File spoon-archives/lyotard.archive/lyotard_2003/lyotard.0302, message 100


Date: Thu, 20 Feb 2003 02:41:17 +1000
Subject: Re: poetry and war


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Eric/All,

Today, 2/19, in NYTimes, picture of  a poet in what sounds like a poetry "slam", now performing in DEF Poetry Jam,  on Broadway.  Not a young kid, but beautiful 29 year old who came from a Palestinian camp in Jordan, lived in Brooklyn 

Hugh


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Hugh, 
 
Here's a poem from the great writer Harold Pinter that is a little more current.  He always reminds me a little of Noam Chomsky.
 
 
 
God Bless America                                                                                
                                                                                                  
                                                                                                  
 Here they go again,                                                                              
 The Yanks in their armoured parade                                                               
 Chanting their ballads of joy                                                                    
 As they gallop across the big world                                                              
 Praising America's God.                                                                          
                                                                                                  
                                                                                                  
 The gutters are clogged with the dead                                                            
 The ones who couldn't join in                                                                    
 The others refusing to sing                                                                      
 The ones who are losing their voice                                                              
 The ones who've forgotten the tune.                                                              
                                                                                                  
                                                                                                  
 The riders have whips which cut.                                                                 
 Your head rolls onto the sand                                                                    
 Your head is a pool in the dirt                                                                  
 Your head is a stain in the dust                                                                 
 Your eyes have gone out and your nose                                                            
 Sniffs only the pong of the dead                                                                 
 And all the dead air is alive                                                                    
 With the smell of America's God.                                                                 
                                                                                                  
                                                                                                  
 Harold Pinter January 2003                                                                       
                                                                                                  
                                                                                                  
 
 

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Eric/All,
 
Today, 2/19, in NYTimes, picture of  a poet in what sounds like a poetry "slam", now performing in DEF Poetry Jam,  on Broadway.  Not a young kid, but beautiful 29 year old who came from a Palestinian camp in Jordan, lived in Brooklyn 

Hugh
 
 
~^*~^*~^*~^*~^~*^*~~*~^*~^*~^*~^*^~*^~*^~~^*~*~~^~*~^~^*~^~^**^~

Hugh,
 
Here=92s a poem from the great writer Harold Pinter that is a little more current.  He always reminds me a little of Noam Chomsky.
 
 
 
God Bless America                                                                               
                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 
 Here they go again,                                                                             
 The Yanks in their armoured parade                                                              
 Chanting their ballads of joy                                                                   
 As they gallop across the big world                                                             
 Praising America's God.                                                                         
                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 
 The gutters are clogged with the dead                                                           
 The ones who couldn't join in                                                                   
 The others refusing to sing                                                                     
 The ones who are losing their voice                                                             
 The ones who've forgotten the tune.                                                             
                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 
 The riders have whips which cut.                                                                
 Your head rolls onto the sand                                                                   
 Your head is a pool in the dirt                                                                 
 Your head is a stain in the dust                                                                
 Your eyes have gone out and your nose                                                           
 Sniffs only the pong of the dead                                                                
 And all the dead air is alive                                                                   
 With the smell of America's God.                                                                
                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 
 Harold Pinter January 2003                                                                      
                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 
 
 
 
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