Strike
Lovers of loneliness in dark barrooms pester
bored barmaids, pretend it is after shift
as if the mill and foundry machines still
clog the eardrums and sweat ripens on muscle,
drink with dull recall of work and workplace,
beautiful Millgate Inn -- family heritage -- a remedy
against the poisons a hundredfold immigrants,
their sons and their fathers and the fathers
before them, drank -- now they drink to forget
the shame that they came to escape slavers,
found the serf's day-after-day unholidayed
time, enslaved to the master timeclock, its time
guzzled, time belched, and all their time defeated.
God, it's time your hosts smote Sodom,
modern Gomorrah full of machine bent
people reliable as gears clamped tight;
Oh Savior, pillar of fire, now lead us
out from our bosses, out of the wilderness
of our fathers, from temptation do lead us.
After morning found scab's blood dry as concrete
on the butcher's street back behind the Millgate
out-of-work musclemen discuss destiny: Erószak
says that death's only in steel slag and hot
iron that breaks bones, bleaches out souls
Cruciform Christ, You a dear heritage,
suffer to save us from sin: the shanties
burned before sunrise, lines of mothers who
beg, "Give us this day daily bread; forgive us
our trespass, our sabotage, our sons' tactics
of terror to prod the unwilling;
Forever and ever and ever, amen."
In the beginning God created earth;
the world was without form; a darkness
only was upon the face of the depths
and God's Spirit moved over the waters.
Empty and hopeless the earth returns to work
after severe Sunday sermons on service --
In the beginning God created earth;
Good peasants, remember, Jesus was first
a worker Whose Father welded with suns,
the world was without form;
HE it was chisselled all dull lives from the dirt.
a darkness only was upon the face
Children of Death be happy until death.
The elders nod, "we've heard such sermons oft
in other lands, so many times in other lands.
Sadness of our lot, to live a burden Adam begot"
Nor had their old wives forgot
Kyrie eleison. Eleos.
Christi eleison. Eleos.
Work not for wages nor for unity --
Work not for pity; work is a duty.
Under icon of Christ Pantocrat
Tamas reads forbidden texts:
here in time's depths lurk many forms of death
and much may come to pass; but none so clever
as can build a coffin to bury us forever
Jan Masuryk, gigantic workman, hands immense
as grindstones, whispers for all "Who's murdered
on the butcher's street, will not rise his third
day from the dead. His duty's surely done!"
Tsaritsa, Little Mother, bless this house.
Aranyi Ur, his pockets full of gold smiles, golden teeth
gives special thanks for this sermonizing against strike
a little for the church -- a tithe, I guess --
a little on the side, a little something
for the Little Mother ... or, for your wife.
Hogy van a feleszege?
They've served in hell who've work his mill
They call that foreman, Sir Golden Koporso
here in time's depths
lurk many forms of death
"A mill is where man's soul is forged."
God's grace! that's nice. My mill's
a holy place, the spirit of the boy
is forged, his habits are like a rock
I must remember that, it's TRULY rich.
May I smoke? Of course
and much may come to pass; but none so clever
as can build a coffin to bury us forever
No man works for money; none does work as duty,
The real man only works to prove his own selfworth.
Oh as for all the rest -- you must agree -- it's simply
many forms of death
I like these words, young Tamas Ur,
who wrote this shit tells
what our strike is for
Boros David's a kind old pimp who sells
power wrapped in pinkish little pills;
His sister sells to workers' kids --
that's no business to tell in God's
house, He'll strike us dead; the Gospel is
Remenyik suspects he works for the bosses.
our heroes have the blood
of women at the gossip fence
It's true, I am afraid.
arbeit macht frei
.undsoweiter.
vor Scham vergehen
nonetheless their ancient martyred blood
now is useless against accepted justice.
There is no God but God in whom we trust
His icon's on the bills disbursed biweekly
from the millbursar guarded at the gate.
Time cannot change; the meek choose meekness.
The streets awash with broken homes, homeless
promise, broken speech and speeches everywhere:
America the golden slogan land of opportunity,
it's all of us marchers and the marched
upon -- all here as where they had begun:
That spirit moved upon the waters
Thinned
the blood of ancient martyrs --
ballot box and bullets, neither matter.
In works the soul is forged; a boy becomes
a man when he proves his worth; a fancy van,
a Cadillac, a pickup Friday Night
it's all we get; arbeit macht frei;
Du siehst es doch.
It's all a bad joke.
We said, leave politics alone -- build!
build a coffin to bury us forever
Lovers of loneliness in dark barrooms pester bored barmaids,
pretend it's after shift and the mill and foundry machines are still
clogged eardrums and sweat-ripened muscles do not offend;
they drink with dull recall of work and workplace. Lovely Millgate --
family heritage -- remedy against poison that blindfolded immigrants,
their sons and their fathers and fathers before them had drank --
now they drink to forget what they forgot, the landlord's guile
and enmassed shame of having escaped into slavery, the wallet
rich and the soul poor with the day-after-day pulling at forelocks
and bartering dignity for more time, holiday time, double time
(something for kids, for their future) for the kids who'd never
see half as much. Double-crossed, ensnared by the timeclock,
you didn't suppose they would let you keep what you earned
by the sweat of your brow; ah, when you forgot you were peasants,
you forgot about guile. For you it's time guzzled and time belched,
all of the time, and it's all of the time defeated.
IT'S TIME.
TIME.
TIME.
Old Ivan's magic turned potatoes to wines
drunk from the lunch-hour Aladdin flask;
now he drinks on his porch a bitterer brew.
Like Leningrad workers we eat wild leek
and grass soup for supper.
This is MY Body.
THIS is MY BLOOD.
