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Free Palestine!

I find that this piece entitled “I will not look away” – with words which have been thoughtfully composed by Caitlin Johnstone and Tim Foley – is particularly powerful and inspiring. It is a brilliant piece of spoken word, which is delivered over an accompanying backdrop of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata which serves to further drive home the melancholy feeling for the tragic subject matter.

Short Trips

Venturing forth upon voyages and various viewings.

Viewpoints from my voyages…

Women

Celebrating the power, beauty, wisdom, leadership of all women, and of “womanly” aspects. Okay, okay, maybe some regretable brutality too.

WOMEN

    The wondrous world of womanhood! Sculpture by Bari Ramoy, Santa Barbara, CA, circa 1990’s.

    Indigenous Matters

    I work at honoring and protecting indigenous cultures worldwide, particularly in North America, a.k.a. Turtle Island,` and particularly in Massachusetts, named for the Massachusett People, one of the indigenous nations that occupied the current state that bears its name. I wish to walk the talk and not just talk to talk of restoration of rights and preservation of culture, knowledge, and belief. As the child of immigrants and invaders now living on the unceded land of the Nauset Tribe of the Wampanoag Nation on Cape Cod I hereby declare:

    Beach Plum Jam

    The beach plums

    Enjoy the dunes

    High winds

    Blowing sands

    Salt

    The company of poison ivy

    And everyone who uses them

    Native American

    Pilgrim

    Cape Codder

    Tourist.

    The plums flourish on lands

    First purchased from sachems

    Who never owned them –

    Not a tree or a dune –

    For four coats

    Three axes

    A day’s plowing with a team of oxen.

    Land that has seen grazing

    And whaling

    Fishing and fencing

    Bogs and berries.

    Land that remembers the Wampanoag

    Here for but three thousand years

    As do we who fill our pails

    Boil the plums

    Separate seed from fruit

    Squeeze the beach plum flesh

    Extract its essence

    As we squeeze each other

    The sweet juices we cook

    In anaerobic jars

    To make the jam

    To smell the sweetness

    The sweat

    The sour

    The desirable

    To lick our fingers

    And in memory

    To preserve it all.

    Throwing Away

    In further preparation for my grand exit
    I dispose of material things
    That once had value to me
    And still do
    A seventy-year-old
    4 x 7 weathered fake-leather
    Zippered autograph book
    From public school 95
    In the Bronx
    An archeological time capsule
    From the first half
    Of the last century
    Having survived wars, moves, and fires
    Filled with empty limerick poems
    from prepubescent classmates
    comprised of red rose and blue violet couplets
    And the hearty toast from my eighth grade English teacher,
    Who like my mother thought
    I had the potential to better conjugate verbs if only I paid attention.

    I dispose now of high school trivia:
    A senior pin.
    The 1958 yearbook.
    It is inconceivable anyone might care about this detritus
    Rather it is in the mind
    Where anything of substance remains
    and there is no need to throw any of that away
    As if one could.
    I wrote my first poem
    On assignment in freshman English
    And I know the words to that poem verbatim
    Sixty-eight years later
    Worth exactly nothing o’er these decades
    Except to me.
    That I now throw into the fire. 

    Uncle Sol

    I cast away a trove of my uncle’s World War II bounty

    Military orders handwritten on parchment

    Photographs of shamed collaborator women

      being paraded naked down the screaming streets

    Next to letters of commendation

    Nazi medals

    Sewing kits. Bootie.

    Jingoism and heroism on display.

    With old correspondence

    And letters from abroad.

    He was in the psychological warfare unit,

    Aide and driver to the Unit Commander.

    I so admired the smell of his shaving cream

    And cigarette smoke

    mixed with the aroma of his morning

    ablutions and eliminations

    There

    Next to the jeep

    With the beautiful French women

    Never married

    Nor producer of offspring.

    Who care that he served with valor

    This unknown soldier

    Absolutely anonymous

    To all but me and a few cousins

    One who turned a starter postage stamp collection

    Into books upon books filled with cancelled postage stamps

    Worth exactly nothing these decades later

    Except to me

    That I now throw into the fire.

    In the Maws of Israeli Justice – A First Hand Report

    The court is in the police station,

    That’s the first clue,

    A building constructed by the British

    To help contain the Arab population

    Before the modern Israeli Era.

    That purpose has not changed.

    The judge is wearing an army uniform,

    That is your second clue,

    Something that suggests the outcome is foreordained.

    You do not need any other clues.

    But if this message is unclear

    Or too nuanced

    Please note that the translator is wearing an army uniform

    The court reporter is wearing an army uniform

    And the half dozen armed soldiers in the courtroom are wearing army uniforms.

    Only the prosecuting attorney is out of uniform,

    But he is still sneeringly self-assured,

    For he too knows the outcome of this case,

    As do the soldiers,

    The court reporter,

    And the prisoner,

    Who has been denied access to his lawyer

    for over three months.

    Everyone knows the outcome,

    Guaranteed and assured by hand and ankle cuffs,

    By automatic weapons,

    By nuclear weapons,

    By the overwhelming power of the state.

