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Showing posts with label Berkeley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Berkeley. Show all posts

Thursday, May 02, 2024

ALMA MATER

by Catherine Gonick


Pro-Palestinian protesters gather in front of Sproul Hall during a planned protest at UC Berkeley in Berkeley, Calif., on Monday, April 22, 2024. (Jose Carlos Fajardo/Bay Area News Group)


A goddess of silence carries
my severed right arm
 
my Zionist  
arm they call 
 
genocidal among
many other names.

Silently moving
out of sight

through camps
where the righteous

sing from tents 
it waves goodbye.
   
I hear
the blood of words dry

feel the pain
of my phantom limb. 


Catherine Gonick's alma mater is U.C. Berkeley. She has published poetry in journals including Live Encounters, Notre Dame Review, Forge, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and in anthologies including Support Ukraine, Grabbed, and Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate. 

Thursday, August 18, 2022

(NONFICTION) THE SÁMI WORD FOR ‘HELP’ IS VEAHKKI! AND I YELL IT IN MY DREAMS TONIGHT, AND ALWAYS


by Ron Riekki


Above: Nils-Aslak Valkeapää, known as Áillohaš in the Northern Sámi language (23 March 1943–26 November 2001), was a Finnish Sámi writer, musician and artist.

“I am not saving my life for the future” 
Nils-Aslak ValkeapääTrekways of the Wind 
 
Tomorrow I go in front of a board 
to speak on the allegations that I 
was “speaking of native issues too 
frequently in class.”  When I heard 
 
these allegations, no, this allegation, 
no, this pissing-on-a-bonfire, I had 
the revelation of being had.  I had, 
yes, in class, spoke of indigenous 
 
issues, not realizing it’s a crime, 
but I am guilty of being native, of 
being Sámi, of being Karjalaiset, 
of being of a background where I 
 
hear, here, “I’ve never heard of 
that.”  The that falling flat.  And 
it’s a board of seven people.  And 
it makes me think of the time in 
 
Berkeley, where I was walking 
down the street and saw a black 
man, around 70 years old, peace- 
fully being drunk, on a bench, 
 
buzzed, yes, eyes red, yes, and 
leaving the world alone, then 
a police car drove up and an 
officer asked the man some- 
 
thing and he said something 
and another cop car pulled up 
and another cop got out and 
another cop car pulled up and 
 
more police got out and then 
a van pulled up, a cop van, 
a SWAT team reaction for 
this septuagenarian swept up 
 
so quickly into the back of 
the swallowing vehicles, all 
painted black, as if to mock, 
as if to mask them in night 
 
where the body was taken 
and I stood there and realized 
how there is the centrality of 
overreaction, of SWAT-style 
 
action movie hyperbole where, 
in the end, there is the pairing 
of kissing the woman while 
killing the man who didn’t 
 
matter, the man who was 
reduced to villain and a woman 
seduced by cliché and audiences 
in the dark, snoring.  And a First 
 
Nation playwright in Montreal 
told me that Hollywood cinema 
is all about conflict, that they 
love conflict, because colonialism 
 
is hearted in conflict, but native 
playwriting and screenwriting and 
story is about community, not con- 
flict, not the incarceration of their 
 
films, but instead about connection, 
and he said that there was a reading 
where afterwards a white man 
raised his hand and said he’d have 
 
to be honest and he said the play 
was boring, and behind him was 
a group of Anishinaabe who were 
all in tears, their sleeves filled 
 
with tears, and this man was 
bored.  And tomorrow I don’t know 
if I am getting kicked out of college 
or if I’m getting killed out of college 
 
or if I’m getting left in decorticate 
position, funeraled, how I was told 
that I was not only speaking too 
much about native issues, but I was 
 
being too “aggressive” with how I 
was talking about native issues and 
an elder, Red Pipe Woman, on 
the phone told me, “Oh, let me get this 
 
straight: a native person is being 
told they are ‘aggressive.’  They’re 
telling you that you’re being ‘savage’ 
by speaking of native issues.”  And 
 
our laughter was as normal as all 
the tall clouds above, and our laughter 
was sky-deep, and our laughter was tears, 
and the grey clouds were coming and 
 
I love walking in the rain and I walked 
home and I wondered if tomorrow 
they were going to try to destroy me 
and tomorrow I am going to find out. 
 
And tomorrow I am going to find out. 
And I will live even if they kill me. 


Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

Tuesday, May 05, 2020

BEFORE CORONA, THE CORONA

by Charles Harvey


Junkyard Find: 1968 Toyota Corona


Before the Corona
Was a virus, it was a car,
Carrying us like
The wind to Woodstock,
Berkeley, Kent State,
Selma, Detroit, Watts—
All them hotspots.

Six of us piled in.
Inches apart was a luxury.
We didn’t give a duck,
Coziness roused our hormones
And made us want to fuck.
Our long hair tangled in the seats.
Our ‘fros flattened and sweated
To the rhythm of soul beats.

Before the Corona
Was a virus, it was a car,
Traveling all around the world
Spawning revolutions,
Liberal ideologies,
And X-gen babies.

Before the Corona was a virus
Before T***p was a virus
Before social media was a virus
Before Fox News was a virus
Before the Republican Party was a virus
The Corona was a car, baby!


Charles Harvey is a native Houstonian. His work has appeared on TheNewVerse.News over the years. He recently published Rough Cut Until I Bleed

Saturday, November 23, 2019

C0LDER (S0NNET 0) AND C0LDER, BERKELEY

by Ron Riekki




“Arrests made as hundreds protest Ann Coulter speech” 
Los Angeles Times, November 20, 2019


Walking to the grocery store, I turn a corner to see
dozens of cops in riot gear, them loading vans
with weapons, the militarization of the police
where I see more of them in this minute—as I walk
nervously through their bulletproof everything—
than I had seen in a decade of small-town life,
but this is the time of riots and gear, of fire and fear,
and I remember walking to the same store just after
the last riot where the ground held footprints in blood
where I could see the exact path where someone had run
for their life, and my neighbor told me, "I bet today
was the hottest day it’s ever been here,” and there’s
a streetlight gone, the post yanked out of the ground.


Ron Riekki’s most recent book is Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).