When Charlotte Corday came to Paris,
She had only one thing on her mind:
To rid the world of Jean Paul Marat--
The veritable scourge of humankind.

Leaning toward the moderate Girondins,
Corday despised the Jacobin stance
Of killing opposers to the Revolution
And terrorizing the people of France.

Marat incited the Jacobin furor
With his deeply radical point of view.
Corday also blamed him for causing
The September Massacres of '92.

After journeying to Paris from Caen,
She found a shop, purchased a knife,
Wrote an address to the "friends of peace,"
And then set out to take Marat's life.

Imagine Marat in his bathtub writing--
It seems an awkward position to be in
When seeing guests, but Marat suffered
From horrible sores all over his skin.

Corday spoke of a possible uprising
And provided names at Marat's request.
Then she took out a six-inch blade
And plunged it into the "monster's" chest.

After Corday was tried and sentenced,
She stirred up some attention when
She asked to have her portrait painted.
(They milked the media way back then!)

Marat's body was marched through the streets
While Charlotte Corday lost her head.
HE became the martyr, which caused
More innocent blood to be shed.

She said she killed ONE to save a THOUSAND.
Co-conspirators? They never found any.
She took matters into her own hands;
But her plan backfired--as do many.

To act or not to act is the question;
There always will be decisions to make.
Remember, consequences will follow
Whatever course of action we take.

- by Bob B

“i’m done with furries”


i.
i can’t dream your dreams,
but you’ve told me about them.

you wear an owl mask
shaped by fists and transgression;
a laceration splits your side
from a skin split
to your rib splits.

your love,
Bill Clinton or Donkey Kong
(whoever populates your thoughts),
crack your bare skin
until makeup
leaks out of your pores.

you dream of emulating art;
O hanging from a ceiling claw,
clicking heels against drywall
until leg muscles give up
and her diaphragm accordions close.

but who is your sculptor?
who is your artist?

ii.
alas, i am only
a paper mache bird.

i flinch when it rains,
i flinch when i move;
my paper skin
could cave in
from lip crack to *** crack.

(i hate
Inside Out.
but, i’ve only watched it once,
and i’ve been told
my eyes would adjust
on the second viewing.)

i dream of emulating art;
Marat in an ice bath,
tragedy and love and death
captured
without conflict.

but who is my muse?
who won’t break my bones?


iii.
you don’t know my dreams either,
but we could dream together.

two reveries in polyphony
of an owl and bird *******,
making love
before they
make art.

our love
is ******* weird;
a childhood seesaw
we’re trying to
find the perfect balance
to with our weight.

we dream different things;
**** fantasies and intimate kissing,
but that doesn’t matter.
at this point in two years,
we can see through each other.

i can’t make art without you.

you aren’t done with furries.

I've never liked the expression
'Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me."
I think it undermines the power of words
It's undeniable that words have an impact on people
Letters strung together can sting a person's soul
When they are spoken with a tongue used like a whip
Words evoke passion,
They inspire us,
Make our blood boil,
Horrify us,
And yes, they can hurt us
To say that words can't hurt,
Is to demean all that words do
Look at Marat,
Martin Luther,
Shakespeare,
Darwin,
Hobbes,
Freud,
Orwell,
Paine
And tell me words can't change the world
Words are what I turn to when I have nothing left
I'd rather my bones break,
That would be much better,
Than to lose my dignity,
To have a record of voices
Tell me I'm useless,
I'm stupid,
I'm fat,
I'm never good enough
Always on repeat,
Always on my mind,
Always ringing true
Maybe I'm over analytical
Maybe I care too much
About things said in the past
But here's to all the "I love you's"
All the "I hate you's"
To saying "I don't give a ****"
The pen is indeed mightier than the sword
Because your words
Are what made me turn the blade
On myself

Revolution is calling.
The guillotine responds
to his list of names,
it called upon.

Spewing propaganda,
he doesn’t hold back.
Pen in hand
with a medicated bath.

Drawing out anger
through a written word.
A Radicalization
that was never heard.

Death is the answer,
it sets us free.
A decapitated head
for liberty.

The uprising continued
just as he planned,
for revolution ends
where it began.

“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously”
Zbigniew Herbert

(Adam Lux – Meditations)

Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.

Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.

The original:

Протест (ретроспективно)

„Госпожица Корде нощем четяла Плутарх
книгите тогава били вземани насериозно“
Збигнев Херберт

( Адам Люкс-Размишления)


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

Госпожица ( или вече , защо не, госпожа) чете.
Така е чела и преди да се омъжи. Минала е
революцията на 60 -те. “ Всичко е любов“
Спала е в палатките. Защо пък не?
Свободата трябва да се брани.
Барабани, пожари, виковете:
“ Долу! Кой не скача е“
Тътен зад стените. Марат е. Жив? Мъртъв? Живял?
Пътува времето. Короната е фина шапка.
Косата къса. С всички цветове.
„С рокля като синя скала.“
Обелиск? Да! на преминаване от необходимостта в
необходимост( за преживяване).
Госпожа Корде, чете. Играта на…
Мечтае. “ Всичко е любов“.
Денят е най-обикновен.

Шарлот?
Въздаде справедливост.
Звездите падащи сияят.

How many heroes have chosen this path,
Of least or no resistance?
In the face of overwhelming odds,
Or staring at cubicular, corporate submission;
Elect instead the stance
Of simply
Doing
Nothing?

