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    dots Submission Name: Wounded Kneedots

    Author: col13x
    Elite Ratio:    2.26 - 119/300/559
    Words: 315
    Class/Type: Poetry/BrokenHeart
    Total Views: 375
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2117


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsWounded Kneedots

    Wounded Knee

    Through an early fog vague human figures formed
    Grey against this orange light of dawn
    In fluttering feathers and tattered skins
    They stood, green and verdant lands resting in their eyes and in their hands
    And about their feet the deserted winds blew desert sands
    A dust of ages passed
    Tore their peace from silent mouths
    And blood and massacre
    Betrayed the promises they held

    And the whistling desert sands still have not learnt
    To halt their rampage
    While through Eurasian Caucasian civilization
    Extinction sweeps ever closer

    Lost forever the very last lesson
    Gone forever a spirit of symbiosis integrity
    Balanced so precariously
    And now
    Progress walks with Wounded Knee

    So silent is this rape
    Through veins of mineral, political and religious carnage
    While “Manifest Destiny” continues its murder for the sake of money
    All bound and tied to the twenty first century
    And now progress walks with Wounded Knee

    The white dream has swallowed humanity
    And grown to marvel and to shackle
    Through the mire of disillusion, desperation and boredom
    Nothing but entertainment offers up deliverance
    Sucked to the marrow in the search of mystery
    And mourned now are the ghosts of history
    Ignorance a foot hold
    Contempt a foundation
    Greed the cement to build the walls
    Stupidity the bricks to raise it high
    Cruelty the merciless slate of excuse

    This pursuit of pleasure has forgotten
    And repudiated any connection
    To the North American Indian
    Death and capitalism are now the only reality
    And civilization and progress walk into the future with Wounded Knee

    Am I then this product of this history
    These deserted ghosts of time
    May have saved us from this destiny
    I walk now with the cohorts of the blind
    I walk with Wounded Knee

    Submitted on 2008-10-18 15:44:00     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
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    3: meh!
    4: Pretty cool
    5: Wow!

    ||| Comments |||
      This is the second work I've read of your's, just because I didn't want to only read one and leave you some generic "OMG You are SOOOOOOOOO good that this!"

    Anyway, you touch on the darker points of the world, but in an enlightened sort of way.

    Your first two lines (Through an early fog vague human figures formed
    Grey against this orange light of dawn) were like a movie in my head. I saw the foggy mist clinging in the air, surrounding these faint outlines you describe. Your imagery is beautiful in this, and I applaud you for its simplistic yet forceful nature.

    Throughout I have no complaints. I tend to like longer pieces simply because it takes a great writer to put together a piece of work that you can follow, keep interest in, and complete in one sitting. You have a talent for long poetry and you should expand on it.

    I enjoyed this to the fullest.

    In conclusion, you wrap the entire gloomy-day note with a wonderful final stanza:
    Am I then this product of this history
    These deserted ghosts of time
    May have saved us from this destiny
    I walk now with the cohorts of the blind
    I walk with Wounded Knee

    Out of the ENTIRE piece..THIS stanza is by far, in my opinion, your best in this work. You not only give the perspective of a less than favorable humanity standing, but you give it a face: Yourself. You bring forth the idea that we are all products of the assembly line of the past, and we cannot distance ourselves from it, since we are still (in a way) a piece of what was and what is.

    Kudos. :)
    | Posted on 2008-10-21 00:00:00 | by Celeste J. Bell | [ Reply to This ]
      WOW! You give us, with this piece, a historical, spiritual and human look not just back but within.

    I am part Indian - Blackfoot & I have always felt a connection to nature and the divine through my appreciations of nature, man & beast.

    Wonderful piece!

    love,peace,joy,abundance & smiles to share
    | Posted on 2008-10-20 00:00:00 | by Epiphany | [ Reply to This ]
      this is powerful in scope and vision; what you bring up.... whoa. there's so much to chew over here, i honestly don't know where to start.

    blind faith.
    seasons turning.
    hate and hypocrisy.
    we are such ants, aren't we? focused on the now and me and i and me and what's next for dinner. or so i think. but i'm a jaded bunny.

    here, one of my favourite poems ever. it's freakin' long but read it. out loud to yourself if you can. it might change your life, it might not. you'll see. but the ideas and imagery you bring up in this poem has definite parallels.

