He wrote for the stage in order to act in history, to engage his audience in issues of collective concern, and to change – or explore what it means to change – social reality.

Ronald Aronson on Sartre, talking about engaged literature. I thought his definition pretty much covered it all and I liked the "act in history" part especially. I have a post on my blog about engaged literature, which I could reproduce here, but I think there may be too many links in it to get back the spam filter. Here’s the URL for the post, just in case.

Best regards, Nic

Nic thanks for that quote. You left out the url for some reason.

It's there -- move your mouse over "URL" and you'll get that hand thingy showing a live link. Cheers, Nic

"Crimes against human rights, never confessed and never publicly denounced, are a poison which destroys the possibility of a friendship between nations. Anthologies of Polish poetry publish poems of my late friends...and give the date of their deaths...It is absurd not to be able to write how they perished, though everybody in Poland knows the truth...."

Czeslaw Milosz
from the Nobel Prize Lecture, 1980

Aesthetical achievement politically interpreted! Mr Dawes--amazing!

The Hood Company

Kwame,

A couple weeks ago I heard two American Iraqi-vet soldiers Brian Turner and John Roth read their poems. One of Roth's poems was about an experience that he said will haunt him the rest of his life, and it's certainly haunted me me ever since I heard it. The poem is about a man dressed in all black who suddenly appeared before Roth's patrol and pointed a gun at them. Roth tried to shoot back but his rifle jammed, and then through a series of mishaps, which the poem describes, he mistakenly fired on innocent people. After he read his poem, other vets in the audience stood up and started telling their stories about war.

I thought about this poem and evening in relation to your asking for a list of poems that use "language to effect some kind of political change or transformation." In this case, the poem and other vets' stories helped us understand the suffering of these particular vets and perhaps helped them live with it, and it brought home the suffering our country is inflicting on the whole population of another country. But I felt uneasy; while we were listening, more soldiers and civilians were being killed in Iraq by our government, so I didn't want to feel good in any way for having listened.

The experience led to other questions that I think are also raised in Jeffrey's post: If we often write poems out of lived experience, can we write poems that effect political change without actively working in other ways to effect it? I think of your work at the community center in South Carolina. I know that many poets do and can because our imaginations inform our poems along with experience. A friend suggested Randall Jarrell's poem "Protocols" in this regard. And, I think of Juliana Sparhr's book thisconnectionofeveryonewithlungs, which documents the weeks and months leading up to the Iraqi war. Half-diary, half-lyric, it addresses a beloved in an idyllic Hawaiian location while factually reporting the troop movements, the rhetoric of news and politicans, the melting glaciers, the sensuality and comforts of daily life, and South Korean's restarting the nuclear reactors. So that's one book for the list.

Emily

Emily,

I realize that I would not feel comfortable relying on the poem to effect change. In a sense, the poem is a witness for me. But in my day to day, I have to think about my political engagement as an acitivity--something done. I think of the late Nigerian poet, Christopher Okigbo, who was killed as he fought in the Biafran War. The loss to poetry of that great poet has been immense, and yet it was clear that Okigbo simply did not see making poems as an answer. But this phrasing is unfair. "Simply making poems" is an unfair way of pitting two political acts against each other. They are their own things--their own legitimate expressions of the political. The Iraqui-vets writing poems understand that to be honest poets, they must engage the politics that haunts their lives. The list of political poems is actually impressive. Very impressive.

One love

KD

I wanted to comment before now but just couldn't get around to it. I will just keep it brief, I recently did a BBC interview where I was classed as a "protest poet" and I'm still toying with whether or not I should accept this tag? does that make me political?

blood fi oil (part 2)

from sun up to sun dung
people nuh nyam
gun shot blazing in Sudan
Janjaweed bad breed hab dem plan
initiated by Bush an him gangs
chasing black Africans affa dem lan
fi exploit de oil wut billions a gallong
wanted dead or alive by de oil barrons
time fi talk de truth United Nation
time fi talk de truth Kofi Annan
de scramble fi Africa on de rise again
United Snake and A-robs a fren
now humanitatian crisis
lata a rise in oil prices
lives nuh wut nutten to Hallibutten
a time fi black people show dem suppen
an start cut troat deepa dan dem well
an bury de corps a de oil cartels
wen a nuh one ting a de ada
masacre afta masacre
wen a nuh precious metal a stone an rubba
from Angola to Liberia
from Congo to Rwanda
hundreds a panya maschette escape from Beljum
an a rip thru skull lakka bullits from a gun
rite thru Africa mi seet
blood a spill fi de mark a de beast
Darfur region tun ghost town
Janjaweed malitia a hunt dem dung
raping an a killing
village bun dung to de grun
man ina numba ten an oval office
a tun an a twist
a sey dis yah a nuh genocide
is jus anada humanitarian crisis
but millions a die
caan even bite de fly
wha pitch pon dem mouth caana
not even a drink a waata
de international community sey dem a help
but de media jus a help dem self
United States put sanctions pon medical supplies
fi mek black people die like flies
why! why!
world leaders why
how many will ave to die
fi de price a de oil
blood! blood! blood fi oil

©2004 Kokumo’s poetry published by copy right control (kokumo@msn.com)

NEVER BE AFRAID TO BE PROUD of AMERICA

America, the abundant, the place I was born
I'll cherish till the day I die.
Where the bones of past heroes lie buried in the ground
Who loved her the same as I.

Her mountains are so tall they reach for the sky
With prairies where the green grasses grow.
There's billions of trees where wild birds nest
With creatures that flourish below.

That blue gold called water with which we are blessed
As raindrops or crystallized snow;
Changes to rivers and fresh water lakes
While the winds of our seasons blow.

There's the haunt of a whistle from a lonely freight train
Racing on ribbons of steel
With the harvest of farms and from the factories
Balanced in a box on a wheel.

