DAPHNE GOTTLIEB

NO POETRY AFTER AUSCHWITZ

said Adorno, but there are still
poems, in a mark of arrogance or hope,
maybe both.

This is not a poem
it is a rock
through a window—

it is a smash
and run—

it is a broken capitalism machine

150 miles
from Baghdad.
The television is on at the law firm.

There is no business as usual.
The building is surrounded by fences
and riot cops

who are fighting the crime
of free speech, free assembly.
Yesterday they dragged a woman by her hair.

Today, last night, three days ago,
the Anarchists covered their faces
hid Molotov cocktails in the bushes.

On our way to the protest, my friend tells me,
I am not covering my face.
It seems it’s one of the fundamental freedoms left.

I have a bandana in my pocket
just in case.
I am trying to find ways

to stem my own anger,
my body a grenade rolling in the street
teeth clenched, handing out flowers

stolen from the lobby of a law firm
to the motorists we delay, thanking them
for their patience

while the U.S. bombs
the fuck out of another country
it has already starved to death.

I am trying to find reasons not
to smash things. Last night an American soldier
threw three grenades into commanders’ tents.

They say he acted out of “resentment”.
I understand resentment
I believe in nonviolence

I stick my hands in my pockets
to make sure
I don’t pick up a rock
 

2.

one we are the people
Two A Little Bit Louder Now
Three Who Are Going
FOUR TO STOP THIS WAR

There are protestors in white
armed with saxophones, drums,
dance training

Show me what democracy looks like?
THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY
LOOKS LIKE

The protesters in white have forgotten
the difference between protest
and performance,

the difference between comrades
and audience.
They will make the evening news.
 

3.

In New York
ground zero kids tell me
the cop psyop wagon broadcast:

"The march is now over.
Please leave the area
in an orderly fashion."

New York stood in front of the truck,
got a bullhorn
and started shouting

"THE WAR IS NOW OVER.
PLEASE LEAVE IRAQ
IN AN ORDERLY FASHION"

In Chicago,
they are dancing in the streets
to block traffic.

This resistance
will not be joyless.
Outside the Federal Building,

a mobile generator
on a bike-drawn cart,
huge speakers

blare NOT IN MY NAME
a marching band plays “War Pigs”
the DJ’s fist is in the air

a Dixieland band plays
“Down by the Riverside”
and we dance in the street
 

4.

Yes, remember
Rachel Corrie
killed by a bulldozer

but she put her own body
on the line
using her own privilege,

her own choice. How many
have died with nothing
but their geography to blame?

How many names will we never
hear because they
had brown skin, not white?

Because of lines they
never drew and could not
get outside of? Because

they
are not
“ours”?
 

5.

Whose streets?
OUR STREETS.
Whose streets?
 

6.

The rich restaurateur who is
a San Francisco Supervisor
says, “We will prosecute

protestors to the fullest
extent of the law.” Write

the legal aid phone number
on your forearm. Listen
for the order to disperse.

Go limp.
Do not fight the cops.
Watch your back.
 

7.

It is terrifying how quickly
“Free Palestine”
becomes

“End the Occupation”
becomes
“Kill the Jews”
 

8.

At work, the secretaries
are watching with shock and awe.
I want to know

if there’s a body count.
12, they tell me.
Iraqis? Really?

Oh no, they say, sipping coffee,
eating salads, fries.
That’s Americans.

That’s the only number
we’ve heard.
That’s the only number.
 

9.

Whose streets?
OUR STREETS!
Whose streets?

Thursday, we shut down the Federal Building.
We shut down Bechtel. We blitzed Halliburton.
We shut down the Bay Bridge.

I say “we” because I watched it on TV.
I say “we” because I was there.
I say “we” as I write this in sunny San Francisco

on a fully loaded computer
smoking multinational corporate cigarettes,
before I eat breakfast,

after I’ve slept adequately
in a warm house
full of love.
I am waiting for
text messages from the antiwar bloc
to show up on my cell phone.
 

10.

Lighting candles, signing petitions
blocking intersections, chanting,
walking until my feet are blistered

shouting until my throat is raw
I’m trying so hard to change things
but I can’t even get the blood off my hands.
 

Daphe's bio is on her website.