CZM Book Club: Selected Poems of Voltairine de Cleyre

I'm going to read some poetry to you. I'm not sorry, because April is National Poetry Month, and so we figured we'd read you some poetry from a prominent anarchist, feminist, writer, and public speaker, Voltering Declaire. Voltering Declaire, if you haven't heard of her, she's like nineteenth century right. She was radicalized to anarchism by the Haymarket Affair of eighteen eighty six in Chicago. See the very first episode of the podcast Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff about that story?

And why you have an eight hour work day? I don't know anyone who has an eight hour work day? Why we ostensibly have an eight hour work day? She was a lifelong advocate for free thought, women's liberation, atheism, and anti theism and anarchy and spoke fiercely against authoritarianism and state repression. She was a friend of Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman, Lucy Parsons, the IWW, some of the people I talk about all the time on my podcast, and

also the broader Philadelphia and Chicago anarchist scenes. Her politics were influenced by her lived experience with extreme poverty and gender based violence, as well as chronic illness and disability. She passed away in nineteen twelve at the age of forty five after a long and painful period of decline. She was buried in Waldheim Cemetery now called the Forest Home Cemetery in Chicago, which is kind of the pilgrimage place of choice for American anarchists, right next to the

Haymarket Martyrs whose executions changed her life. And remember that name Waldheim because it will come up in her poems. After her death, she was remembered by her friend Emma Goldman as the quote most gifted and brilliant anarchist woman America ever produced. Maxnet Law honors are more simply as quote the pearl of anarchy. She was asked why she considered herself an anarchist and she responded because I cannot help it. And today we're going to read some of

her poetry. She wrote prolifically her whole life and published in all the radical journals of the time. Newspapers were just a huge thing. Just every radical had their newspaper and they had huge distributions. You're talking tens hundreds of thousands of copies of things going around. So this is a bigger deal than it might sound when we think about like the newspapers of this or that radical clique

right now, we aren't thinking in the same scale. Usually published in Lucifer the Light Bearer, The Rebel, Free Society, and Mother Earth, and will read her poems about revolution, martyrdom, grief, the systemic violence of racial capitalism, the Mexican Revolution, a lilting lyric poem that could probably best be described as an inside joke between friends, and one that I can only describe as heretic pride or maybe staging a revolution

against God and Heaven. These poems come from a volume of her work edited by her longtime comrade and literary friend Sasha Berkman, who I haven't covered on the show yet. Besides, he shot a robber baron who was killing a bunch of workers. He tried to break out of prison. He was bisexual, king Yeah, Sasha Berkman's Cool. These were collected into a volume of her work edited by Sasha Berkman in tribute to her memory after her passing. So the

poetry of altering declare the hurricane. We are birds of the coming storm. August spies. The tide is out, The wind blows off the shore, bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun. The sea complains, but its great voice is low, bitter, thy woes, O people, And the burden hardly to be borne, wearily grows, O people, all the aching of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn. But yet thy time is not and low, thy moaning desert thy sands. Not yet is thy breath hot, vengefully blowing.

It wafts o'er lifted hands. The tide has turned, the vein veer slowly round. Slow clouds are sweeping o'er the blinding light, white crests curl on the sea. Its voice grows deep, angry, thy heart, O people, and it's bleeding fire, tipped with rising hate. Thy clasped hands part O people, for thy praying warmed not the desolation. God did not hear thy moan. Now it is swelling to a great drowning cry, a dark wind cloud, a groan now backward,

veering from that death sky. The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths the world white sand heaps with the foam, white waves, thundering, the sea rolls o'er the shell crunched wall. Strong is thy rage o people in its fury, hurling thy tyrants down. Thou meetest wage o people, very swiftly. Now that thy hate is grown. Thy time at last is come thou heapest anguish, where thou thyself wert bear no longer to thy dumb God. Clasped and kneeling, Thou answered thine own prayer. See Isle Sitty,