Some cities have buildings a hundred stories tall
Structures of concrete, glass and steel.
A statue in a harbor, a present from France
Describes how, inside, we feel.

That flag on the moon with red and white stripes
Proves America’s dreams come true.
A country of heroes who line up to protect
The past, the present and the few.

We’ll defeat terrorism as it should be fought
Never letting Satan’s horde chase us to our door.
Safeguarding our borders and system of life
As our forefathers sacrificed before.

Never be afraid to be proud of America
And march with the brave, faithful and just.
Refusing to submit to the will of our enemies
Standing firm to preserve what we trust.

POLITICIANS

Most of the time as a politician stands up
Along with the truth, their brain sits down.
Promising anything and everything to anyone
While posing to the public, to be on common ground.

The higher the office the greater the corruption
As candidates compete for those dead presidents of green.
While we're taxed to death to fund their pork
Our cost for everything has become obscene.

Thank God there are some better than most
Not squeaky clean, but more honest than others.
Regardless of party, they deserve our vote
For they share our thoughts like sisters and brothers.

Politicians who wish to be revered by history
Must earn their fame by living the truth.
Any who continue to mislead and deceive
Must be shunned by the voter at the booth.

Obama 08’

A soldier for the people
Who’s been up and who's been down
Though while on his journey
He has never turned around.

Facing more than flesh and blood
With Worthington’s two-faced hoard.
Opposing all who test his soul
With integrity as his sword.

The wicked casts their dark net
Over any they may charm.
Plotting to mislead the flock,
While pretending to do no harm.

He’ll expose the devious daily
As he works for you and me.
We're not alone in our struggle
To preserve America the free.

His personal goals of well being
Will never stand in the way
Of doing his public duty
No matter what others may say.

His devotion shall prove contagious
It's the brilliance of his kind
What you find within him
Is great character of mind.

With faith and courage, he must live
For his life to be complete
With good morals and family life
He’ll triumph, even in defeat.

He was raised to participate
Within his community
With his fellow men and women
He’ll enrich life, hope and liberty.

McCain 08’

We'll defeat terrorism as it should be fought
Never letting Satan's horde chase us to our door.
Safeguarding our borders and system of life
As our forefathers sacrificed before.

Never be afraid to be proud of America
And march with the brave, faithful and just.
Refusing to submit to the will of our enemies
Standing firm to preserve what we trust.

America has survived all attempts to destroy
Knowing the cruelty and sorrow of war
And we who remain must help keep her free
For those who can march no more!

Those who wish to be President
Must practice what they teach.
For their people need inspiring
To believe what they preach.

Take heed therefore, unto yourselves
You overseers of the flock
Or the voters shall cast you out
For your futures are not of rock.

Life may place us in deep waters
Though it doesn't wish us to drown.
It's our past record that lets others know
Who we are as we smile or frown.

If you wish to be remembered
From the truth you must never part.
Power corrupts the best of us
When we stop listening to our heart.

Hillary 08’

An angry woman opens her mouth
And shuts her mind to reason.
She who stays slow to anger
Is loved by more each season.

Anger snuffs the lamp of thought
And it's hard to stay serene.
Where anger rules hatred thrives
Then the world we love turns mean.

She who fans the coals of hate
Has no reason to complain.
If some hot sparks scorch her face
Her anguish is thus her pain.

Anger is a human madness
Which consumes the heart and mind.
She who rules her spirit with love
Shall be praised by all mankind.

By
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web

...

I hate to mention my "Selected Political Poems 1965-2005",

which is posted in its entirety on my blog

for open access and free download . . .

...

but here's a question: who has the "right" to write
a political poem?

as a male WASP, did I have the right
over those forty years
to try to write
all the poems in that book?

(I say "try"
because I assume I failed in
my attempts,
but did I have the moral right
to even try, is my question . . .)

The French Prisoner
by János Pilinszky

If only I could forget him, the Frenchman
I saw outside our quarters, creeping round
near daybreak in that density of garden
as if he'd almost grown into the ground.
He was just looking back, peering about him
to check that he was safe here and alone:
once he was sure, his plunder was all his!
Whatever chanced, he'd not be moving on.

He was already eating. He was wolfing
a pilfered turnip hidden in his rags.
Eating raw cattle feed. But he'd no sooner
swallowed a mouthful than it made him gag;
and the sweet food encountered on his tongue
delight and then disgust, as it might be
the unhappy and the happy, meeting in
their bodies' all-consuming ecstasy.

Only forget that body. . . Shoulder blades
trembling, and a hand all skin and bone,
the palm cramming his mouth in such a way
that it too seemed to feed in clinging on.
And then the furious and desperate shame
of organs galled with one another, forced
to tear from one another what should bind them
together in community at last.

The way his clumsy feet had been left out
of all that gibbering bestial joy; and how
they stood splayed out and paralyzed beneath
the body's torture and fierce rapture now.
And his look too—if I could forget that!
Retching, he went on gobbling as if driven
on and on, just to eat, no matter what,
anything, this or that, himself even.
Why go on? It turned out that he'd escaped
from the prison camp nearby—guards came for him.
I wander, as I did then in that garden,
among my garden shadows here at home.
"If only I could forget him, the Frenchman"—
I'm looking through my notes, I read one out,
and from my ears, my eyes, my mouth, the seething
memory boils over in his shout:

"I'm hungry!" And immediately I feel
the undying hunger which this wretched creature
has long since ceased to feel, for which there is
no mitigating nourishment in nature.
He feeds on me. More and more hungrily!
And I'm less and less sufficient, for my part.
Now he, who would have been contented once
with any kind of food, demands my heart.

Translated from the Hungarian by Clive Wilmer & George Gömöri
From the March 2008 issue of Poetry