bar none group

If Today is Your Birthday...

2012-05-25T19:07:00.001-04:00

An exciting year awaits
Change is forthcoming
Taurus will play an important role
If you are attached
If you are unattached

Romance and adventure
Bonds will grow and flourish
Financial issues will hold sway
A roller coaster of emotions

Travel abounds
Roads will open up
Avenues will close
Another year will pass

I Am Not Trayvon

2012-04-12T11:42:00.000-04:00

I am not Trayvon
I have never owned a hoodie
I don't like Skittles
I am not an African-American

I am not Zimmerman
I have never felt the need to patrol a block
I don't like guns
I am not Hispanic

I am invisible
I have been suspended from high school
I have sat in the back of a police cruiser
I was given the opportunity to grow up
and learn to be a man

- but not Trayvon

Anna Maria

2012-04-05T11:03:00.000-04:00

A name
is written with a sea shell
on the back of your thigh
as gulls cry overhead

Northern skin
pass upon your lips
as a thousand miles of memories
touch down upon your shore
Turquoise eyes
shine bright between the passing clouds
dancing to tropical rhythms
barefoot in white sands

Tattooed nylons
topped with a bow
reach for a baby's bottle
as love for some...fades

Anna Maria
is but a moment on a Floridian coast
shared yesterday and tomorrow
but for now we bend as one in the breeze

30 Days...30 Poets

2012-04-01T09:50:00.000-04:00

On April 1, the Academy of American Poets will kick off its 2nd annual celebration of "30 Days, 30 Poets" for National Poetry Month. This April, 30 dynamic poets will take over curation of the Academy's Tumblr. Each featured poet will have 24 hours to post an array of ephemera—in the form of text, images, audio, and video—before passing the baton. The Tumblr takeover follows 2011's lauded "30 Days, 30 Poets" on the Academy's Twitter feed.

This online poet marathon initiates a series of events taking place during National Poetry Month, including the publication of the Academy's newly redesigned journal, American Poet, the star-studded 10th Anniversary of Poetry & The Creative Mind (April 5) at Lincoln Center, and Poem in Your Pocket Day (April 26).

List of Poets

4/1 Anselm Berrigan
4/2 Rachel Levitsky
4/3 Michael Dickman
4/4 Wayne Koestenbaum
4/5 Bob Holman
4/6 Sandra Doller
4/7 Mathias Svalina
4/8 Brandon Downing
4/9 Zachary Schomburg
4/10 Dara Wier
4/11 Prageeta Sharma
4/12 Thom Donovan
4/13 Aimee Nezhukumatathil
4/14 Harmony Holiday
4/15 Hoa Nguyen
4/16 Eleni Sikelianos
4/17 Heather Christle
4/18 Ben Doller
4/19 Christian Bok
4/20 Ariana Reines
4/21 Emily Pettit
4/22 Samuel Amadon
4/23 Vanessa Place
4/24 Lisa Robertson
4/25 Robert Fitterman
4/26 Johannes Goransson
4/27 Julian T. Brolaski
4/28 Brandon Shimoda
4/29 Kate Durbin
4/30 Kenneth Goldsmith

Follow the Academy of American Poets on Tumblr to keep up-to-date on the latest poetry posts: http://poetsorg.tumblr.com.

Crepuscule for Juana

2012-03-31T11:44:00.000-04:00

All is calm and peaceful...In the fading light of day
the smell of jasmine fills the evening air,
in the distance over crystal clear waters,
the beating wings of swans are heard

Like a flock of snow-white flowers,
they glide over the smooth surface.
Dark bats emerge
from a thousand hiding places

And a thousand turns, and capricious spins
in tranquil skies they score a symphony
Or fly very close to the ground,

Scarcely skimming with wings of gray
the yellow petals of the bitter thistle
or the virgin blooms of the humble malva

Crepuscule for Juana is an interpretation of Juana Borrero's Crepuscular which follows below in its original Spanish. I came across Juana Borrero while walking through the Key West Cemetery at dusk. The cemetery guide refers to her as, "A prominent figure in Hispano-American thought, this modernist poet, correspondent, and painter was born in Puentes Grandes, Havana, Cuba. She emigrated with her family to Key West in 1895 because of her father's involvement in the Revolution. Her works are collected in La passión del obstáculo: poemas y cartas by Francisco Moran." Juana Borrero died of tuberculosis in 1896. She was eighteen years of age.

Crepuscular

Todo es quietud y paz... En la penumbra
se respira el olor de los jazmines,
y, más allá, sobre el cristal del río
se escucha el aleteo de los cisnes

que, como grupo de nevadas flores,
resbalan por la tersa superficie.
Los oscuros murciélagos resurgen
de sus mil ignorados escondites,

y vueltas mil, y caprichosos giros
por la tranquila atmósfera describen;
o vuelan luego rastreando el suelo,

rozando apenas con sus alas grises
del agrio cardo el amarillo pétalo,
de humilde malva la corola virgen.

- Juana Borrero

Reading Flash Mob Set for Tomorrow

2012-03-27T11:40:00.002-04:00

Organized by the inspirational Pay It Forward Foundation, this event on March 28, 2012 is set to be the World's Largest Coordinated Book Reading Flash Mob ever. Wednesday's international event has been organized to remind people to take time out of their busy days to help others without expecting anything in return and what best to do this with than a good book.

Flash mobbers are asked to bring a book that inspired them to swap/pay forward to someone else. At 4pm three people will signal the start of the flash mob, at this signal, everyone will sit down and take some time to reflect on a book that inspired them. After another signal everyone will disperse and either swap their book with someone else who has attended the flash mob, or pass it on to a complete stranger.

The Pay It Forward global movement was launched from the bestselling novel Pay It Forward by Catherine Ryan Hyde to promote random acts of kindness. Whilst inspiring the Foundation of the same name, Catherine's novel was also made into a Warner Bros. film starring Kevin Spacey and
Helen Hunt in 2000.

This is a chance to see how a random act of kindness has the potential to change someone's life and how you can be a part of a global movement of change.

The UK events will be headed up by a large Flash Mob in Trafalgar Square. To see the other flash mob locations in the UK and around the world visit the facebook page.

Street Poetry: Florida Crosswalk

2012-03-26T10:02:00.000-04:00

On occasion the Bar None Group finds street poetry plastered on walls, as in Florence, Italy and New York City. The Bar None Group has also stumbled upon found poetry by re-reading public service announcements in a different vein, as happened along the "L" in Chicago. While we search for Jack Kerouac's last call in St. Petersburg Florida we came across an intersection...

Flashing, Timer, Steady

Start crossing
Watch for vehicles

Don't start
Finish crossing

If started
Time remaining
to finish crossing

Don't cross!

The Pilsen Picasso: Remembering Francisco Mendoza

2012-03-23T00:30:00.000-04:00

Francisco Mendoza, 53, an artist and a teacher, left his mark in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood. Every day thousands walk by his murals at the 18th Street Pink Line "L" stop. His mosaic murals grace the Orozco Community Academy in Pilsen. Among his many other noted works is a mural at the YMCA in South Chicago, the neighborhood where he grew up.