New Jersey, August eighteen eighty nine. All right, next poem optimism. There's a love supreme in the great hereafter the buds of earth are bloom in heaven. The smiles of the world are ripples of laughter when back to its aiden, the soul is given, and the tears of the world, though long and flowing water the fields of the bye and bye, they fall as dews on the sweet grass. Growing, When fountains of sorrow and grief r undry, though clouds hang over the furrows now sowing, there's a harvest sun

wreath in the after sky. No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly. There's a vast perfection beyond the grave, up the bays of heaven. The stars shine plainly, the stars lying dim on the brow of the wave. And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they shall shine all undimmed in the ether nave, For the altars of gods are lit with souls, fan of flaming with love, where the star wind rolls Saint John's Michigan eighteen eighty nine. But do you know what isn't

a poem but has its own certain poetry? That's right? Maybe advertisement is the poetry of our time in that most people don't want to listen to it. No, it's not poetry at all. It adds. It's just a thing that happens. I don't know. Here's the ads, and we're back. This poem is called at the Grave in Waldheim, which is yeah, where she is later buried next to some of her heroes, the Haymarket Martyrs. Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest, their lids kissed clothes, the lips

of peace over each pulseless and painless breast. The hands lie folded and softly pressed as a dead dove presses a broken nest. Ah, broken hearts were the price of these. The lips of their anguish are cold and still. For them are the clouds and the gloom all past. No longer the woe of the world can thrill the cords of those tender hearts, or fill the silent dead house. The people's will has mapped asunder the strings. At last, the people's will. Ah. In years to come, Dearly you'll

weep that ye did not save. Do ye not hear now the muffled drum, the tramping feet, and the ceaseless hum of the million marchers, trembling dumb in their tread to a yawning giant grave. And yet, ah, yet there's a rift of white tis breaking over the martyr shrine. Halt there, ye, doomed. One bathes the night as lightning darts from its scabbard, bright and sweeps the face of sky with light. No more shall be spilled out the blood red wine. These are the words it has written

there keen as the lance of the northern morn. The sword of Justice gleams in its glare, and the arm of Justice, upraised and bare, is true to strike, Aye, tis strong to dare it will fall where the curse of our land is born. No more shall the necks of nations be crushed, no more to dark tyrannies throne

bend the knee. No more an abjection be ground to the dust by their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades, Trust by the brave heartbeat stilled by the brave voices hushed, We swear that humanity yet shall be free Pittsburgh, eighteen

eighty nine. Its next poem is called Light upon Waldeim, and the figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago Martyrs in the Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior woman dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man, just past his agony, and her right hand is drawing a dagger from her bosom. This is worth knowing Light upon Waldheim, And the earth is gray, a bitter wind is driving from the north, The stone is cold. The strange cold whispers say what

do ye hear? With death. Go forth, go forth is this thy word, O mother, with stern eyes crowning thy dead with stone caressing touch. May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies slain in our name, for that he loved us much? May we not linger till the day is broad. Nay, none are stirring in the stinging dawn, None but poor wretches that make no moan to God? What use are these? O vow? With dagger drawn, go forth,

go forth, stand not to weep. For these till weakened with your weeping Like the snow, ye melt dissolving in a coward piece. Light upon Waldheim, brother, Let us go, London, October eighteen ninety seven. Can The next poem is called The road Builders, opens with a little parenthetical aside, who built the beautiful roads? Queried a friend of the present order.

As we walked one day along the macmadized driveway of Fairmount Park, I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude toombs, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth

full of earth, and he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite quite dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero. He a poor black man, taking

the will of God and asking nought. Think of him. Thus, when next your horses feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road, think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. Tis a blood gift to an o'er reaching world that does not think ignorant, mean and soulless. Was he well still human? And you drive upon his co Worps, Philadelphia, July twenty fourth, nineteen hundred. The next poem is called marsh Bloom, and it's dedicated

to Gaetano Breshi. Gaetana Brushy. I don't have my notes in front of me, but he was this Italian immigrant who lived in Patterson New Jersey worked as a shoemaker, and one day when the Italian King Mberto two, I think, gave an award to a man who had gonned down hundreds and hundreds of workers who had peacefully demonstrated for bread. You know, they had been like, hey, we're hungry, and