Victorian ladies thought it amusing;
20th Century Centurions and Puritans condemned it.
The spoon-fed rich live it and lose nothing.
Russian aristocrats sometimes recommend it…
When spurned in love & up against it.

Oblomov, for instance, whiled his time away,
In bed, or staring out at the wood,
Writing meaningless letters and ignoring the day,
Yet it still did him some good.

Marat in his bathtub, Proust in his bed,
Still accomplished SOMETHING
Or we’d have forgotten them instead.
Is there still no virtue in doing nothing?

Against the tide of corporate work,
Aquarians rebelled with dance.
Later on, Generation X
Came to work in a greedy trance.

Peter Gibbons was hypnotized,
To escape his lifeless job,
Destroyed the office as it was downsized,
But was promoted by “the Bobs”.

Some lesson there, for those who strive,
That work alone is not enough.
Attitude is more important to our lives,
That revolt by nothingness is not that tough.

Abbie Hoffman was thrown through windows,
While preaching peace instead of wrath.
Despite nobility of cause, does humanity still go,
The inexorable way of sloth?

Sharon Talbot

El cadalso y carlota corday los alinearon
en la habitual arruga de la historia
pero danton robespierre marat
no se miran ni se dirigen la palabra

la muerte esa inasible
que fuera su cofrade y su enemiga
los recorre con dulce escalofrío
en tanto que la fama los satura
de himnos desafueros y retórica

matarifes o mártires
pródigos o inclementes
jacobinos o nada
entrañables o impíos
bonne nouvelle o fetiches
patronos de la luz o del terror

blandieron la justicia como fiebre
el amor cual relámpago
la excepción como regla
y la revolución ese eterno entrevero
como última acrobacia inevitable

no obstante hace dos siglos
bregaron deliraron murieron con urgencia
no sin antes mostrar al resto de los tiempos
lo frágiles que eran la cerviz los poderes
y sin embargo esos
huéspedes o anfitriones del peligro
marat danton y robespierre
no se hablaban ni se miraban o al menos
no se hablaron ni se miraron hasta
que de las nuevas arrugas de la historia
emergieron artigas y martí y sandino
y el che y otros abuelos
y bisabuelos cándidos

y al abrazarlos sin hacer distingos
de a poquito los fueron persuadiendo
de que todos lucharon por el hombre
el pobrecito duende de este mundo

As romantic as the candlelight in a Paris bistro
   Before it is snuffed out like Marat,
   In a red sheet of claret.
    
   With the closing door,
   Moules scattered across the floor,
   I am reminded that I should tell her I love her more,

   By the waiter.
  
    Remembering why I hate the French,
    I clench
    But sooner
    Rather than later
    He brings me a schooner,
    Of the green stuff and then...
    A pad of paper and a pen.

    I cannot walk home but am driven,
    Where, unlike him, I'm not forgiven.

Ceux qui vivent, ce sont ceux qui luttent ; ce sont
Ceux dont un dessein ferme emplit l'âme et le front,
Ceux qui d'un haut. destin gravissent l'âpre cime,
Ceux qui marchent pensifs, épris d'un but sublime,
Ayant devant les yeux sans cesse, nuit et jour,
Ou quelque saint labeur ou quelque grand amour.
C'est le prophète saint prosterné devant l'arche,
C'est le travailleur, pâtre, ouvrier, patriarche,
Ceux dont le cœur est bon, ceux dont les jours sont pleins.
Ceux-là vivent, Seigneur ! les autres, je les plains.
Car de son vague ennui le néant les enivre,
Car le plus lourd fardeau, c'est d'exister sans vivre.
Inutiles, épars, ils traînent ici-bas
Le sombre accablement d'être en ne pensant pas.
Ils s'appellent vulgus, plebs, la tourbe, la foule.
Ils sont ce qui murmure, applaudit, siffle, coule,
Bat des mains, foule aux pieds, bâille, dit oui, dit non,
N'a jamais de figure et n'a jamais de nom ;
Troupeau qui va, revient, juge, absout, délibère,
Détruit, prêt à Marat comme prêt à Tibère,
Foule triste, joyeuse, habits dorés, bras nus,
Pêle-mêle, et poussée aux gouffres inconnus.
Ils sont les passants froids sans but, sans nœud, sans âge ;
Le bas du genre humain qui s'écroule en nuage ;
Ceux qu'on ne connaît pas, ceux qu'on ne compte pas,
Ceux qui perdent les mots, les volontés, les pas.
L'ombre obscure autour d'eux se prolonge et recule
Ils n'ont du plein midi qu'un lointain crépuscule,
Car, jetant au hasard les cris, les voix, le bruit,
Ils errent près du bord sinistre de la nuit.

Quoi ! ne point aimer ! suivre une morne carrière
Sans un songe en avant, sans un deuil en arrière,
Quoi ! marcher devant soi sans savoir où l'on va,
Rire de Jupiter sans croire à Jéhovah,
Regarder sans respect l'astre, la fleur, la femme,
Toujours vouloir le corps, ne jamais chercher l'âme,
Pour de vains résultats faire de vains efforts,
N'attendre rien d'en haut ! ciel ! oublier les morts !
Oh non, je ne suis point de ceux-là ! grands, prospères,
Fiers, puissants, ou cachés dans d'immondes repaires,
Je les fuis, et je crains leurs sentiers détestés
Et j'aimerais mieux être, ô fourmis des cités,
Tourbe, foule, hommes faux, cœurs morts, races déchues,
Un arbre dans les bois qu'une âme en vos cohues !

Paris, le 31 décembre 1848 à minuit.