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    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

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    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    A very different story (Part I) – Nandini Sahu

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

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    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

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    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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from SOUTH DAKOTA SUITE, Séamas Carraher

Photo gallery from Sèamas Carraher's personal archive.

April 23, 2018
in Intersections, Out of bounds, The dreaming machine n 2
from SOUTH DAKOTA SUITE, Séamas Carraher
from SOUTH DAKOTA SUITE, Séamas Carraher
from SOUTH DAKOTA SUITE, Séamas Carraher
from SOUTH DAKOTA SUITE, Séamas Carraher
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for

Teresa Baburam

  

 

1

 

Wide open spaces

stun me.

i was born, tight

as a knot

in a country called hate

where words weave wounds

and it us war, endlessly,

on the hour.

 

 

 

 

2

 

There are no words

for emptiness.

Small birds puncture its skin

mercilessly.

Here the hand of man is on every field.

 

A cry comes up from the land.

In every field a crop, corn or soya.

 

There are no words

for a people

who have no home.


 

3

 

On Elm Street, South Dakota

the heat shaves the paintwork

from the timber houses,

thoughts fall like leaves

and settle in the dust.

Two squirrels eye me

mercilessly,

from above.

 

It is Sunday,

to the singing of the insects

and the greedy mosquitoes.

 

Once i had a soul

that sang from its tree in the heart of home.

 

Out here we are all swimming

for dry land

shipwrecked, like rats,

on the Plain.

 

4

 

Somehow this must be

our longing for a life

not yet

possible

 

the glory of the sunflower

 

this happiness that beats

everyone’s brains

into pulp

 

this stormlike silence.

 

Here now in the heart of hell:

 

this song of the Prairie.

 

 

5

 

America! must be a word

for something

 

struggling to wake

in the heart of

nowhere

 

to find yourself driving

without direction

and these highways stretch endlessly

neither inside nor out.

 

Oh, my soul,

there is not one road but many!

 

Not one dream here but a million!

Marching, marching endlessly

 

now all our longings

have

become

 

soundlessly,

silenced.

 


 

6

 

Leonard Peltier is still in prison.

 

i don’t hear anyone talking of it.

It seems to me the silence must be a great prison to us all.

 

Even the Great Plains have no room

to contain it.

 

We guard it at 65 miles an hour.

 

It seems to me this whole country

is a great prison of happiness

to its people.

 

It seems to me

only the poor people are dour

and distrustful

because they carry the secret of America’s happiness

like a great burden holding up the ‘free’ world.

 

Leonard Peltier must have committed crimes

against this happiness, I think.

 

i think, day after day

he must think,

“…none of us is getting out of this alive.”

 

i think endlessly in great engines

that carry me ruthlessly across

the prairie

 

how so much profit

can come from murder?

 

i think, surely, it should be past the time

when life unfolds

like on TV.

 

 

Later i thought,

it would be nice if someone talked about it,

 

weaving my way through the trailer-parks

and the children with their arms raised,

their mouths open

 

if suddenly a wind cut through the

impenetrable being of the corn!

 

If suddenly the people fell from their perches on

the edge of the Plain

 

if somehow the monetary system went bust

 

if the books refused to open any more

 

if the graves opened and all the dead could talk!

 

 

 

7

 

Listening to my self, between two continents,

with no nationality now that is not a lie,

it comes to me:

“Leonard Peltier in prison”

seems like a bitter word.

 

 

 

 

8

 

If only somehow a wind cut through the corn!

if somehow suddenly this woman

at the edge of the windscreen woke,

if it was no longer all just night

or hunger

or fear

 

then, love,

maybe

 

i would find myself home

 

the first ‘white’ man to recognise

the country of his birth

 

our blood worth more than

the price of a dollar

 

and this life without value?

 

A homeland for all in exile!

 

[…]

19

No matter where i am

i dream of the world to come

 

here there is no property

no title deed

to gnaw your bones into hunger

 

no house to unhome another with

 

nothing out of place that the

wind could destroy.

 

It’s not that i dream too much.

It’s more that, even after all this time,

i can still somehow feel

this ‘thing’ called

‘desire’

 

so that it’s only that here

so far away

two thousand miles up this uncharted river

of dust and debris

someone has put a fence

round me

 

someone is cutting my words

with wire!

 

My throat is choked with silence

 

everyone speaks in a strange

language

 

here in this first reservation town

when the car won’t go no more

this lump in my throat

is holding

 

my life in its hands

piteously,

like an infant.

 

 

 

 

20

 

We sleep,

my friend and i

beneath all the stars

where it is neither day nor night

 

in the land of our lovelessness

we sleep

 

wondering where the world

might be

 

when we wake up.

 

[…]

 

 

28

 

Wounded Knee.

 

All roads lead to this point,

a grave on a hill

eight tourists from New York

taking photographs.

 

i arrive a hundred and ten years

too late.

 

i do not know what to do

with the Irish girl’s tears

i have been entrusted with

 

they wrap round my own

 

but i am old

i am tired

as a man

i have forgotten how to weep

 

only as a child

could i have remembered

 

there is too much and

too little,

to grieve for.

 

At the bottom of the hill

an Indian asks five American dollars

for directions

 

for five dollars i’d need

the way out of here

 

for five dollars i’d need the answer

to a couple of questions.

 

He tells me his brother knows

many things

but i am my own brother

and i know little

 

in this world too:

 

”my brother is my purse.

My friend, my means for getting on.”

 

We are poor people

we have no brothers,

 

that’s capitalism.

 

Instead i think

these old people

do not like us

and how can i blame them?

 

i am new and shiny

and the roots of my life

feed on their dead

 

though i am not white nor black

just someone lost on the side of a road

 

also

it’s hard being without colour,

the humanness and less of it

 

hurts.

 

 

 

 

 

29

 

i thought then,

to be Irish

to be poor and Irish

is never to know where your dead lie buried

 

this world has become our graveyard

 

all its people are our brothers

 

we are ghosts

and the children of ghosts!

 


 

30

At Wounded Knee

it must be

the dying ends up easy.

 

It’s life that’s difficult.

 

The memory is no longer painful.

Only forgetfulness

 

this amnesia where we have forgotten

what it is,

this life!

 

Here is “the end of history” then.

It’s not glory nor greed,

 

to have travelled four thousand miles

two thousand of them in heat and dust

to sit numbed by the carelessness of history.

 

To win or lose

who gives a shit?

 

Still, in a corner of the graveyard

at Wounded Knee

a small child sleeps

a doll, half rabbit, half human,

stands sentry there

guarding her grave.

 

Oh, there must be a place,

a secret place,

where the almost

endless grief

of our losses

can find

a home.

 

A place

where we all

might belong. [… ]

 

 

Permission to republish portions of the poem and pictures of South Dakota kindly granted by author séamas carraher  wretchedoftheearth@eircom.net

 

 

bty

Séamas Carraher was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1956. He lives on the Ballyogan estate, in south County Dublin, Ireland, at present. Recent publications include poems in Bone Orchard Poetry, Istanbul Literary Review and Pemmican. Previously his work has been published in Left Curve (No. 13, 14 & 20), Compages, Poetry Ireland Review, and the Anthology of Irish Poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: estrangementexileIrelandisplacementLeonard PeltierPlainspovertySéamas CarraherSoth DakotaWounded Knee

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