{"id":1009,"date":"2005-08-23T09:44:48","date_gmt":"2005-08-23T13:44:48","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/wordpress\/?p=1009"},"modified":"2005-08-23T09:44:48","modified_gmt":"2005-08-23T13:44:48","slug":"thou-shalt-not-kill","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/?p=1009","title":{"rendered":"Thou Shalt Not Kill"},"content":{"rendered":"

God said so, Marion<\/a>.<\/p>\n

THOU SHALT NOT KILL<\/strong>
\n(A Memorial For Dylan Thomas<\/a>)<\/p>\n

They are murdering all the young men.
\nFor half a century now, every day,
\nThey have hunted them down and killed them.
\nThey are killing them now.
\nAt this minute, all over the world,
\nThe are killing the young men.
\nThey know ten thousand ways to kill them.
\nEvery year they invent new ones.
\nIn the jungles of Africa,
\nIn the marshes of Asia,
\nIn the deserts of Asia,
\nIn the slave pens of Siberia,
\nIn the slums of Europe,
\nIn the nightclubs of America,
\nThe murderers are at work.
\n
\nThey are stoning Stephen,
\nThey are casting him forth from every city in the world.
\nUnder the Welcome sign,
\nUnder the Rotary emblem,
\nOn the highway in the suburbs,
\nHis body lies under the hurling stones.
\nHe was full of faith and power.
\nHe did great wonders among the people.
\nThey could not stand against his wisdom.
\nThey could not bear that spirit with which he spoke.
\nHe cried out in the name
\nOf the tabernacle of witness in the wilderness.
\nThey were cut to the heart.
\nThey gnashed against him with their teeth.
\nThey cried out with a loud voice.
\nThey stopped their ears.
\nThey ran on him with one accord.
\nThey cast him out of the city and stoned him,
\nThe witnesses laid down their clothes
\nAt the feet of the man whose name was your name-
\nYou.<\/p>\n

You are the murderer.
\nYou are killing the young men.
\nYou are broiling Lawrence on his gridiron.
\nWhen you demand he divulge
\nThe hidden treasures of the spirit,
\nHe showed you the poor.
\nYou set your heart against him.
\nYou seized him and bound him with rage.
\nYou roasted him on a slow fire.
\nHis fat dripped and spurted in the flame.
\nThe smell was sweet to your nose.
\nHe cried out,
\n“I am cooked on this side,
\nturn me over and eat,
\nYou
\nEat of my flesh.”<\/p>\n

You are murdering the young men.
\nYou are shooting Sebastian with arrows.
\nHe kept the faithful steadfast under persecution.
\nFirst you shot him with arrows.
\nThen you beat him with rods.
\nThen you threw him in a sewer.
\nYou fear nothing more than courage.
\nYou who turn away your eyes
\nAt the bravery of the young men.<\/p>\n

You,
\nThe hyena with polished face and bow tie,
\nIn the office of a billion dollar
\nCorporation devoted to service;
\nThe vulture dripping with carrion,
\nCarefully and carelessly robed in imported tweeds,
\nLecturing on the Age of Abundance;
\nThe jackal in double-breasted gabardine,
\nBarking by remote control,
\nIn the United Nations;
\nThe vampire bat seated at the couch head,
\nNotebook in hand, toying with his decerebrator;
\nThe autonomous, ambulatory cancer,
\nThe superego in a thousand uniforms;
\nYou, the finger man of behemoth,
\nThe murderer of the young men.<\/p>\n

II<\/p>\n

What happened to Robinson,
\nWho used to stagger down eighth Street,
\nDizzy with solitary gin?
\nWhere is Masters, who crouched in
\nHis law office for ruinous decades?
\nWhere is Leonard who thought he was
\nA locomotive? And Lindsay,
\nWise as a dove, innocent
\nAs a serpent, where is he?
\n Timor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

What became of Jim Oppenheim?
\nLola Ridge alone in an
\nIcy unfurnished room? Orrick Johns,
\nHopping into the surf on his
\nOne leg? Elinor Wylie
\nWho leaped like Kierkegaard?
\nSara Teasdale, where is she?
\n Timor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

Where is George Sterling, that tame fawn?
\nPhelps Putnam who stole away?
\nJack Wheelwright who couldn’t cross the bridge?
\nDonald Evans with his cane and
\nMonocle, where is he?
\n Timor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

John Gould Fletcher who could not
\nUnbreak his powerful heart?
\nBodenheim butchered in stinking
\nSqualor? Edna Millay who took
\nHer last straight whiskey? Genevieve
\nWho loved so much; where is she?
\n Tomor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

Harry who didn’t care at all?
\nHart who went back to sea?
\n Timor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

Where is Sol Funaroff?
\nWhat happened to Potamkin?
\nIsidor Schneider? Claude Mckay?
\nCountee Cullen? Clarence Weinstock?
\nWho animates their corpses today?
\n Timor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

Where is Ezra, that noisy man?
\nWhere is Larsson whose poems were prayers?
\nWhere is Charles Snider, that gentle
\nBitter boy? Carnevali.
\nWhat became of him?
\nCarol who was so beautiful, where is she?
\n Timor mortis conturbat me.<\/p>\n

III<\/p>\n

Was their end noble and tragic,
\nLike the mask of a tyrant?
\nLike Agamemnon’s secret golden face?
\nIndeed it was not. Up all night
\nIn the fo’c’sle, bemused and beaten,
\nBleeding at the rectum, in his
\nPocket a review by the one
\nColleague he respected, “If he
\nReally means what these poems
\nPretend to say, he has only
\nOne way out-.” Into the
\nHot acrid Caribbean sun,
\nInto the acrid, transparent,
\nSmoky sea. Or another, lice in his
\nArmpits and crotch, garbage littered
\nOn the floor, gray greasy rags on
\nThe bed. “I killed them because they
\nWere dirty stinking Communists.
\nI should get a medal.” Again,
\nAnother Simenon foretold,
\nHis end at a glance. “I dare you
\nTo pull the trigger.” She shut her eyes
\nAnd spilled gin over her dress.
\nThe pistol wobbled in his hand.
\nIt took them hours to die.
\nAnother threw herself downstairs,
\nAnd broke her back. I took her years.
\nTwo put their heads under water
\nIn the bath and filled their lungs.
\nAnother threw himself under
\nThe traffic of a crowded bridge.
\nAnother, drunk, jumped from a
\nBalcony and broke her neck.
\nAnother soaked herself in
\nGasoline and ran blazing
\nInto the street and lived on
\nIn custody. One made love
\nOnly once with a beggar woman,
\nHe died years later of syphilis
\nOf the brain and spine. Fifteen
\nYears of pain and poverty,
\nwhile his mind leaked away.
\nOne tried three times in twenty years
\nTo drown himself. The last time
\nHe succeeded. One turned on the gas
\nWhen she had no more food, no more
\nMoney, and only half a lung.
\nOne went up to Harlem, took on
\nThirty men, came home and
\nCut her throat. One sat up all night
\nTalking to H.L. Mencken and
\nDrowned himself in the morning.
\nHow many stopped writing at thirty?
\nHow many went to work for Time?
\nHow many died of prefrontal
\nLobotomies in the Communist party?
\nHow many are lost in the back wards
\nOf provincial madhouses?
\nHow many on the advice of
\ntheir psychoanalysts, decided
\nA business career was best after all?
\nHow many are hopeless alcoholics?
\nRene Crevel!
\nAntonin Riguad!
\nAntonin Artaud!
\nMayakofsky!
\nEssenin!
\nRobert Desnos!
\nSaint Paul Roux!
\nMax Jacob!
\nAll over the world
\nThe same disembodies hand
\nStrikes us down.
\nHere is a mountain of death.
\nA hill of heads like the Khans piled up.
\nThe first-born of a century
\nSlaughtered by Herod.
\nThree generations of infants
\nStuffed down the maw of Moloch.<\/p>\n

IV<\/p>\n

He is dead.
\nThe birth of Rhiannon.
\nHe is dead.
\nIn the winter of the heart.
\nHe is dead,
\nIn the canyons of death,
\nThey found him dumb at last,
\nIn the blizzard of lies.
\nHe never spoke again.
\nHe died.
\nHe is dead.
\nIn their antiseptic hands,
\nHe is dead.
\nThe little spellbinder of Cader Idris.
\nHe is dead.
\nThe sparrow of Cardiff.
\nHe is dead.
\nThe canary of Swansea.
\nWho killed him?
\nWho killed the bright-headed bird?
\nYou did, you son of a bitch.
\nYou drowned him in your cocktail brain.
\nHe fell down and died in your synthetic heart.
\nYou killed him,
\nOppenheimer the Million-Killer,
\nYou killed him,
\nEinstein the Gray Eminence.
\nYou killed him,
\nHavanahavana, with your Nobel Prize.
\nYou killed him, General,
\nThrough the proper channels.
\nYou strangled him, Le Mouton,
\nWith your mains entendues.
\nHe confessed in open court to a pince-nezed skull.
\nYou shot him in the back of the head
\nAs he stumbled in the last cellar.
\nYou killed him,
\nBenign Lady on the postage stamp.
\nHe was found dead at a Liberal Weekly luncheon,
\nHe was found dead on the cutting room floor.
\nHe was found dead at a Time policy conference.
\nHenry Luce killed him with a telegram to the Pope.
\nMademoiselle strangled him with a padded brassiere.
\nOld Possum sprinkled him with a tea ball.
\nAfter the wolves were done, the vaticides
\nCrawled off with his bowels to their classrooms
\n and quarterlies.
\nWhen the news came over the radio
\nYou personally rose up shouting, “Give us Barabbas!”
\nIn your lonely crowd you swept over him.
\nYour custom build brogans and your ballet slippers
\nPummeled him to death in the gritty street.
\nYou hit him with an album of Hindemith.
\nYou stabbed him with stainless steel by Isamu Noguchi,
\nHe is dead.
\nHe is Dead.
\nLike Ignacio the bullfighter,
\nAt four o’clock in the afternoon.
\nAt precisely four o’clock.
\nI too do not want to hear it.
\nI too do not want to know it.
\nI want to run into the street
\nShouting, “Remember Vanzetti!”
\nI want to pour gasoline down your chimneys.
\nI want to blow up your galleries.
\nI want to burn down your editorial offices.
\nI want to slit the bellies of your frigid women.
\nI want to sink your sailboats and launches.
\nI want to strangle your children at their finger paintings.
\nI want to poison your afghans and poodles.
\nHe is dead, the little drunken cherub.
\nHe is dead,
\nThe effulgent tub thumper,
\nHe is dead.
\nThe ever living birds are not singing
\nTo the head of Bran.
\nThe sea birds are still
\nOver Bardsey of Ten Thousand Saints,
\nThe underground men are not singing
\nOn their way to work.
\nThere is a smell of blood
\nIn the smell of turf smoke.
\nThey have struck him down,
\nThe son of David ap Gwilym.
\nThey have murdered him,
\nThe baby of Taliessin.
\nThere he lies dead,
\nBy the iceberg of the United Nations.
\nThere he lies sandbagged,
\nAt the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
\nThe Gulf Stream smells of blood
\nAs it breaks on the sand of Iona
\nAnd the blue rocks of Canarvon.
\nAnd all the birds of the deep sea rise up
\nOver the luxury liners and scream,
\n“You killed him! You killed him.
\nIn your god damned Brooks Brothers suit,
\nYou son of a bitch.”<\/p>\n

Swords That Shall Not Strike; Poems of Protest and Rebellion<\/em>
\nby Kenneth Rexroth<\/a><\/p>\n

Kenneth Rexroth on America’s War in Vietnam<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

God said so, Marion. THOU SHALT NOT KILL (A Memorial For Dylan Thomas) They are murdering all the young men. For half a century now, every day, They have hunted them down and killed them. They are killing them now. … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1009","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pdXTf-gh","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1009","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1009"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1009\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1009"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1009"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/karmalised.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1009"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}