The mill is where man becomes a man,
he serves in hell and is paid however
much he proves himself a man. Amen.
The elders with their spines bent nod
as if workers had never had champions.
Had they had champions they would agree,
Jan Masuryk offers, it's never for honor,
neither from duty, that workers will work.
Why then do workers work; why must they sweat so?
To prove they love something that is not themselves;
Women love workers though workers are otherwise
worthless, the son of a worker loves what he knows
to be worthless.
Dime taxed on earned dollar,
Nickle tax on each purchase,
there isn't much left to a worker's self-worth
he can't even prove his work's worth to himself.
STRIKE!
A sense of some honor makes no man a worker,
Factory pay is not money, nor duty, nor honor.
The wage pats a dog's head when he's dead;
Workers will work out of love of the work.
STRIKE!
When there's no love, no wage will keep a man.
Work's like a woman, and a worker's a woman, son.
Where there is love, there's no need for wages.
On Ellis Island there are little lists
of fools enticed from other more ancient
and ennobled lands where risen blood smote
bosses. What you think Lady Liberty holds
in her hand; it's a box full of their balls.
Does she stand for the land o' opportunity --
have you ever seen she lifts her skirt?
We left behind Opportunity
missed destiny's hand
to come to this land
Business and factories move South where slaves
once were and where now slaves await surrender
of self and soul, to forget for a moment
how they were men -- illpaid yet lovingmen
Arbeit macht Frei so wahr
Gott lebt und Mensch Krepieren
ACQUIESCE they said -- a word off lips by the word offended;
told of pained endurance so we took the word we thought
meant "Courage" for unforgiving endless work at blast-furnace
since coming, presuming ourselves out of the desert. Outside Eden
we found God the Factory, God the Steel, God the Heavy Wickedness.
Eden not enough -- our sin so marked us completely, forbid us even
thought of returning, forbid us ourselves of our slavery unburden.
Centuries old in history. Centuries old each breath. Outside the Mill
unquestioning movement draws the tribe apart, to strange new ills;
forging in each a black or white choice. Ah, the heat of the furnace --
The shroud is sooty gray.
Strikers' Sunday
Our dreams are our second life
The late winter cold during radio
while the mill workers awaited news
over vodka; sloe gin for wives
playing rummy in the kitchen.
Who stole the gold cobblestones?
asks the socialist Minoviev whose wife
fat as the dumplings she serves
her children never spoke before radio.
Now she peppers his ass
with Carpathian curses: Whoreson,
who said you must sell
the ox and the farm of your father
for this dream of gold stoned streets?
Gold, ha! Piss on the snow, old man,
there is your gold.
I have heard the governor
sends for militia, warns Brodej,
called "Blacky" at the Millgate Inn
where he polishes cuspidors at closing.
Semyon says that Brodej dreams rumors
from Moravian coalmines the coward
escaped rather than fight Hussars.
Hush! The children are sleeping
(in eiderdown comfort warmed by fever).
God bless America, they let us die
like dogs in the snows around Balaton
and they might have saved us.
And who would work for them
in the mills and their coalmines?
This country must have its niggers
and chinamen, wetbacks and bohunks
(God punishes us for hating gypsies
the Cigany who moved with their homes
on their backs).
Union meets tomorrow,
says Minoviev; come, wife,
we must sleep in our bed
before dawn.
Love justice, my friends!
"Na VEKY VEKU, AMEN!"
Yes, for ever and ever.
"Love Justice, My Friends!"
Strikebreaker
a fium elleni orvossag
a true remedy against the poison
Old ways of old countries lay in tombs
loud as factories where dreams slough
off strangers whose fears glance over
shoulders at foremen who may tell
Welfare there is some evil one
(it's legal and so circumspect)
Here foreigners submit to shit;
Why don't you like the Social work?
What is it that you hide, some quirk?
The best Americans name babies names
easy to pronounce -- April, May or June.
What politics behind your child's name?
We do our best. I look for honest work.
So change your name, it helps the boss;
Something hard to pronounce is no loss.
Here there's no gestapo, KGB, no secret
powers to accuse, to judge, to execute.
Once, neither outside shadow nor ghost
waited to pull from nest inedible meat.
the owl watches for a chance to catch its mouse.
Near its prey the owl claws sing,
a desperation zigzags under lights.
They come when neighbors sleep at night;
Friday eves when the neighbors are away
You are guilty -- Why else would I come?
We disagree on what is a civil right.
Our goal is protect the children first --
Do as you must; Don't sign if you want;
But, your refusal may indicate, no doubt.
My dinner waits.
Good neighbors will dream your guilt,
imagine evidence. "Yes, he was that;
he did just as you say. Poor mouse.
Save the mouse in your claws."
There's always someone who will say
what must be said, someone who says
what's needed by who asks.
The boy like his father
has "Attila's temper"
who (NOTE: was the "scourge of God");
father is from out of state
and out of work,
He babbles baby-talk
(His mother told him
Do not speak Cigany
in this land.
Do not praise the slave
Who had enough
And killed for freedom
From the Roman
And the Frank)
Sign here. Admit.
It happens to the best.
State name and occupation;
Go back to work; support yourself.
Do not speak Gypsy in this land.
The children will be yours in 30 days
how can you take what we do not own
and every month I'll visit
to ensure that you do right.
Remember, what has passed is to your shame;
It might not help if you speak out; there's nothing you can gain;
Besides, good parents consider how it might harm a child's fame
we are family; take my arm, am I less a man for it
if we investigate, there must be guilt. Do not forget.
who would believe such evil can exist;
Oh, they only save the children first --
No witches, no police, outside tonight
there is only the owl, a hungry beast.
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