Friday, September 30, 2011

Two Poems that Touch My Soul

Since this blog is about poetry - not necessarily just my poetry - I am sharing these two poems that have touched my soul and set off my activist heart again. They help fuel my passion for reminding us all that we are human beings first and all else - all else - comes second!

The first is attributed to Martin Niemeuller (the "eu" should be "oo" with the umlat) regarding the lack of activity in reaction to the Nazi acts of purging in Germany. It really doesn't have a title per se, other than "First they came for..."

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew

Then they came for me,
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

The second is one I discovered researching the previous one - it is called The Hangman by Maurice Ogden, written in 1951. A short animated film was made of this in 1964, and was co-winner of the Silver Sail award at the Locarno International Film Festival the same year.

1.
Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.

The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.

And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.

And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead --
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"

Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."

And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief

And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman's cloak.

2.
The next day's sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.

And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.

And we cried, "Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."

He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new."

Then one cried "Murder!" and one cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"

And he laid his hand on that one's arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman's cloak.

That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;

Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.

3.
The third he took -- we had all heard tell --
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
"What," said the Hangman "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"

And we cried out, "Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam."

The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
"And what concern," he gave us back.
"Have you for the doomed -- the doomed and Black?"

The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said. "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."

And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.

The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.

4.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name --
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, "There is no one left at all

For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.

He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.

And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap --
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.

"You tricked me. Hangman!," I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men...
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!"

Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said. "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true --
The scaffold was raised for none but you.

For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"

"Dead," I whispered. And amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the foreigner, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."

Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried "Stop!" for me in the empty square.

Wow - I hope they are as powerful and touching to you as they are to me.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Oh Look - New Stuff!

It has been even longer since I posted on this blog than my usual one...I haven't stopped writing poetry though. I even wrote some for a particular event that happened yesterday in 95 countries around the world - 100 Thousand Poets for Change!

Here is the poem I read at the open mic opportunity during this event - it is as yet untitled:

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself


FDR said that on the day last century

That will live in infamy


In turn, we dropped the bomb

That ushered in the nuclear age

And have been living in fear ever since


I remember, even in the 1970s,

Air raid sirens, crouching under desks

In darkened classrooms with curtains drawn


Then the Iron Curtain fell,

And the Berlin Wall came down


Then Iran took 52 of our people

Hostage for 444 days


Then Pan Am 103 went down

Over the skies of Lockerbie, Scotland


Then the first failed attempt to take

Down the World Trade Center

From its garage


Then the Oklahoma City bombing

Brought on by one of our own


Then the sarin gas attack in

A Japanese subway


Then this century’s day that will live in infamy

September 11th, 2001


The day the planes flew into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon

Both icons of our military-industrial complex

The one Dwight D. Eisenhower warned us about 40 years earlier


That day was also my youngest son’s ninth birthday,

And the day my then 15 year-old daughter made me

Realize that by huddling in fear, we miss the joy in life


That day and every September 11th since,

We focus on life, the life of my youngest son,

And the lives of all human beings who share this big blue ball

Called Earth as our home

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Author's Bio

Had a requirement to submit a link to my bio with a current submission, so figured I'd post it here with my poetry blog...

Beth Henderson writes poetry, fiction, and the occasional essay. She also loves to take photos of things that catch her eye and inspire her. And she enjoys music, dancing, cycling and hiking along the rivers and creeks of Northern California. The sound of water is second only to the sound of birdsong as the most beautiful sound in nature in her mind.

You can follow her other blog at http://bethane13.blogspot.com/

You can find her books and such at http://stores.lulu.com/bethane41

Blue Birds in Bloom - 30 Apr 11




Tom Hoffman, proprietor of Heritage Oak Winery in Lodi, CA, has helped the blue bird population there recover and thrive by putting blue bird boxes up all over his property. The European starlings that were brought over as song birds in the 1800s quickly spread across the continent, displacing many of our smaller native birds from their natural nesting areas. The starling cannot get through the hole in the blue bird box to make it's nest there, although, other bird species such as the house sparrow and the tree swallow, and even an acorn woodpecker, can.