the government had killed them all. Gaetano Breshi was like, you know, I can't really just sit around and make shoes in New Jersey. So he bought a gun in a one way ticket to Italy and he killed King Emberto two and his comrades then raised his kid. That's Gaetana Brushy. This poem is called marsh Bloom Requiem, Requiem blood red blossom of poisoned stem broken for man, swamp sunk leafage and dungeon bloom seated bearer of royal doom? What now is the ban? What to thee is the

island grave? With desert wind and desolate wave? Will they silence death? Can they weight thee now with the heaviest stone? Can they lay aught on thee with thee alone? Thou hast conquered breath? Lo it is finished a man for a king mark you well, who have done this thing? The flower has roots bitter and rank grow the things of the sea. Ye shall know what sap ran thick

in the tree when ye pluck its fruits. Requiem, Requiem, Requiem, sleep On, sleep on, ac cursed of them who work our pain, A wild marsh blossom shall blow again from a buried root in the slime of men. On the day of the Great Red Rain, Philadelphia, July nineteen oh one. That line, on the day of the Great Red Rain. Yeah, anyway, but do you know what won't sweep away the existing order in a wash of blood? Our advertisers, they are the existing order, and we're back. Okay. This next poem

is called Love's Compensation. I went before God and he said, what fruit of the life I gave? Father? I said, it is dead, and nothing grows on the grave, where ofth was the Lord and stern has how not to answer me? Shall the fruitless root not burn and be wasted? On? Early? Father? I said, forgive, for thou knowest what I have done that another's life may live. Mine turned to a barren stone. But the Father of life sent fire and burned the

root in the grave. And the pain in my heart is dire for the thing that I could not save for the thing. It was laid on me by the Lord of life, to bring fruit of the ungrown tree that died for no watering. Another has gone to God, and his fruit has pleased him well, for he sitteth high while I plod the dry ways down towards hell. Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord, whose tears made that fruit's root wet. Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,

and thy guards by the gate are set. Thou wilt give me up to the fire, and none shall deliver me. For I followed my heart's desire, and I labored not for thee I labored for him. Thou hast set on thy right hand, high and fair. Thou lovest him, Lord, And yet twas my love won him there. But this is the thing that thou hast been, hath been since the world began, that love against self must sin, and a woman must die for a man. And this is the thing that shall be, shall be till the whole

world die. Kiss met. My doom is upon me? Why murmur? Since I am I Philadelphia, August eighteen ninety eight. This next poem is called a novel of color, And this is the one that's probably inside joke, but it's just kind of neat, and it opens with the parenthetical aside.

The following is a true and particular account of what happened on the night of December eleventh, eighteen ninety five, but it is likely to be unintelligible to all save the chipmunks and the elephant, who, however, will no doubt recognize themselves. Chapter one. Chipmunks three sat on a tree, and they were as green as green could be. They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late, and chirruped and chirrupped, and ate and ate. Tis a pity of chipmunks without

nuts and a gnawing hunger in their guts. But they should be wise like you and me, and color themselves to suit the tree. Achi Achi Achi Achi gay chaps? Are we we chipmunks three? An elephant, white and sorry, plight, hungry and dirty and sad. But night straggled one day on the nutting ground, lo chattered the chipmunks Our chances found. Behold the beast's color were he as we? Green and

sleek and nut full were he. But the beast is big, and the beast is white, and his skin full of emptiness, serves him right, achi achi achi achi, Let us sit on him, sit on him. Chipmunks three, Chapter two. Three chipmunks green right gay were seen to leap on the beast his brows between. They munched at his ears and chiffeted his chin, and satin sat and satin on him. Not a single available spot of hide where a well sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride, but was chipped and