"He is a legend," said Carlos Tortolero, president and founder of the National Museum of Mexican Art. "He was an artist and an arts educator."

Mendoza died on March 12, 2012 from complications resulting from multiple myeloma.

On Friday, the museum hosted a wake for Mendoza that drew hundreds and hundred of people, including many of the students he had in the 25 years he worked as a teacher at then Cooper Upper Grade Center now called Orozco Elementary.

After he was diagnosed with cancer, Mendoza lost his teaching job in 2010 due a bureaucratic error over seniority. The community came together and raised more than $40,000 to help defray his medical bills, Tortolero said.

He was a Golden Apple finalist in 2003 and also won an OPPY award in 2003 for excellence in teaching. "He always got the students interested in art," said Diana Jaimes, 19, who had Mendoza as a teacher in the 6th and 8th grades. Students often assisted him in painting his murals and many of his former students are now artists or teachers.

Jaimes remembered meeting him when she was just a first grader and how he made the students laugh. "Everyone in the school would call him Tio Pancho," said Jaimes, who also wants to become a teacher. She is studying early childhood education at DePaul University.

Some of Mendoza's childhood friends recalled his sense of humor and how he connected with people. "He was always funny. He called me The Benito," said Benito Herrera, who grew up with Mendoza in South Chicago. "He made you feel important."

Mendoza, of Mexican heritage, was born in Blue Island, and moved to the Pilsen neighborhood in 1985. The year before he graduated from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago with a bachelor's degree in fine arts and a certificate in art education.

Mendoza came from a family of artists and musicians, said his nephew James Larralde. He looked up to his older brother, Vincent, also a muralist in Chicago.

Mendoza was inspired by the the great muralists of Mexico, including Diego Rivera, who he bore a resemblance to in grand stature. The school Mendoza worked for was fittingly named for another great muralist Jose Clemente Orozco.

"He wanted to do (his art) with a Mexican influence," Larralde said.

As a young artist, Mendoza found inspiration on a trip he took to Europe as a college student. Larralde said he didn't have enough money to take that trip so he asked local doctors and businessmen to donate and raised several thousand dollars.

He traveled to Spain where he saw the master works by Picasso, Miro and Gaudi. He even painted inside El Prado museum and was reportedly kicked out for spilling paint on the floor, his nephew said. He also went to France and Portugal.

"He fulfilled a dream," Larralde said. "That trip shaped who he was."

After returning to Chicago, he repaid his trip sponsors with donations of the artwork he made while traveling. Mendoza wanted to bridge cultures with his artwork. "To me, he is the Pilsen Picasso," Larralde said.

Mendoza is survived by his brother, Vicent Mendoza; a sister, Juanita Mendoza; four nephews and a niece.

Services were held Saturday morning.

(Teresa Puente is a Professor of Journalism at Columbia College in Chicago. Ms. Puente also encourages Latina women to write and publish their stories in Latina Voices. The Pilsen Picasso: Remembering Francisco Mendoza first appeared on Teresa's blog Chicanisima under the title The Pilsen Picasso: Francisco Mendoza, 1958-2012 and appears here with her permission.)

Family Bonds

2012-03-22T00:30:00.000-04:00

People ask me why I am always able to find, and for whatever duration of time,
expose into light the existence of an essence of true inner light.

In truth the answer is quite obvious:

“I was blessed enough to be raised in the company of true Female Royalty, and the constant exposure I encountered with the combined and forever growing exchange with those who could only ever be classified as True African Queens led to my ability to distinguish between what some have, could and will still become even if unimaginable to their own understanding of any foreseeable outcome.”

This gift was given to me by these beings of pure radiance and through its employment I will forever pay homage to their teachings in the lessons of excellence. But the one who has helped me understand it most is the one that did so by merely being herself, illustrating her strength through her humility and fostering an understanding of how to wield her hidden, but not misplaced, Angelic Nature.

She is the only one that I will forever call my sister, and as I previously indicated

“This bond has and will continue to last from the past to the present and onwards into forever, because this is the love between a brother and sister”.

- Nikolai Tjongarero

(Born and raised in Windhoek, Namibia, Nikolai Tjongarero has been selected as one of the contributors to The Ground's Ear Contemporary Verse from Southern Africa poetry anthology. You can tumble Nikolai's poems and ruminations online where Family Bonds first appeared.)

World Poetry Day 2012

2012-03-21T10:34:00.000-04:00

"Poets have a presence alongside civil movements and know how to alert consciences to the world’s injustices as well as encourage appreciation of its beauty." -- Irina Bokova, Director General Message on Poetry Day 2012

In celebrating the World Poetry Day, March 21, UNESCO recognizes the unique ability of poetry to capture the creative spirit of the human mind. This internationally celebrated day allows us to pay tribute to all those men and women who strive to build a better world using words as their only tool.

Poetry allows individuals, as well as whole societies, to discover and assert their identity. The art of poetry is the foundation of diversity, allowing different languages to express their voice among the community of nations. By facilitating dialogue, poetry encourages tolerance and respect; it's the mainstay of oral tradition and, over centuries, can communicate the innermost values of diverse cultures.

In keeping with its commitment to promote diversity in world culture, UNESCO has been associated with the famous 'Struga Poetry Evenings,' held annually in Macedonia. This international festival, one of the oldest of its kind, provides striking proof to the ever-increasing vitality of poetry.

For almost half a century, some 4,000 poetry translators from over 100 countries have succeeded in creating poetic harmony in Struga. This harmony goes beyond language barriers or cultural differences, and ultimately brings people together. Among the most august prizes given at the Struga Poetry Evenings is the 'Golden Crown,' which is awarded annually to a renowned member of the poetry community. In cooperation with UNESCO, the Struga festival also accords the 'Bridges of Struga' prize to a young, novice poet. This reward is meant to encourage the youth to keep the flame of poetry alive, to restore hope to a disenchanted world and to ensure the progress of humanity.

"Know that no poet comes from the realm of the gods, but that they come from the race of men," wrote Leopold Sedar Senghor, a renowned Senegalese poet. UNESCO recognizes the importance of this message and hopes that we all "learn from our differences and converge to the universal."

In September 2011, UNESCO launched the "Rabindranath Tagore, Pablo Neruda and Aimé Césaire for a Reconciled Universal" program. Indian, Chilean and Martinique respectively, these poet-activists reacted fiercely to the contradictions of an inequitable system and an unfair world. These poets embody an ideal of humanism, which is in turn reflected by these three important words: Love, Freedom and Peace.

Free Access to 65 000 19th Century Books for HE Users

2012-03-21T00:30:00.000-04:00

The British Library and JISC Collections have announced the launch of JISC Historic Books, a new website developed by Mimas for (Higher Education) researchers and students that includes recently digitised editions of more than 65,000 books from the British Library's extensive 19th century collections.

Amounting to more than 25 million pages, the resource spans subject areas including philosophy, history, poetry and literature, with the original typeface, illustrations and fold-out pages for each book. Many rare or inaccessible books published between 1789 and 1914 are now digital, discoverable and searchable for the first time, enabling their use by many more scholars than has hitherto been possible.

