go away
>and fight and kill when I grow up?"
>Davey looked up from his breakfast cup
>and said, "I want to know that too.
>"Answer me,Daddy.' I answered them true.
>
>"Wars," I said, "don't have to be.
>"People can live like you and me,
>"loving each other and sharing our bread.
>"But men there are who'd see us dead
>"to make them richer. They are few
>"but tell the government what to do.
>"They own the papers that tell the lies
>"to make us blame the other guys.
>"Across the seas they stretch their hands
>"to take things made in other lands.
>"They whip and kill and burn and maim
>"with bombers and with jellied flame
>"to make the people far away
>"do the things our rich men say."
>
>"To fight and die in grim despair,
>"their children will not have to bear.
>"They'll sit at desks and hand out orders
>"to the boys at war beyond our borders."
>"It's you they want," I told my sons,
>"to sleep in mud and face the guns,
>"to murder people you've never seen
>"and spill red blood upon the green
>"of field and valley, hill and park."
>
>"They want to make our country dark
>"and dumb and deaf and stony blind
>"so none can stand and speak his mind
>"for peace, for life, for milk and bread
>"and say, 'I don't want my children dead.'
>
>"That's why I travel about this land
>"warning the people wherever I can."
>
>My daughter is twelve and knows the score.
>She sees the greed of the men of war.
>She knows they are hard and cruel and grim.
>She's seen the light of freedom grow dim.
>Herself, she's brave, and her pride is great
>that we stand with those who bar the gate
>to death and hunger and cold and fear
>and hold back the war from year to year.
>
>But child she is and much afraid
>of the FBI and a midnight raid.
>"Daddy," she said, "they'll put you in jail.
>"They'll hold you and keep you without any bail."
>
>"That may yet be," was my reply,
>"but they've tried and failed with others than I.
>"DuBois, a man of eighty-four
>"they dragged to court, and locked the door.
>"His wrists they bound in iron bands
>"because they feared the mighty hands
>"that wrote in verse and prose and law
>"for all to read: 'We'll fight no war
>"'while those whose skins are dark like mine
>"'must eat their bread and drink their wine
>"'apart; must die for want of precious care;
>"'must gasp for lack of precious air
>"'in holes where rats, not men, should live.
>"'We'll fight no war. No blood we'll give
>"'abroad, when Cicero is here'
>"'Martinsville, too, is here;
>"'when war is waged by the very police
>"'whose oath it is to keep the peace,
>"'and bullets take a deadly toll
>"'of Negroes who would use the poll
>"'to sample this democracy
>"'and get a taste of being free.'"
>
>"His voice they thought forever to still.
>"A year in jail would surely kill
>"this patriarch. But they forgot
>"that a people once bound to slavery's rack
>"will not go back, will not betray
>"the faith of those who showed the way.
>"Their voices resounded from shore to shore
>"and mounted to a single roar
>"of mighty protest. And with them joined
>"the voice of people white of skin.
>"DuBois is free! And that, my children,
>"means freedom for me.
>
>"The hounds of terror are not at rest,
>"but North, and South, and East, and West,
>"the People speak; the People, Yes!
>"and those who dealt the strongest blow
>"to free us all are those who know
>"that they have freedom least of all."
>
>My children said: "They keep us free.
>"We must say thanks." I answered: "Fighters be
>"That the Negro people have liberty."
>--------------------------------------
>
>    The following year I traveled by Greyhound bus from New York to
>Chicago to speak to unions and other labor groups. On the bus was a
>young Greek ship's officer. At this time a Pinochet-type military
>dictatorship had taken over that country. There were occasional rest
>stops in the countryside.
>
>                  TRAVEL COMPANION
>We stood in silence,
>  fingers playing with grass-stems,
>  nostrils dilating to the pungent spring,
>  ears attuned to the rushing waters,
>  eyes hungrily tracing each eddy,
>  memory fixing the glint of sun on wavelet over rock.
>
>  His open face spoke sadness
>  "Not so in my land.
>  "We are water poor."
>
>  I grieved with him
>  for the glory that is Greece
>  and for Greeks such as he,
>  young, strong, creative,
>  ship's engineer at twenty-one,
>  lover of flowers
>  and hater of the best of his people.
>
>  Makronissos,
>   rock where the sons of Prometheus
>   bleed from liver and from loin
>   at the hands of his fellows,
>to him is a place of justice.
>
>Home, to him, a mansion with green-house
>  where he stole away to sleep mid the blossoms' fragrance.
>
>Thus, a man is half a man, or less than man at all,
>  whose sorrow is for hillsides waterless,
>  and not for those whose labor and whose pain
>  will bring flowers to those hills again.
>
>Yet am I troubled
>  for his is not a self-willed hate
>  but misdirected love
>  perverted by the will of others,
>       his countrymen and mine.
>
>Seeing him,
>  I know the youth of my own land
>  and those whom Hitler spoiled,
>
>And I vow vengeance
>  on those who make half-men
>  of the future of the world.
>---------------------------------------------
>
>1953 was the worst year. The Rosenbergs were executed, and the leaders
>of the American Communist Party went to long terms in prison for being
>the leaders of the Communist Party.
>
>               FOR CERTAIN WIVES
>
>Some women marry joy, find gall,
>        and wither in bitterness.
>You married strength, forged happiness,
>             and bloom in the hurricane.
>
>Some dream of quiet islands,
>        lay calm lawns beyond their walls,
>and thus concealed, rage, maddened, within.
>
>Some choose a man, stand two against the world,
>        and find the world between them.
>You love those who love all, share your loves with us,
>        and we wrap our love about you.
>
>Some have their husbands always,
>         need only turn to see their faces,
>               and doubt what love there ever was.
>Your husbands stand beyond reach,
>         but memory renews your love,
>               and loyalty preserves it.
>
>Some teach children to live for themselves alone,
>         find they have taught too well,
>               and are themselves abandoned.
>Your children see the world a circle
>              of people holding hands,
>                  and you are closest.
>
>Some see the future hopeless,
>              those who seek it - foolish,
>                  and peace but in the grave.
>We see a world unshackled,
>          by children's laughter brightened,
>                  and homage to you, the brave.
>
>========================================================
>
>  The title of my autobiography, SAYING NO TO POWER (Introduction by
>  Howard Zinn), is based on my demolition of Sen. Joe McCarthy and later
>  of HUAC in hearings of 1953 and 1960. It is a history of how the
>  American people fought to defend and expand its rights since the 1920s
>  (I'm 86) employing the form of the life of a 30s AND 60s activist, one
>  who was involved in most serious movements: student, labor, 45 years of
>  efforts to prevent war with the USSR and Cuba, civil rights South and
>  North, women's liberation [my late wife appears on 50 pages], 37 years
>  on Pacifica Radio [where I reinvented talk radio, of whose previous
>  existence I had been unaware], civil liberties, and opposition to
>  anti-Semitism and to Zionism. You may hear/see a little of my testimony
>  before before HUAC on my website, http://www.billmandel.net  I am the
>  author of five books in my academic field, have taught at UC Berkeley,
>  and earlier held a postdoctoral fellowship, by invitation, at
>Stanford's
>  Hoover Institution.
>   The book may be ordered through all normal sources. For an autographed
>  copy, send me $24 at 4466 View Pl.,#106, Oakland, CA. 94611
>

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