    Federico Garcia Lorca - Ode to Walt Whitman

    By the East River and the Bronx
    boys were singing, exposing their waists
    with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
    Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
    and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

    But none of them could sleep,
    none of them wanted to be the river,
    none of them loved the huge leaves
    or the shoreline's blue tongue.

    By the East River and the Queensboro
    boys were battling with industry
    and the Jews sold to the river faun
    the rose of circumcision,
    and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
    herds of bison driven by the wind.

    But none of them paused,
    none of them wanted to be a cloud,
    none of them looked for ferns
    or the yellow wheel of a tambourine.

    As soon as the moon rises
    the pulleys will spin to alter the sky;
    a border of needles will besiege memory
    and the coffins will bear away those who don't work.

    New York, mire,
    New York, mire and death.
    What angel is hidden in your cheek?
    Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat?
    Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

    Not for a moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
    have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
    nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
    nor your thighs pure as Apollo's,
    nor your voice like a column of ash,
    old man, beautiful as the mist,
    you moaned like a bird
    with its sex pierced by a needle.
    Enemy of the satyr,
    enemy of the vine,
    and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth...

    Not for a moment, virile beauty,
    who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads,
    dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river
    with that comrade who would place in your breast
    the small ache of an ignorant leopard.

    Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho,
    man alone at sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
    because on penthouse roofs,
    gathered at bars,
    emerging in bunches from the sewers,
    trembling between the legs of chauffeurs,
    or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe,
    the faggots, Walt Whitman, point you out.

    He's one, too! That's right! And they land
    on your luminous chaste beard,
    blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
    crowds of howls and gestures,
    like cats or like snakes,
    the faggots, Walt Whitman, the faggots,
    clouded with tears, flesh for the whip,
    the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers.

    He's one, too! That's right! Stained fingers
    point to the shore of your dream
    when a friend eats your apple
    with a slight taste of gasoline
    and the sun sings in the navels
    of boys who play under bridges.

    But you didn't look for scratched eyes,
    nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges children,
    nor frozen saliva,
    nor the curves slit open like a toad's belly
    that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces
    while the moon lashes them on the street corners of terror.

    You looked for a naked body like a river.
    Bull and dream who would join wheel with seaweed,
    father of your agony, camellia of your death,
    who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator.

    Because it's all right if a man doesn't look for his delight
    in tomorrow morning's jungle of blood.
    The sky has shores where life is avoided
    and there are bodies that shouldn't repeat themselves in the dawn.

    Agony, agony, dream, ferment, and dream.
    This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
    Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
    war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
    the rich give their mistresses
    small illuminated dying things,
    and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.

    Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire
    through a vein of coral or a heavenly naked body.
    Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time
    a breeze that drowses in the branches.

    That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
    against the little boy who writes
    the name of a girl on his pillow,
    nor against the boy who dresses as a bride
    in the darkness of the wardrobe,
    nor against the solitary men in casinos
    who drink prostitution's water with revulsion,
    nor against the men with that green look in their eyes
    who love other men and burn their lips in silence.

    But yes against you, urban faggots,
    tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts.
    Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies
    of the love that bestows crowns of joy.

    Always against you, who give boys
    drops of foul death with bitter poison.
    Always against you,
    Fairies of North America,
    Pájaros of Havana,
    Jotos of Mexico,
    Sarasas of Cádiz,
    Apios of Seville,
    Cancos of Madrid,
    Floras of Alicante,
    Adelaidas of Portugal.

    Faggots of the world, murderers of doves!
    Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches.
    Opening in public squares like feverish fans
    or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes.

    No quarter given! Death
    spills from your eyes
    and gathers gray flowers at the mire's edge.
    No quarter given! Attention!
    Let the confused, the pure,
    the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants
    close the doors of the bacchanal to you.

    And you, lovely Walt Whitman, stay asleep on the Hudson's banks
    with your beard toward the pole, openhanded.
    Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for
    comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazelle.

    Sleep on, nothing remains.
    Dancing walls stir the prairies
    and America drowns itself in machinery and lament.
    I want the powerful air from the deepest night
    to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch where you sleep,
    and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites
    that the kingdom of grain has arrived.

    amazing, no?

    by the way, i enjoyed your poem.
    made me sad about humanity.

    | Posted on 2008-10-20 00:00:00 | by meoww | [ Reply to This ]

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