The collection supports research, teaching and learning across a wide range of topics, helping students to understand the aspirations and anxieties of previous generations through such primary materials as political speeches, court gossip, religious sermons and battle reports. The addition of comprehensive metadata to the digitised book texts means users of the platforms can perform sophisticated searches, including of each book's full text; users can also download and print text and high-resolution images.

The project is the latest result of the British Library's strategy of working in partnership with the higher education community to make material more accessible for scholarly use.

"We're delighted that JISC Historic Books, and our partnership with JISC, JISC Collections and Mimas, enable HE users to explore and research many thousands of texts – whether they're classics or the hitherto more obscure end of the spectrum," says Caroline Brazier, the British Library's Director of Scholarship and Collections. "Shelves and shelves of books, that could previously only be read in our St Pancras Reading Rooms, by one reader at a time, are now simultaneously and instantly available to thousands of JISC eCollections members' users."

JISC Historic Books also contains content from two major collections of books published in England from 1475 to 1800; by consolidating over 360,000 historic books into a single world-class resource, the platform provides consistency and cross-searching that will make it easier for readers to find and use valuable content. It is one of a suite of three platforms that together form JISC eCollections, which has been developed to protect and preserve content licensed in perpetuity for UK further and higher education institutions by JISC Collections.

Institutions pay a single service fee to access all three platforms, with content then free at the point of access for students, researchers and academics. Over 140 institutions have already joined the service, which is also available via the British Library's Reading Rooms.

Water Log

2012-03-20T10:26:00.000-04:00

She pulled me closer
as the dawn broke over Pilsen
Before our eyes opened
I felt the tender squeeze of my hand
and she whispered,

Do you believe that two strangers
who met on a beach in Sayulita
could have lead to this moment?

We had met on the shores of the Pacific
By the time we arrived at my home
four hours down the coast
I would always remember her name

Our next hello was in the rain
Polka dot rubber boots
appropriate for a picnic
on an empty Lake Michigan

A fresh water frolic
on the rocky shores of Lake Huron
before Lake Ontario lifted me in the air
and brought me down again next to you

A new year rang in Puerto Vallarta
as fireworks reflected on the surf
reflected in the canals of Venice
as spring turned to summer

The Tyrrhenian Sea
on a lazy Sunday in Rome
following a dance across the Atlantic

An extended weekend on the Adriatic
as we could not pull away
from the charms and beauty
that was to be our Venice

How the sun shone down
on the Mediterranean
rescuing a weekend in Barcelona

Along the Moroccan coast
as the stiff winds blew us
to Essaouira and the discovery
of poets gone and forgotten
who travel with me still

Returning to the New World
as summer blew away New York
and an afternoon at Coney Island

A wedding by a fountain
where writers walk in Central Park
and a year end exclamation point
on the lonely Far Rockaway piers

And now I've seen the Chicago River
turn as green as the crowds
on St Patrick's Day
and you ask me,
if I can believe?

Going and Coming

2012-03-19T09:22:00.000-04:00

Let's go because we can
Up and out and across this wild-eyed

country -- no one else
has done it like we! No one

else can see first its sunrise
through our blurry eyes or
taste it's fleshy freshness on

a dewy morning stirring
beside a sleepy New England

mill town. Or smell the pungent steel hearths
of industry. Or feel the warm

ghost sea air. Or hear the sugar sand settling
under the door on bebop winds
of change, change

change the clock, the sheets, the tires,
the weather -- bursting our

chests open from love of this and this and this
This small cafe. This gravelly food. These
world-worn compatriots. This familiar

strangeness. Let's go because we can
Let's take it all in, all of it --
the whole throbbing sweaty length of it and
come back for more, begging

please! -- for more and more and more
until we lay exhausted, caressed in the sweet
traveler's afterglow: sullied and spent, sorrowed
and satisfied...

...loved

- Rick Dale

(Rick Dale is the author of The Beat Handbook: 100 Days of Kerouactions - part nonfiction how-to, part memoir, and part journal, The Beat Handbook lays out one hundred days of reading, writing, and introspection that can help you find your inner Beat. Going and Coming is from Rick's poetry collection, Once in a Blue While Moon and is used here with the author's permission. We thank Rick Dale for allowing us to share Going and Coming with our readers.)

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

2012-03-16T12:18:00.000-04:00

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

- W.B. Yeats

(William Butler Yeats was born in Dublin in 1865 and his poetry drew upon Irish mythology and folklore. At the turn of the 1900s he was aligned with the Celtic Revival -- a movement to promote Ireland's heritage in the face of Victorian era influences and English rule in Ireland. Yeats was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923 and died in 1939. An Irish Airman Foresees His Death is from his 1917 collection of poems, The Wild Swans at Coole.)

New Voice Crying Out

2012-03-14T11:25:00.000-04:00

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea – e e cummings

Out of an Indian Summer

out of an everlasting spring

the giant cradle

the giant’s cradle

spills over into an endless sea

and I throw myself on the sand

like him

the barefoot boy

like him

the chanter of both bliss and suffering

like him

the translator of notes

and those who rock and sway

and greet me with vibrant double l’s

and resonant double r’s

will lead me to the shore

to confront new waves:

they the singers of the incessant carol

who have not become

and will never become

shades of themselves.

Those who move stiffly

like automatons

through the metal and asphalt wasteland

and have ferried themselves across a Styx

and have drunk of a Lethe

all to partake of formless tasteless

mass-produced daily bread

once slaves raped by the master

now masters brandishing whips

lash out at the one

who appallingly makes the sounds

they have been taught to stifle

counterfeiting that characteristic initial double l

in llenar llevar llorar

to fill to take to cry

embezzling the heritage brought by conquistadors

and merged with the indigenous Taino

and Africans who cut the cane.

To them of the straightened hair

the dark severe suits

the slow deliberate gait

even the cry of pain or surprise ¡ay!

is but a forged signature

on a stolen check.

There on the coastline of Puerto Plata

the laughter of the tall reed-like young men

keeps time with the rhythm of the tide

not because I am

the lightest-shaded one on the beach

but as they dart past

into the spilling breakers

shouting ¡me voy para lo hondo!

I’m going deeper!

then glance back, they call

¡Amiga, de donde eres

las olas son mucho más suaves!

My friend, where you come from

the waves are much more gentle!

I watch them as one by one

they challenge the breakers

while on either side

a boy of caramel or cinnamon skin

holds my arm

for fear that I will be swept out

past the agile swimmers and body surfers

and as a wave washes over us

the new voice crying out

to them rings true.

Those who wander

the sterile sands of a stunted existence

like withering cilantro plants

or spindly stalks of oregano

in a window garden

might have bloomed

into immense bushes growing year-round

in the tropics

so how could they possibly

hear the lone singer

of the loud disconcerting aria?

On another not-so-wild beach

warned of the stinging man o’war

rip tides and the calm surface

that fools the eye

but emboldened and heedless

enchanted by his song

ven conmigo en el agua

come with me into the water

I follow the one

with skin of chocolate sin azúcar

and hair like black seaweed

while the witnesses who stayed behind

shout for him to return.

Swimming beside him

I lose sight of the waterfront

then the tallest of the watchers

merman-like

appears beside us

ordering me to climb on his back

and with powerful strokes

heads toward the beach.