chipped and chip chipmunked till aught. But an elephant must have flunked. Achi Achi achi achi, What a ride we're having? We chipmunks three, Chapter three burn chapter four? What was it? Blue? A wu a woo? Three green chipmunks have all turned blue. The elephant smiles a peaceful smile and lifts off a tree trunk sends haste or guile. Seize him, seize him. He's stealing our tree. We are undone. Undone, shrieked the chipmunks. Three. The elephant calmly upraised his trunk and said, did I

hear a green chipmunk? Achi a chi a chi a chu chippy? You're blue? So are you? So are you? Philadelphia, December eighth, teen ninety five. And this next poem I actually I think first heard about because the person who did our theme music for cool people who did cool stuff is a amazing songwriter and cellist named Unwoman, and she at one point set this poem to music. And this poem is called written in red. It's gonna be really interesting to not try and read it in the

same cadence as the song. This is dedicated to our living dead in Mexico's struggle. This was about the Mexican Revolution. Written and read. Their protest stands for the gods of the world to see. On the dooming wall. Their bodyless hands have blazondo farsan and flaring brands I loom. The message sees the lands, open the prisons and make men free. Flame out the living words of the dead, written in red. Gods of the world, their mouths are your guns have spoken,

and they are dust. But the shrouded living, whose hearts were numb, have felt the beat of awakening drum within them, sounding the dead man's tongue calling smite off. The ancient rust have beheld, resurrects it the word of the dead written and read, bear it aloft a roaring flame skyward aloft where all may see slaves of the world are caused the same. One is the immemorial shame, one is the struggle, and in one name manhood, we battle to set men free. Uncurse us the land Burn the Words

of the Dead written and read. I think this was vulturing into Claire's last poem. Then she wrote, Uncurse us the land Burn the Words of the Dead. Yeah, I don't know. I don't have them blot specifically to say about the poetry. Besides, I like that she has a lot of different stuff. I actually really like the Chipmunk poem might be my favorite poem of it. I don't know the fuck it's about, but it's really fun to read, and I would read a kid's book of it anyway.

Vaguely speaking of Haymarket and may Day, which I was a while ago, because some of these poems are about that. We have some exciting stuff happening on book club for you. We're going to do an experiment, because this is always the book club where we do the reading for you, but we're going to try a thing where we listen to what you have to say about some stuff. We have some reading that I'm not going to do for you ahead of time that you have to go and

read yourself these stories. I believe in you. I trust you. I believe in your capacity to read two short stories so that when we talk about it in early May, we'll be able to include your words. I want you to read the stories. They're both by Ursula k Legwin. One is very very short. It's called the Ones who Walked Away from om A Loss ome E La s and the other story is called The Day Before the Revolution, both by Ursula kay Legwin. You can find them both online.

I believe in you, and then we're going to talk about them. I'm going to talk with some other people about these stories, but we're also going to include your words. And I think the way that we're going to do this, I will update you if this is not the way we're doing it is that I'm going to make a post on the it could Happen here Reddit. I never use Reddit, That's not true. I lurk on Reddit, not the podcast reddits. I can't bring myself to do that,

but I do like Reddit. But I'm going to post on that it could happen here Reddit and people can add their comments about those stories there and we'll kind of curate them and include them in our discussion. We'll make it a good and proper book club with your help. I believe in you anyway. I'm Margaret Kiljoy. You can find me on the Internet at Margaret kildoy and on Blue Sky and Instagram in particular, as well as my substack where I write about things every week. And I'll

find you on the Internet. I don't know how m I'll be able to find you, but maybe I am paying attention to your web traffic. I'll find you reading The Ones who Walked Away from Omelas and the Day Before the Revolution by Ursula k Legwin, for example, on the Anarchist Library. There's a very large library on the Internet called the Anarchist Library that has a lot of texts, and I believe it includes those texts. All right, take care of each other, Fuck Ice, free Palestine, Up the punks.

I never say up the punks anymore. How Come people don't say up the punks? I guess because we moved beyond subculture. But I still believe we shout up the punks. It could happen here as a production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website cool zonemedia dot com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts, you can find sources. It could happen here, Updated monthly

at coolzonemedia dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening.