I want to live inside a camera.
I want to migrate back and forth across the sky
inside a flock of wild geese.
I am their camera and their eye.
I Chose Sides/Claire O’Brien 2001
A Catholic Worker Family
The objects of their adoration
were later traced to Central Station,
laying on a closet floor
with Tamany Hall’s old humidor.
There was no sacred image there,
No Dorothy Day
No sign of prayer
No feet to wash except their own
No poor to serve, no map of home.
Decades later, faintly heard:
distant Latin, sacred word,
serving drunks on bended knee:
prophets of the Bowery.
But nothing’s left of battle cries
turned by cowards into lies.
Claire O’Brien, 2014
Note: this poem is about one family – not about the Catholic Worker Movement itself, to which I send my love.
ACEP APRILYANA, A YOUNG SUNDANESE POET FROM JAVA, IS WORKING IN BALI.
HE LEARNED TO GROW RICE FROM HIS GRANDFATHER.
MY POETRY FARMERS
It’s not a beautiful poem.
It’s a poem standing guard.
When the earth is raped, my ink sweats,
Sunburning my paper jet.
I do not know the poetry of flowers
For here, the soil is
decorated with a dream
and unable to speak.
O rice ..
Please give my kind compliments to the country’s leaders
Arriving into the mouth of the gate
They are good at talking.
O fruit ..
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