When the deepest-toned one of all

the merman’s son

insists that he would have

brought me back to shore

my bearded savior

healer spellbinder lifter of curses

scolds him

until he hangs his head.

But the sound of the sun drowns out all reproaches

across the stretch of sand

out of the force of the cradle

into the sweeping current

beyond the notes of the carol

Oh! To dare and defy the waves!

I throw myself beneath the surface

as if to piece together the broken universe

while the nervous boys the bodysurfing young men

the old merman and his son

scan the sea for this other solitary guest

to emerge to draw that first sharp breath

and the new voice crying out ah! ¡ay!

to them rings true.

- Lori D. Nolasco

(An educator, poet and vocalist, Lori D. Nolasco was inspired by Walt Whitman's Out of the Cradle, Endlessly Rocking in writing New Voice Crying Out. Lori is also the author of Demetrio's Scythe: A Suite of Elegies that will be available in April, 2012. A review of Demetrio's Scythe: A Suite of Elegies will appear shortly within these pages.)

Warhol

2012-03-13T08:57:00.000-04:00

Maybe Andy was on
to something.
One-after-another
screen-printed cans—
Campbell’s soup:
red and white,
silver and gray,
navy blue with a gold seal.
An icon of comfort in
the midst of so much dismay.
Tomato, Chicken Noodle,
Split Pea,
Bean with Bacon, Pepper Pot.
Mother’s Milk, Mother’s Comfort.
Bring it on.

Did you ever stop?
Really look at art?
I mean art in a grocery store?
“Wake up!”
Andy would say.
“Look.
Listen closely.”

I pick up a navel orange.
Its dimpled skin
leaves a scent-mark
on my fingers.

“If you want to know me,
look at my art,”
“I’m a deeply superficial person.”

So I stare at him,
but he doesn’t glance back.
Eyes drifting to some
far-away place where
wholeness waits,
or to a party where
touching never held room
for emptiness.
The pull of gravity so great
the Mass collapses in
on itself,
Black Hole. Black Whole.

All that sparkles is
not diamond dust.
Even that wouldn’t adhere.
Your world
became glittered in so
much plastic.

Redemption plays in
pink and yellow
electric chairs.

Curl up,
snuggle in its lap
and die alone
while the nurse who
was there for you,
wasn’t.

Oh my God,
I am heartily sorry,
hardly,
heartily.
So much pain.
I repeat, I repeat.
Marilyn in
black and gray
and brown,
blue and pink.
We are heartily sorry
who we aren’t,
what we are
and what they made us.

The woman handed
the boy
a piece of dense bread.
“It’s dry,” he said.
“Dunk it in your soup,”
she answered.

- Victoria C. Slotto

(You may be familiar with Victoria C. Slotto from her poetry and fiction at liv2write2day, where Warhol first appeared. Victoria is also the author of Winter is Past, her second novel, published by Lucky Bat Books. Warhol was written while she was a docent at the Nevada Museum of Art and we thank Victoria for allowing the Bar None Group to share Warhol with our readers.)

Meeting of the Dharma Bums at Piper's Bar

2012-03-12T11:22:00.002-04:00

Jack came back at Piper's Bar
He was doing snuff with Chuck
And laughing at me
“I'm always here, man.
I'm the other half of your heartbeat.
I need you to keep me alive.”
I cursed and I swore
That I thought that I didn't need Jack no more
But he came down from Oregon
To put me back upon my rails
“You know how old I was when I died?” He asked
Placing a hand upon my shoulder
I nodded, “Two years older than I am now.”

Jack smiled that beatific smile and told me
That I was the Golden Eternity
I reminded him that he was only pulling Snyder's leg
And that the Scripture was a conceit
Jack looked at Chuck and asked him if HE was the Golden Eternity
Chuck smiled through a 'stache that is whiter
Than the winter snow in Lowell
Knowing that he was the Golden Eternity
I didn't know then what I knew now
And that WE are all the Golden Eternity
Existing in nothing
Because we are beyond it all

Jack straddles two worlds
It would be unfair to say that he walks among
The living and the dead
Because they are just precepts
That the weak and infirm cling to
Like marigolds and candied skulls on the Dia de los Muertos

No matter how often I remind Jack
That he isn't here
He dismisses me
And points vaguely
At something out there
What was out there in the Mexican night
Was of no worry to me
I pointed to my chest
And told Jack, “It's in here.”
Chuck looked at us both and pointed to his head
Before downing a teqtonic

I snapped off 47 pics of Jack and his aura
His voice too fragile to be read
“Yeah, okay.” I conceded
As I put his words down on paper for him
He grinned that Kerouac grin
And slapped me on the back

Jack came back at Piper's Bar
He was doing snuff with Chuck
And laughing at me
“I'm always here, man.
I'm the other half of your heartbeat.
I need you to keep me alive.”
I cursed and I swore
That I thought that I didn't need Jack no more

- Mark Butkus

(Meeting of the Dharma Bums at Piper's Bar by Mark Butkus first appeared in Bar None: An Anthology of English Writing from the Costalegre. Happy Birthday Jack Kerouac!)

Poet Laura Kasischke Among NBCC Award Winners

2012-03-09T11:59:00.000-05:00

On Thursday, March 8, at the New School’s Tishman Auditorium, the National Book Critic Circle (NBCC) presented its awards for publishing year 2011. The poetry award went to Laura Kasischke for Space, in Chains (Copper Canyon Press), a formally inventive work that speaks to the horrors and delights of ordinary life in an utterly original way.

The prize in fiction went to Edith Pearlman for Binocular Vision: New & Selected Stories (Lookout Books), a collection of 34 Chekhov-like short stories that was also nominated for the National Book Award. The publication is the first from Lookout Books and a triumph for Pearlman’s distinctive storytelling, bringing it to a larger audience.

Nonfiction went to Maya Jasanoff for Liberty’s Exiles: American Loyalists in the Revolutionary World (Knopf), a book of fresh, original, and sprightly scholarship, by Harvard professor of British history Jasanoff, acknowledging colonists’ response to Loyalists during the Revolutionary War and the consequences for Britain’s entire empire thereafter.

The biography award went to John Lewis Gaddis for George F. Kennan: An American Life (Penguin Press), a book that brings alive the remarkable American statesman while also delivering a profound understanding of U.S. foreign policy in the 20th-century.

The autobiography award went to Mira Bartók for The Memory Palace: A Memoir (Free Press), a book that rose to the formal challenge of blending her mother’s journals, reflections on her mother’s mental illness and subsequent homelessness, and thoughts on her own recovery from a head injury to create a heartfelt yet respectful work of art.

The award for criticism went to Geoff Dyer for Otherwise Known as the Human Condition: Selected Essays and Reviews (Graywolf Press), celebrating critic par excellence who showed his love of his various subject in tour-de-force language.

Kathryn Schulz was presented the Nona Balakian Citation for Excellence in Reviewing, introduced by Carolyn Kellogg, and Roberts B. Silvers of the New York Review of Books was presented the Ivan Sandrof Lifetime Achievement Award, introduced by Steven G. Kellman and Daniel Mendelsohn

The National Book Critics Circle honors outstanding writing and fosters a national conversation about reading, criticism, and literature. It was founded in 1974 to encourage and raise the quality of book criticism in all media and to create a way for critics to communicate with one another about their professional concerns. It consists of about 600 active book reviewers.

