Political Poetry

Last Saturday we spent the morning discussing political poetry. What kind of poetry is deemed "political"? What is the poet's responsibility to the state? How literal do you have to be in order to get your message across? These questions were brilliantly addressed in a range of thoughtful poems. Students dealt with topics such as terrorism, surveillance, abortion, and gun control.

Before putting pen to paper, we listened to Australian poet and activist Luka Lesson.

Below is Emily's poem, inspired by the recent Boston bombings:


I remember that day
Like an old favourite song
When fathers and cousins and brothers and mothers called home
They said they were stuck in their apartment, that danger was near
When they called my cell phone
I was too nervous to hear
The awful stories they told.
My cousin was running in that marathon, my friend’s sister lived on that street,

My aunt lives right ‘cross the river, and they were all huddled underneath their 

sheets. 

One time the men were spotted, less than a mile from my dad’s friend, inactive 

bombs had landed 

On my cousin’s street’s end. 

So before I said Amen that night

I made sure to bow my head, for safety, happiness, and comfort, and for all of 

the tears they shed.

Below is Kayla's poem on abortion:


When does a human officially become alive?
Is it the moment of conception, or after two weeks, or five?
Or is it the moment when the child is born?
If one aborts a three-day old child, should it be something to mourn?
It’s easy to tell when someone is dead by their tomb,
But is a person alive when still in the womb?
It’s hard to tell; all these concepts are hazy
But the amount of discussion on abortion rights is crazy.


Getting an abortion is not committing manslaughter;
If your child is a tiny embryo, she’s not yet your daughter.
I think abortion should be available to all
Just because you don’t approve, doesn’t mean you should get to call
The shots for women all around;
Women have rights, and those rights shouldn’t be drowned.

Say, for example, a teenage girl is raped.
Does she then deserve to have her whole life shaped
By the baby she’ll have to drop out of high school to raise
Left to dream of the life she was robbed of in so many ways?

Or perhaps a husband and wife
Have a difficult life
And accidentally conceive a son.
Though financially unready, what’s been done has been done
And without an abortion, their child will be born
Into an unequipped family whose life will be torn.

Abortion is a highly controversial debate
But why should people have a say in someone else’s baby’s fate?
It’s like getting a haircut; you wouldn’t let other people choose
What you’re going to do when you’re the one who’s got everything to lose
And although a baby is obviously worth more than some hair,
Women should be able to get abortions if they want; it’s only fair.

Even if you don’t agree with the procedure from a moral point of view,
If I want to have an abortion, my rights shouldn’t be decided by you.

Winter's poem was inspired by the Sandy Hook massacre.

One Incident (Sandy Hook)

One gun, twenty-six lives,

Can’t you hear the children’s cries?

Twenty young minds ready to learn,

Twenty young minds eager to learn—

They draw their last breath,

They are consumed by immortal death.  

The children live in the skies,

And their parents whisper, “That’s where my little angel lies.”

Family and friends cry

And ask, “Why?”

What are we doing, waiting in concern?

Don’t you know there shouldn’t be a concern?

Why does it take years for us to do the aftermath?

Can’t you see that we’re on the wrong path?

We wait for the US to approve of a law

To save our children, but we can’t because there’s some sort of flaw:

The right to bear arms stands in the way

Of saving twenty some lives every day.

The right to bear arms stands like a barrier

Between the person who is the carrier

Of Semi-automatic firearms, magazines, with ten rounds

Of ammunition, and children who try to escape the annihilating sounds.

What kind of world do we live in? You are vain

To want machine guns for self-protection. Don’t you see how much pain

You cause millions of people, friends and family?

We can’t ban military guns, you say that’s crazy?

The lives of young children, young children, are taken,

And these deaths can’t make the country awaken

From five words written

That you’re following like some sort of religion—

A new age has risen,

And you still can’t give in.

The men, the children, the women–

Dead because of your distorted vision.

Do you need the right to own a semi-automatic gun

While these children for the last minutes of their precious lives run?

Hunting is one thing, but murdering is another—

A rifle for a deer not a machine gun for a mother, father, and brother.

Have your Second Amendment of the Constitution,

And your SKS and AK-47 and your hundred round ammunition—

I hope you feel very safe in your home

While children are killed by a load

Of bullets

And bullets

And bullets

And bullets

I hope you feel very safe in your home

While children are killed by a load

Of bullets

And bullets

And bullets

And bullets

Do these names mean anything to you?

They mean the world many. But “adieu”

Anne, Grace, James, Chase and Lauren

Victoria, Mary, and Allison

Charlotte, Josephine, Olivia, and Daniel

Ana, Dawn, Madeleine, and Rachel

Jesse, Anne, Emilie, and Dylan

Jack, Jessica, Noah, and Catherine

They weren’t saved because of you,

As you look at your guns like a menu:

The price, the amount,

Your precious collection to mount.

One gun, twenty-six lives,

Can’t you hear the children’s cries?

Twenty young minds ready to learn,

Twenty young minds eager to learn—

They draw their last breath,

They are consumed by immortal death.  

The children live in the skies,

And their parents whisper, “That’s where my little angel lies.”

Family and friends cry

And ask, “Why?”

Kendra decided to write about prejudice...

Our eyes

We see through thick veils, we observe with a thousand blurred images. We watch, gazes narrowed, and tongues dry of words.

Our mouths

We speak on a shallow surface. We say words with feet tucked firmly in our own shoes, sharpening our lips to knives.

 

Our ears

 

We soak up words, leave the gates to our minds unguarded. We listen and scoff without knowing conversation. We meet those with unfamiliar teeth with armed walls.

 

 

Our noses

We inhale green tinted stinks, and cough from the back of our throats. We are suffocated, twisting sweet flowers and mistaking them for garbage.

 

 

Our hands

We hold slim metal, raise fists high and slam them downward. We rip and tear with tremulous fingers. We burn, with skin immune to fire.
We see, but we are blind
We eat like we're starved
We ignore soft singing
We sniff only familiar flowers
We fight with bloody fists

And answer this, all you haters, all you hated: what good does it do?