So this poem, with the accompanying pictures, is a tribute to Tom and all the other folks across our lands who work to preserve the native habitats and species for now and into the future.


Blue Birds In Bloom

They fly back from their winter vacation,
rested and looking for a new home

She's the picky one, dragging him from
bird box to bird box, until she finds just
the right one

You can almost here the conversation
Him: But, honey, what's wrong with this one?
Her: It's too close to those house sparrows

Finally, they settle in, building their neat little nest
from twigs and such, all uniform size
not like those messy tree swallows

They lay their eggs, all pretty blue ones, and
share the duties of raising the young

By fall they have left once more for their
winter vacation home

Next spring, they'll do this all again!

It's Clutch Time! - 30 Apr 11


This is a tree swallow making his abode this season in a blue bird box on the Heritage Oak Winery property in Lodi, CA. I love to watch swallows fly - their shape when their wings are extended in flight reminds me of a boomerang!

It's Clutch Time!

Thank goodness for the human
who put up this nest box
We found it ready to move in!

It's really nice and cozy and
we've already put in the nest
and laid our eggs

The missus is out enjoying some
"me" time, and I'm at home
keeping the eggs warm

We're the next to the last box
on the block, before you turn
to go to the river

Great place to raise kids
very diverse neighborhood

Blue birds and house sparrows mostly
on our row, although an acorn woodpecker
moved in to the last box nearest the trees
and laid her eggs without even putting in
a nest! Imagine that!

We'll have to wary of the newest neighbor
even though she's a few blocks over in the
big trees - she's a Great Horned Owl of the
Western Taiga variety!

As long as the kidlets come home by dark
they'll be okay...

Last Day - National Poetry Month 2011

And so the thirty days doth come to an end, my friends. This blog will go on, but not likely at the rate of a poem a day. Thank you for taking the time to read my scribblings, and to those you have commented/complimented/provided constructive criticism/or just your opinion on the art of poetry as a whole - thank you a million times! I am honored by your acknowledgment of my work!

And so, today's posts (and yes, that is posts - plural) will share the remainder of the poems I wrote this month, beginning with the one that goes with the main photo on the blog.

This photo was taken in Travemuende on the German coast of the Baltic Sea (that is supposed to be a "u" with an umlaut - those two dots over the vowel). I took the picture thinking the two chicks were absolutely adorable, not knowing that they grow up to be seagulls, those raucous, annoying birds who are brazen enough to attempt to steal my lunch when I'm eating out on the Wharf in San Francisco (granted these are European seagulls and might have more class but stilll...)!

Children of the Gulls

Regardless of popular belief
we don't come from rookeries
on islands way out to sea

Our parents nest in colonies,
large groups, much like you
and share the tasks of
warming the eggs and
raising the young

We have learned much
from our interactions
with humankind

Did you know you
taught us how to
fish by casting
bread upon the water?

And like you,
our young start out
all cute and cuddly
and fuzzy

Then grow up to
be raucous, grasping,
greedy creatures

That is our nature

Is it truly yours?

Friday, April 29, 2011

The Rooster of Old Fair Oaks - 29 Apr 11

This fine piece of art sits at the corner of Hazel Avenue and Madison Avenue near the town of Fair Oaks in Sacramento County. Old Fair Oaks holds a chicken festival each fall to honor the feral chickens that live in the two parks there and roam the streets at will.

The Rooster of Fair Oaks

This masculine specimen of
feral poultry leads his family
as they wander the parks and
byways of the village of fair
Fair Oaks

He struts across the patio of
the famed Slocum House
leading his hens and their
string of chicks
as the diners in their evening
finery gawk in awe
at the brazenness of these feral fowl

He is such the Burgher of the town
that he lends is voice to that of the
officiant performing outdoor
weddings at the VFW Hall

This fowl is so adored that the
village of fair Fair Oaks erected
a gleaming silver statue in
his honor, and has a festival
each fall to celebrate the great Rooster
and his family of audacious poultry!