Dress the Part

2012-03-08T10:00:00.001-05:00

When your feet
travel dark paths,
you wear your boots
with the highest heels!

When your hands
hold dark things,
you wear your boldest rings!

When your heart
sings dark songs,
you wear your most passionate colors!

When you choose
the path less traveled…
dress for it!

- Abby Jones

(Abby Jones is the author of two urban fantasy novels, When Skies are Gray and Inheritance. Abby also writes random prose and reviews at Words Before the Door where Dress the Part first appeared in its original form. The Bar None Group thanks Abby for allowing us to share Dress the Part with our readers.)

¡Que viva Lila Downs!

2012-03-07T11:44:00.000-05:00

Lila Downs delivered a performance de coraz‪ó‬n, or from the heart, Saturday night at the Congress Theater in Chicago.

Downs is on tour with her new album Pecados y Milagros or Sins and Miracles. A standout song from the album is "Pecadora." The song has notes of ska, klezmer and rap with lyrics in Spanish.

She also did a beautiful rendition of "Cucurrucucu Paloma."

It's classic Lila as her musical influences come from around the world starting in her mother's home state of Oaxaca in Mexico, north to her father's Minnesota and beyond.

It's hard to describe her music with global influences. She is not only defined by Mexican or American culture. The beauty of seeing her grow with each album is how she crosses borders and brings in new cultural influences from the Middle East to Africa while singing in English, Spanish and in Mexico's indigenous languages.

She reminded the audience there are 64 such indigenous languages in Mexico. Her albums over the years also have called attention to human rights and immigration issues. She is not preachy but her music gives voice to issues often overlooked.

I've seen Lila Downs perform more than a dozen times dating back to the mid-90s at jazz clubs in Mexico City. I've also seen her perform at festivals in Guadalajara, Mexico, and in Chicago several times too.

She also gave a stellar performance when I saw her perform at Carnegie Hall last fall in New York.

There she was joined by a mariachi band and she belted out some of the classic rancheras and boleros.

At the Congress Theater show, Downs moved the audience with her versions of classics "La Llorona" and "Paloma Negra."

Her range is phenomenal from the highest cries to the lowest note.

Downs, who wore a sequined Virgin of Guadalupe on her purple dress, is loved in Chicago.

She sings and celebrates the cultural pride of Mexico yet like many of us she is not defined just by one culture. She takes the best of many cultures and celebrates them through her art.

The audience begged her for more at the end of the performance. She gave three encores and the crowd cried with excitement.

She shouted back, "¡Que viva Chicago!"

I say, ¡Que viva Lila Downs!

P.S. Special thanks to my friend Olga Lopez for the photo from Saturday's show.

(Teresa Puente is a Professor of Journalism at Columbia College in Chicago. Ms. Puente also encourages Latina women to write and publish their stories in Latina Voices. ¡Que viva Lila Downs! first appeared on Teresa's blog Chicanisima and appears here with her permission.)

Bedridden

2012-03-06T10:23:00.001-05:00

a sniffling mess
who drools out of
the corners of the eyes
leaving trails of tissues
from one room to the next
a rush hour congestion
within a pounding head
turn up the heat
turn down the heat
a petri dish yoyo of ails
a spastic dance with
each and every cough
a nixonian clearing
of the throat
lacking in virility
lacking in a pulse
somehow
still beautiful to you
returning home from work
with pistachio ice cream
to soothe a reddened throat
as you soothe a tempered soul

marching blind

2012-03-05T10:32:00.000-05:00

innocuous
ticktock tick
and repeat incessant

to pass without caring
like people never met
who march quickstep
toward self-gratification

blinded focus ignores
please say hello oh please
of overlooked existence

isolate & insulate
no time for forethought
or after

giveitup give-in
begin

- Beth Winter

An ink weaver, a craftsman, a wordsmith. Beth Winter writes poetry, prose and any thought that enters her mind at Eclipsing Winter. As we march blindly into March, the Bar None Group thanks Beth for setting the tone for the last month of winter and the first month of spring.

A Question of Sense

2012-02-27T10:47:00.000-05:00

What do you want me to say?
How are you?
I love You?

Forever lost in an ideal
Never seeking to be found
For I am with you always

Do I miss your touch?
Your body as a canvas
Where dreams come true

Of a kiss on your neck
in a darkened room
The taste of our love

A full array of senses
fumbling under sheets
moments peaking in waves

The sound of a distant shore
that crashes against our reality
A cool breeze respite from passion

Salty air of a shared ocean
takes me back to a tentative dance
as the world revolved around us

I always see tomorrow in your eyes
Even as yesterdays disappear and blend
into smiles recalled as moments

How can I ever say goodbye?
Never getting past hello
You, a keeper of words and hearts

Do you remember?
I'll never forget
You sustain me

I Accuse: Émile Zola's Famous Open Letter

2012-02-23T13:42:00.000-05:00

On January 13, 1898 French writer Émile Zola's famous J'accuse was published as an open letter in Paris' literary, arts, and social issues l'Aurore. Addressed to French President Félix Faure, Zola famously defended Alfred Dreyfus who had been unlawfully jailed for treason. Zola also accused government officials of framing Dreyfus along with charges of anti-Semitism in what was to become known as The Dreyfus Affair.

One month later on February 23, 1898 Zola was convicted of libel and fled France. Zola returned to France in June, 1899. Dreyfus was exonnerated in 1906. What follows is an English translation of Zola's famous letter.

Sir,

Would you allow me, grateful as I am for the kind reception you once extended to me, to show my concern about maintaining your well-deserved prestige and to point out that your star which, until now, has shone so brightly, risks being dimmed by the most shameful and indelible of stains?

Unscathed by vile slander, you have won the hearts of all. You are radiant in the patriotic glory of our country’s alliance with Russia, you are about to preside over the solemn triumph of our World Fair, the jewel that crowns this great century of labour, truth, and freedom. But what filth this wretched Dreyfus affair has cast on your name - I wanted to say ‘reign’ -. A court martial, under orders, has just dared to acquit a certain Esterhazy, a supreme insult to all truth and justice. And now the image of France is sullied by this filth, and history shall record that it was under your presidency that this crime against society was committed.

As they have dared, so shall I dare. Dare to tell the truth, as I have pledged to tell it, in full, since the normal channels of justice have failed to do so. My duty is to speak out; I do not wish to be an accomplice in this travesty. My nights would otherwise be haunted by the spectre of the innocent man, far away, suffering the most horrible of tortures for a crime he did not commit.

And it is to you, Sir, that I shall proclaim this truth, with all the force born of the revulsion of an honest man. Knowing your integrity, I am convinced that you do not know the truth. But to whom if not to you, the first magistrate of the country, shall I reveal the vile baseness of the real guilty parties?

The truth, first of all, about Dreyfus’ trial and conviction:

At the root of it all is one evil man, Lt. Colonel du Paty de Clam, who was at the time a mere Major. He is the entire Dreyfus case, and the entirety of it will only come to light when an honest enquiry firmly establishes his actions and responsibilities. He appears to be the shadiest and most complex of creatures, spinning outlandish intrigues, stooping to the deceits of cheap thriller novels, complete with stolen documents, anonymous letters, meetings in deserted spots, mysterious women scurrying around at night, peddling damning evidence. He was the one who came up with the scheme of dictating the text of the bordereau to Dreyfus; he was the one who had the idea of observing him in a mirror-lined room. And he was the one that Major Forzinetti caught carrying a shuttered lantern that he planned to throw open on the accused man while he slept, hoping that, jolted awake by the sudden flash of light, Dreyfus would blurt out his guilt.

I need say no more: let us seek and we shall find. I am stating simply that Major du Paty de Clam, as the officer of justice charged with the preliminary investigation of the Dreyfus case, is the first and the most grievous offender in the ghastly miscarriage of justice that has been committed.

The bordereau had already been for some time in the hands of Colonel Sandherr, Head of the Intelligence Office, who has since died of a paralytic stroke. Information was ‘leaked’, papers were disappearing, then as they continue to do to this day; and, as the search for the author of the bordereau progressed, little by little, an a priori assumption developed that it could only have come from an officer of the General Staff, and furthermore, an artillery officer. This interpretation, wrong on both counts, shows how superficially the bordereau was analysed, for a logical examination shows that it could only have come from an infantry officer.

So an internal search was conducted. Handwriting samples were compared, as if this were some family affair, a traitor to be sniffed out and expelled from within the War Office. And, although I have no desire to dwell on a story that is only partly known, Major du Paty de Clam entered on the scene as soon as the slightest suspicion fell upon Dreyfus. From that moment on, he was the one who ‘invented’ Dreyfus the traitor, the one who orchestrated the whole affair and made it his own. He boasted that he would confuse him and make him confess all. Oh, yes, there was of course the Minister of War, General Mercier, a man of apparently mediocre intellect; and there were also the Chief of Staff, General de Boisdeffre, who appears to have yielded to his own religious bigotry, and the Deputy Chief of Staff, General Gonse, whose conscience allowed for many accommodations. But, at the end of the day, it all started with Major du Paty de Clam, who led them on, hypnotised them, for, as an adept of spiritualism and the occult, he conversed with spirits. Nobody would ever believe the experiments to which he subjected the unfortunate Dreyfus, the traps he set for him, the wild investigations, the monstrous fantasies, the whole demented torture.

Ah, that first trial! What a nightmare it is for all who know it in its true details. Major du Paty de Clam had Dreyfus arrested and placed in solitary confinement. He ran to Mme Dreyfus, terrorised her, telling her that, if she talked, that was it for her husband. Meanwhile, the unfortunate Dreyfus was tearing his hair out and proclaiming his innocence. And this is how the case proceeded, like some fifteenth century chronicle, shrouded in mystery, swamped in all manner of nasty twists and turns, all stemming from one trumped-up charge, that stupid bordereau. This was not only a bit of cheap trickery but also the most outrageous fraud imaginable, for almost all of these notorious secrets turned out in fact to be worthless. I dwell on this, because this is the germ of it all, whence the true crime would emerge, that horrifying miscarriage of justice that has blighted France. I would like to point out how this travesty was made possible, how it sprang out of the machinations of Major du Paty de Clam, how Generals Mercier, de Boisdeffre and Gonse became so ensnared in this falsehood that they would later feel compelled to impose it as holy and indisputable truth. Having set it all in motion merely by carelessness and lack of intelligence, they seem at worst to have given in to the religious bias of their milieu and the prejudices of their class. In the end, they allowed stupidity to prevail.

But now we see Dreyfus appearing before the court martial. Behind the closed doors, the utmost secrecy is demanded. Had a traitor opened the border to the enemy and driven the Kaiser straight to Notre-Dame the measures of secrecy and silence could not have been more stringent. The public was astounded; rumors flew of the most horrible acts, the most monstrous deceptions, lies that were an affront to our history. The public, naturally, was taken in. No punishment could be too harsh. The people clamored for the traitor to be publicly stripped of his rank and demanded to see him writhing with remorse on his rock of infamy. Could these things be true, these unspeakable acts, these deeds so dangerous that they must be carefully hidden behind closed doors to keep Europe from going up in flames? No! They were nothing but the demented fabrications of Major du Paty de Clam, a cover-up of the most preposterous fantasies imaginable. To be convinced of this one need only read carefully the accusation as it was presented before the court martial.

How flimsy it is! The fact that someone could have been convicted on this charge is the ultimate iniquity. I defy decent men to read it without a stir of indignation in their hearts and a cry of revulsion, at the thought of the undeserved punishment being meted out there on Devil’s Island. He knew several languages: a crime! He carried no compromising papers: a crime! He would occasionally visit his country of origin: a crime! He was hard-working, and strove to be well informed: a crime! He did not become confused: a crime! He became confused: a crime! And how childish the language is, how groundless the accusation! We also heard talk of fourteen charges but we found only one, the one about the bordereau, and we learn that even there the handwriting experts could not agree. One of them, Mr. Gobert, faced military pressure when he dared to come to a conclusion other than the desired one. We were told also that twenty-three officers had testified against Dreyfus. We still do not know what questions they were asked, but it is certain that not all of them implicated him. It should be noted, furthermore, that all of them came from the War Office. The whole case had been handled as an internal affair, among insiders. And we must not forget this: members of the General Staff had sought this trial to begin with and had passed judgment. And now they were passing judgment once again.

So all that remained of the case was the bordereau, on which the experts had not been able to agree. It is said that within the council chamber the judges were naturally leaning toward acquittal. It becomes clear why, at that point, as justification for the verdict, it became vitally important to turn up some damning evidence, a secret document that, like God, could not be shown, but which explained everything, and was invisible, unknowable, and incontrovertible. I deny the existence of that document. With all my strength, I deny it! Some trivial note, maybe, about some easy women, wherein a certain D... was becoming too insistent, no doubt some demanding husband who felt he wasn’t getting a good enough price for the use of his wife. But a document concerning national defense that could not be produced without sparking an immediate declaration of war tomorrow? No! No! It is a lie, all the more odious and cynical in that its perpetrators are getting off free without even admitting it. They stirred up all of France, they hid behind the understandable commotion they had set off, they sealed their lips while troubling our hearts and perverting our spirit. I know of no greater crime against the state.

These, Sir, are the facts that explain how this miscarriage of justice came about; The evidence of Dreyfus’s character, his affluence, the lack of motive and his continued affirmation of innocence combine to show that he is the victim of the lurid imagination of Major du Paty de Clam, the religious circles surrounding him, and the “dirty Jew” obsession that is the scourge of our time.

And now we come to the Esterhazy case. Three years have passed, many consciences remain profoundly troubled, become anxious, investigate, and wind up convinced that Dreyfus is innocent.