    The prosecutor speaks first.

    He says the prisoner is suspected

    Of being a member, or associate, or backer,

         follower, fan, devotee, adherent, sympathizer,

         organizer, sycophant, protégé, or operative,

    Maybe.

    Or perhaps being in the known presence

    Of someone, or some organization,

    Perhaps the political party that won the popular election,

    Perhaps he is seditious

    Perhaps a supporter of terrorism by the starving oppressed

    Perhaps he holds positions antithetical to the government’s.

    Besides, free speech and free association are not assured

    Nor is the free exchange of ideas assured

    And although no formal charges have yet been brought

    And none are known to exist

    Not to the defense

    Not to the prisoner

    Not to his lawyer

    Not even to the judge

    We are conducting an investigation,

    Says the prosecutor,

    And the investigation is not complete

    And we need more time

    Because during the time we had the prisoner

    Chained and interrogated twenty one hours a day

    For six straight days –

    We rested on the seventh –

    And he was most cooperative

    Our prisoner

    But we learned no thing

    So the investigation must continue

    And we need him in prison to do so

    And an extension of his detention is needed

    Away from his family and young children

    Away from his students and his neighbors

    Just like the hundreds of others we arrested and detained this week

    Or was it last week, or the week before that,

    On suspicion of being Palestinian.

    The prisoner is allowed to speak

    May it please the Court, the prosecutor,

    The members of the army here today

    And others in the courtroom, he says.

    I am professor of law Hassan A. Gassan.

    There are six Hassan Gassan’s at my university.

    How does the prosecution even know

    It was I, this Hassan Gassan, who was meant to be arrested?

    That it was me intended to be dragged from his home

    At two A.M.

    My wife and children made to wait in the cold

    My home searched without a warrant.

    I have told the investigators everything I know,

    Answered every question they have asked.

    I know nothing more than the investigators now know,

    Do not even know what the charges against me are

    Or what separates me from my two month old daughter,

    My son, my anxious wife

    Other than the arbitrary power of the state.

    Thank you.

    Yes, yes, says the judge, tired of this tedium,

    And who are these other people in the court with you,

    It is unusual for anyone to attend these proceedings

    Because the families of Palestinians

    Are not permitted into Israel

    And why would anyone else care?

    Perhaps they will identify themselves.

    We are Israeli friends of the prisoner and his family, we say,

    We are international peace activists,

    Educators, lawyers,

    We are observers, 

    We are here to see how justice will be rendered in this case.

    Very impressive, says the judge,

    And most unusual.

    That said, the ruling of this court

    Is that the government’s request for an extension of detention

    Is completely reasonable in this case and hereby granted.

    It is really that brusque, that arbitrary

    And that fina,l

    Again and again

    For Palestinian prisoners in the Israeli courts of justice

    In the democratic Israeli state.

    © B.R.Taub, Feb, 2008

    Town Hall Commentary

    Our voices are made to be heard, and here I can be seen speaking out on a topic which is VERY important to me at my local town meeting this year in Orleans, MA.

    Adventures & Attendences

    This photo was taken on New Years Day, 2012, the year I began this website, at the Remtuck Temple outside of Gangtuk, in the Himalayas, in Sikkim. One of the locked doors at the Temple had a sign written in English, which seemed very odd to me. it read, “No Entry without Purpose.” I’ve tried to follow that guidance wherever I go, and whenever I enter.

    The black and white picture was taken in 1964 in the Moslem Bosnian village of Lijesnica. The men are all part of a Catholic village work crew that was in Lijesnica on this day when they spilled the blood of the goat they slaughtered on the roof rafters of the house they were building before joining the peak and celebrating with a toast and the young anthropologist. Zhivali!!

    “… it is not through the great skill of the hunter that success is achieved, but through the hunter’s awareness of her/his place in Creation and relationship to all things.” Indigenous American (Crow) wisdom

    About this website:

    This site was begun in 2010, designed with the intention of helping a half century of written work escape the bounds of its voluntary imprisonment … and, inasmuch as i had been actively traveling three or four month a year for the past few years in SE Asia, India, Africa, and the South China Sea, to also serve as a vehicle for recording and sharing my thoughts and observations as i travelled ’round the planet.

    There are three main categories of writings on this site – poetry, travel writings, and other writings (commune stories, memoirs, non-travel stories, and select journal entries). I thrill to the fact there is so much fabulous writing and art being generated these days – in books, magazines, journals, on the web, and elsewhere – TV shows, student created works, plays, fascinating blogs, sculpture, and just plain old good visual and verbal art and intimate essential conversations. I almost resisted adding to the onslaught by not posting these materials, but the jailer was old, looking at death on the horizon, and tired of enforcing the restrictive rules. Besides, the prisoners were deemed by the highest authorities to be as rehabilitated and presentable as they ever would be, at least those that made it out into the blogosphere, mostly all harmless I trust, and restless for a taste of liberty and fresh air. This is also a legacy for my descendants and relatives all. If you want to be more directly in touch with me please go to or visit my FB page.