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studies
in red
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1.
on the table by the bed, by the fading
yellow wallpaper, a copy
of balzac, and dickens,
and a square of plain red cloth.
the lamp on the wall is
turned
on.
laughter, far off, faint, behind
a heavy wooden door.
darker colors, no longer silk, now
plain wool and cotton,
shuffle of legal papers. slow
inexorable ruin of the propertied classes.
outside the window the rain
has stopped. in the damp streets
the stamping of feet, shouting
of voices, growing nearer,
in a million faces the sunlight
breaking open into full day.
2.
russet and yellow earthtones
seep through from the black-and-white
photo, rock ridge with sparse brush,
a few trees, broken rock
from a half-demolished wall.
ebro. jarama. guadalquivir.
sky cool, earth burning.
faces watch from the earth trench
embankment, eyes fixed, sharp
with gravity. nothing forgotten,
nothing tentative here.
waiting for the bombardment
and counterattack.
“voces de muerte sonaron . . .”
voices of life are sounding,
footsteps
of workers are sounding,
in the burning sky, on
the cool hills, near
the guadalquivir.
3.
metastasis. the newsletter
of the association for the study of
people’s culture announces
that a worker has died.
see her, as she wakes up to the iron
of another day. think of her,
sitting in the office chair with the
sagging springs.
hear
her, speaking, writing about
the typesetting machine with such precision
it is possible to tell the model of the machine
from the details she gives, hear her,
calling out, singing out with many
and many in the picket line
against the empire of capital,
remember her, stand with her,
when she is diagnosed with
the cancer that rakes her body,
when the industrial disease kills her.
touch the warmth in her hand.
see the inexhaustible wind in her eyes.
feel the fire she has worked
in the forge of your heart.
walk in the picket line, march
in the street with many and many,
carry with you the knowledge
of who she is.
on the great wall of history
post her portrait, write her name
with all who have joined us
before and after:
here is our comrade! live like her!
4.
another
earthquake in the southern
latitudes brought on by cowboy banking
in the north.
scattered gunfire in the suburbs.
jeeps bearing colonels and captains
criss-cross the city.
cnn broadcasts live from police
barricade 23. reports circulate
that the rebels have taken an entire
province. speaking at a press
conference, in sharp-cornered uniform,
with round fatherly eyes, the
defense minister assures the cameras
that order will be restored.
speaking privately to the ambassador
from a large neighboring country,
in smooth-cornered suit, with
blinking managerial eyes, the president
admits
concern.
elsewhere, on the outskirts
of a provincial capital, below
a green ridge, beneath
dewy trees, near a foot-worn
clearing, by a small house,
with crackle of woman’s voice
on shortwave radio, a group
of men and women, in spare
loose clothing, brown and green
earthtones, caps on heads, bandanas
masking their faces, some holding
rifles and pistols, talk
to
a lone t.v. news reporter
with cameraman,
one of the men speaks, “the government
says that we’re bandits, but
we’re not bandits, the government
and their employers are the bandits,
they are the dead world, they
are unable to build or understand
the living world,”
one
of the women speaks, “here
we have started a school, here
is our collective storage for
distributing food, this is not
a mural in the ministry in the mural of education,
remarkable as the murals are,
we are not paintings, we are
the workers, we are
the real ministry of education, and
we have already begun teaching.”
5.
the gray buildings of an industrial
city. cement colored dawn
on the riverfront piers.
row of picket signs in front
of the long chainlink fence.
in
front of the empty equipment yard,
men and women, faces and hands
hard as pavement, tender
as morning light.
the
high-ceilinged meeting hall
thick with heat, shouting voices,
shoulders pressed together
side by side.
his
face hot as a lamp. her face
cool as a street. her face bright
with wind. his face
quick with words.
one after another, climbing to the podium,
calling out to the room,
the voices rise in the room,
the pounding of fists, the joining
of
hands. the strike vote
passes.
two blocks away, outfitted, in helmets,
holding clubs at military angle,
police line up in drill formation,
as for a parade, or a class photo,
or a show of force.
a block away, with the efficiency
of workers, workers
are piling rocks, tables,
chairs, benches, bedsprings, scrap
lumber, an old couch, bundles
of newspaper, stray
concrete blocks, spanning the width
of the street, and the same
in the next street, and the next,
voices low, wasting no movement,
faces alert, breathing calm,
ready for weather.
6.
the spinal column of years, the
charged nerve of the earth.
no clouds walking around wearing
shirts and pants.
at the top of our voices we call out
together.
the flags we wave, through
every
street, in every window,
are rising suns.
gathered near the doorway, in dusty
coats and weathered caps and
worn shoes, newspapers
under the arms, near
the wide steps.
october and november, april
and may, rose and carnations.
across the wide air the light
builds diagonal lines.
clear
globe, steel gridwork, burning rivets,
knowledge and imagination
balanced on the arms of space.
time and history and the universe.
the shape the geometry the architecture the
sculpture of the new world.
we are the shape of the new world.
pro etó, for this: the day our words meet
and speak in the sunlit prospect
free from fear,
our
true words that insist on the meeting,
for
this: looking into the clarity
of each other’s faces,
calm as statues, alive
as flights of doves,
the silt of the old world turned over
in our hands: the brimming fertile earth
that is our comrade: the insurgent
comprehending movement that is our party.
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