I shall not chronicle these doubts and the subsequent conclusion reached by Mr. Scheurer-Kestner . But, while he was conducting his own investigation, major events were occurring at headquarters. Colonel Sandherr had died and Lt. Colonel Picquart had succeeded him as Head of the Intelligence Office. It was in this capacity, in the exercise of his office, that Lt. Colonel Picquart came into possession of a telegram addressed to Major Esterhazy by an agent of a foreign power. His express duty was to open an inquiry. What is certain is that he never once acted against the will of his superiors. He thus submitted his suspicions to his hierarchical senior officers, first General Gonse, then General de Boisdeffre, and finally General Billot, who had succeeded General Mercier as Minister of War. That famous much discussed Picquart file was none other than the Billot file, by which I mean the file created by a subordinate for his minister, which can still probably be found at the War Office. The investigation lasted from May to September 1896, and what must be said loud and clear is that General Gonse was at that time convinced that Esterhazy was guilty and that Generals de Boisdeffre and Billot had no doubt that the handwriting on the famous bordereau was Esterhazy’s. This was the definitive conclusion of Lt. Colonel Picquart’s investigation. But feelings were running high, for the conviction of Esterhazy would inevitably lead to a retrial of Dreyfus, an eventuality that the General Staff wanted at all cost to avoid.

This must have led to a brief moment of psychological anguish. Note that, so far, General Billot was in no way compromised. Newly appointed to his position, he had the authority to bring out the truth. He did not dare, no doubt in terror of public opinion, certainly for fear of implicating the whole General Staff, General de Boisdeffre, and General Gonse, not to mention the subordinates. So he hesitated for a brief moment of struggle between his conscience and what he believed to be the interest of the military. Once that moment passed, it was already too late. He had committed himself and he was compromised. From that point on, his responsibility only grew, he took on the crimes of others, he became as guilty as they, if not more so, for he was in a position to bring about justice and did nothing. Can you understand this: for the last year General Billot, Generals Gonse and de Boisdeffre have known that Dreyfus is innocent, and they have kept this terrible knowledge to themselves? And these people sleep at night, and have wives and children they love!

Lt. Colonel Picquart had carried out his duty as an honest man. He kept insisting to his superiors in the name of justice. He even begged them, telling them how impolitic it was to temporize in the face of the terrible storm that was brewing and that would break when the truth became known. This was the language that Mr. Scheurer-Kestner later used with General Billot as well, appealing to his patriotism to take charge of the case so that it would not degenerate into a public disaster. But no! The crime had been committed and the General Staff could no longer admit to it. And so Lt. Colonel Picquart was sent away on official duty. He got sent further and further away until he landed in Tunisia, where they tried eventually to reward his courage with an assignment that would certainly have gotten him massacred, in the very same area where the Marquis de Morès had been killed. He was not in disgrace, indeed: General Gonse even maintained a friendly correspondence with him. It is just that there are certain secrets that are better left alone.

Meanwhile, in Paris, truth was marching on, inevitably, and we know how the long-awaited storm broke. Mr Mathieu Dreyfus denounced Major Esterhazy as the real author of the bordereau just as Mr Scheurer-Kestne was handing over to the Minister of Justice a request for the revision of the trial. This is where Major Esterhazy comes in. Witnesses say that he was at first in a panic, on the verge of suicide or running away. Then all of a sudden, emboldened, he amazed Paris by the violence of his attitude. Rescue had come, in the form of an anonymous letter warning of enemy actions, and a mysterious woman had even gone to the trouble one night of slipping him a paper, stolen from headquarters, that would save him. Here I cannot help seeing the handiwork of Lt Colonel du Paty de Clam, with the trademark fruits of his fertile imagination. His achievement, Dreyfus’s conviction, was in danger, and he surely was determined to protect it. A retrial would mean that this whole extraordinary saga, so extravagant, so tragic, with its denouement on Devil’s Island, would fall apart! This he could not allow to happen. From then on, it became a duel between Lt Colonel Picquart and Lt Colonel du Paty de Clam, one with his face visible, the other masked. The next step would take them both to civil court. It came down, once again, to the General Staff protecting itself, not wanting to admit its crime, an abomination that has been growing by the minute.

In disbelief, people wondered who Commander Esterhazy’s protectors were. First of all, behind the scenes, Lt Colonel du Paty de Clam was the one who had concocted the whole story, who kept it going, tipping his hand with his outrageous methods. Next General de Boisdeffre, then General Gonse, and finally, General Billot himself were all pulled into the effort to get the Major acquitted, for acknowledging Dreyfus’s innocence would make the War Office collapse under the weight of public contempt. And the astounding outcome of this appalling situation was that the one decent man involved, Lt. Colonel Picquart who, alone, had done his duty, was to become the victim, the one who got ridiculed and punished. O justice, what horrible despair grips our hearts? It was even claimed that he himself was the forger, that he had fabricated the letter-telegram in order to destroy Esterhazy . But, good God, why? To what end? Find me a motive. Was he, too, being paid off by the Jews? The best part of it is that Picquart was himself an anti-Semite. Yes! We have before us the ignoble spectacle of men who are sunken in debts and crimes being hailed as innocent, whereas the honor of a man whose life is spotless is being vilely attacked: A society that sinks to that level has fallen into decay.

The Esterhazy affair, thus, Mr. President, comes down to this: a guilty man is being passed off as innocent. For almost two months we have been following this nasty business hour by hour. I am being brief, for this is but the abridged version of a story whose sordid pages will some day be written out in full. And so we have seen General de Pellieux, and then Major Ravary conduct an outrageous inquiry from which criminals emerge glorified and honest people sullied. And then a court martial was convened.

How could anyone expect a court martial to undo what another court martial had done?

I am not even talking about the way the judges were hand-picked. Doesn’t the overriding idea of discipline, which is the lifeblood of these soldiers, itself undercut their capacity for fairness? Discipline means obedience. When the Minister of War, the commander in chief, proclaims, in public and to the acclamation of the nation’s representatives, the absolute authority of a previous verdict, how can you expect a court martial to rule against him? It is a hierarchical impossibility. General Billot directed the judges in his preliminary remarks, and they proceeded to judgment as they would to battle, unquestioningly. The preconceived opinion they brought to the bench was obviously the following: “Dreyfus was found guilty for the crime of treason by a court martial; he therefore is guilty and we, a court martial, cannot declare him innocent. On the other hand, we know that acknowledging Esterhazy’s guilt would be tantamount to proclaiming Dreyfus innocent.” There was no way for them to escape this rationale.

So they rendered an iniquitous verdict that will forever weigh upon our courts martial and will henceforth cast a shadow of suspicion on all their decrees. The first court martial was perhaps unintelligent; the second one is inescapably criminal. Their excuse, I repeat, is that the supreme chief had spoken, declaring the previous judgment incontrovertible, holy and above mere mortals. How, then, could subordinates contradict it? We are told of the honor of the army; we are supposed to love and respect it. Ah, yes, of course, an army that would rise to the first threat, that would defend French soil, that army is the nation itself, and for that army we have nothing but devotion and respect. But this is not about that army, whose dignity we are seeking, in our cry for justice. What is at stake is the sword, the master that will one day, perhaps, be forced upon us. Bow and scrape before that sword, that god? No!

As I have shown, the Dreyfus case was a matter internal to the War Office: an officer of the General Staff, denounced by his co-officers of the General Staff, sentenced under pressure by the Chiefs of Staff. Once again, he could not be found innocent without the entire General Staff being guilty. And so, by all means imaginable, by press campaigns, by official communications, by influence, the War Office covered up for Esterhazy only to condemn Dreyfus once again. Ah, what a good sweeping out the government of this Republic should give to that Jesuit-lair, as General Billot himself calls it. Where is that truly strong, judiciously patriotic administration that will dare to clean house and start afresh? How many people I know who, faced with the possibility of war, tremble in anguish knowing to what hands we are entrusting our nation’s defense! And what a nest of vile intrigues, gossip, and destruction that sacred sanctuary that decides the nation’s fate has become! We are horrified by the terrible light the Dreyfus affair has cast upon it all, this human sacrifice of an unfortunate man, a “dirty Jew.” Ah, what a cesspool of folly and foolishness, what preposterous fantasies, what corrupt police tactics, what inquisitorial, tyrannical practices! What petty whims of a few higher-ups trampling the nation under their boots, ramming back down their throats the people’s cries for truth and justice, with the travesty of state security as a pretext.

Indeed, it is a crime to have relied on the most squalid elements of the press, and to have entrusted Esterhazy’s defense to the vermin of Paris, who are now gloating over the defeat of justice and plain truth. It is a crime that those people who wish to see a generous France take her place as leader of all the free and just nations are being accused of fomenting turmoil in the country, denounced by the very plotters who are conniving so shamelessly to foist this miscarriage of justice on the entire world. It is a crime to lie to the public, to twist public opinion to insane lengths in the service of the vilest death-dealing machinations. It is a crime to poison the minds of the meek and the humble, to stoke the passions of reactionism and intolerance, by appealing to that odious anti-Semitism that, unchecked, will destroy the freedom-loving France of the Rights of Man. It is a crime to exploit patriotism in the service of hatred, and it is, finally, a crime to ensconce the sword as the modern god, whereas all science is toiling to achieve the coming era of truth and justice.

Truth and justice, so ardently longed for! How terrible it is to see them trampled, unrecognized and ignored! I can feel Mr. Scheurer-Kestner’s soul withering and I believe that one day he will even feel sorry for having failed, when questioned by the Senate, to spill all and lay out the whole mess. A man of honor, as he had been all his life, he believed that the truth would speak for itself, especially since it appeared to him plain as day. Why stir up trouble, especially since the sun would soon shine? It is for this serene trust that he is now being so cruelly punished. The same goes for Lt Colonel Picquart, who, guided by the highest sentiment of dignity, did not wish to publish General Gonse’s correspondence. These scruples are all the more honorable since he remained mindful of discipline, while his superiors were dragging his name through the mud and casting suspicion on him, in the most astounding and outrageous ways. There are two victims, two decent men, two simple hearts, who left their fates to God, while the devil was taking charge. Regarding Lt Col Picquart, even this despicable deed was perpetrated: a French tribunal allowed the statement of the case to become a public indictment of one of the witnesses [Picquart], accusing him of all sorts of wrongdoing, It then chose to prosecute the case behind closed doors as soon as that witness was brought in to defend himself. I say this is yet another crime, and this crime will stir consciences everywhere. These military tribunals have, decidedly, a most singular idea of justice.

This is the plain truth, Mr. President, and it is terrifying. It will leave an indelible stain on your presidency. I realise that you have no power over this case, that you are limited by the Constitution and your entourage. You have, nonetheless, your duty as a man, which you will recognise and fulfill. As for myself, I have not despaired in the least, of the triumph of right. I repeat with the most vehement conviction: truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it. Today is only the beginning, for it is only today that the positions have become clear: on one side, those who are guilty, who do not want the light to shine forth, on the other, those who seek justice and who will give their lives to attain it. I said it before and I repeat it now: when truth is buried underground, it grows and it builds up so much force that the day it explodes it blasts everything with it. We shall see whether we have been setting ourselves up for the most resounding of disasters, yet to come.

But this letter is long, Sir, and it is time to conclude it.

I accuse Lt. Col. du Paty de Clam of being the diabolical creator of this miscarriage of justice - unwittingly, I would like to believe - and of defending this sorry deed, over the last three years, by all manner of ludricrous and evil machinations.

I accuse General Mercier of complicity, at least by mental weakness, in one of the greatest inequities of the century.

I accuse General Billot of having held in his hands absolute proof of Dreyfus’s innocence and covering it up, and making himself guilty of this crime against mankind and justice, as a political expedient and a way for the compromised General Staff to save face.

I accuse Gen. de Boisdeffre and Gen. Gonse of complicity in the same crime, the former, no doubt, out of religious prejudice, the latter perhaps out of that esprit de corps that has transformed the War Office into an unassailable holy ark.

I accuse Gen. de Pellieux and Major Ravary of conducting a villainous enquiry, by which I mean a monstrously biased one, as attested by the latter in a report that is an imperishable monument to naïve impudence.

I accuse the three handwriting experts, Messrs. Belhomme, Varinard and Couard, of submitting reports that were deceitful and fraudulent, unless a medical examination finds them to be suffering from a condition that impairs their eyesight and judgement.

I accuse the War Office of using the press, particularly L’Eclair and L’Echo de Paris, to conduct an abominable campaign to mislead the general public and cover up their own wrongdoing.

Finally, I accuse the first court martial of violating the law by convicting the accused on the basis of a document that was kept secret, and I accuse the second court martial of covering up this illegality, on orders, thus committing the judicial crime of knowingly acquitting a guilty man.

In making these accusations I am aware that I am making myself liable to articles 30 and 31 of the law of 29/7/1881 regarding the press, which make libel a punishable offence. I expose myself to that risk voluntarily.

As for the people I am accusing, I do not know them, I have never seen them, and I bear them neither ill will nor hatred. To me they are mere entities, agents of harm to society. The action I am taking is no more than a radical measure to hasten the explosion of truth and justice.

I have but one passion: to enlighten those who have been kept in the dark, in the name of humanity which has suffered so much and is entitled to happiness. My fiery protest is simply the cry of my very soul. Let them dare, then, to bring me before a court of law and let the enquiry take place in broad daylight! I am waiting.

With my deepest respect, Sir.
Émile Zola, 13th January 1898

en français

Pass It On

2012-02-22T09:47:00.000-05:00

I don't seem to be able to move forward
Until I catch up with my past
Will there be enough time moon goddess?
Ah, but the wheel never turns too fast
Sometimes I crave affection
Yet, then I feel smothered with love
Look for the answer in my reflection
In the moon, and the stars above
I've searched for home for all eternity
Oh goddess, is there not such a place?
Ah, but rekindle that love with your own spirit
And there you will find your own space
Once you've learned these things
That you've always known
You need not search for the answer
You must pass it on
The wheel never turns too fast
Tho' you may help it along
Give back to whence you gathered
Your life is but a song
Pass it on, pass it on

- Zanne Mack

(Zanne Mack is a talented musician from San Fransico. Along with her poems included here, Zanne brings joy to us when she performs on stage, singing her own songs while evoking the ghosts of other talented souls. Pass It On appears in the Bar None Anthology. Copies of which may still be available at Chynna's Backstage Bar in Barra de Navidad, Jalisco, Mexico where Zanne has been playing music in the winter of 2012. For a complete bio visit www.zannemack.com)