Friday, 9 December 2011

Mumia Abu-Jamal - Another Nameless Prostitute Says The Man is Innocent.

Today is the 30th anniversary of Mumia Abu -Jamals incarcenation and is also the eve of International Human Rights day. Across the world anti-death penalty activists, lovers of justice and freedom and people of good conscience  will protest  at the violation of Pennylvania  inmate Mumia's constitutional rights.
This date marks the anniversery of the night that Jamal was shot, arrested, beaten up and framed for the murder of a Philadelphia Police Officer  called Daniel faulkner. 30 years later this political prisoner , critically acclaimed journalist ( before his imprisonment  he was the President of the Philadeplhia Association of Black Journalists) and became one of the world's most recognised death row inmates awaits a decision by Federal District Court Judge William H.John Jr, on his petition for a writ of habeas corpus. Hopefully he will  finally get some justice and a full hearing by the federal court.
Mumia was born in 1954  in Philadelphia and was given the slave name Wesley Cook. At 14  he joined the Black Panther Party and was already showing signs of his strong articulateness and passion. Becoming known for his outspokenness and  his work as a radical journalist, mostly on radio as the 'voice of the voiceless', bringing him unwanted attention from the F.B.I and the local police.
He  moved on from the black Panthers and became a supporter and spokesperson for the Move Organisation  founded by an African American named John Africa a black back to nature group  with an anarcho primitist outlook that rejected  the system. It's members and supporters faced a daily onslaught against them for a number of years, being systematically tageted for their beliefs and on numerous occasions faced violent retribution from the state.
His support of this organisation and his reporting of unpopular causes  which included exposing the violence of the state as it manifests in entrenched poverty, endemic racism, police brutality and celebrating a peoples unending quest for freedom led him to lose his job as a radio journalist,   so he took up taxi driving in order to provide for his family. So one could imagine that  he already  was a marked man.
On  Dec 9th 1981 he had just dropped a client off  when he heard gunshot and saw people running. One of whom was his brother a Billy Cook who ran towards him, he then he saw a police officer aiming a gun at him, he was shot and beaten, and later was charged with the murder of Officer Faulkner who had died from gunshot wounds only a feet away from where Mumia himself had fallen. Mumia himself remained in critical condition for a period of time, but his case was rushed to trial  within 6 months .A trial that Amnesty International condemned as failing to meet even the most minimal standards of fairness, and that is an understatement.The trial was a farce with witnesses constantly changing statements, vital evidence being buried,  proceedings markedby racism, inept prepresentation andto cap it all a bigoted  and prejudiced judge. There was no way that Mumia was going to get the justice he deserved, and he was found guilty and sentence to death.
One of the key prosecution witness was a prostitute with a long history of arrests and her testimony contadicted previous statements and that of other witnesses. A man was with dreadlocks was seen running fron thescene, Mumia has dreadlocks, there are so many doubts. Several prosecution witnesses from his trial have since recanted their testimony , furthermore another individual Arnold Beverly has since subsequently confessed to killing Faulkner. Mumia has always maintained his innocence.
One reason for them finding Mumia guilty was like others he stood up against repression, for civil liberties and the government and the police  simply wanted to silence an activist long known for exposing corruption.. With their attempts to silence him we can see double standards , because this is not the message they dare preach to the rest of the world. But their 30 year conspiracy of silence has not worked

I believe he was a victim of a miscarriage of justice and had been systematically targetted by the police and the authorities in order to beget his silence. He has not been silenced despite the U.S Governments best efforts, Mumia is still writing, still speaking out, opening up the eyes of the people to the injustices of the system that imprisons him, still a powerful voice of the voiceless, a champion of the oppressed. Becomming a potent iconic figurehead for many.  Writing numerous publications with his  revolutionary spirit intact  and releasing a series of broadcasts  live from his  prison cell, through the Prison Radio Network. Link at bottom. You can imprison somebody but you cannot kill their spirit.
In December 2001 his death sentence was oveturned but not his conviction, so still he is not free.
An online petition for President Barck Obama 'Mumia Abu- Jamal and the Global Abolition of the Death Penalty'  was signed by over 20,000 people from around the world. Tomorrow let us also remember that internationally political opponents to nation states continue to face wrongful imprsonment too.
Today in Britain between 5.00 - 7.00 pm campaigners will assemble at Speakers Corner and make their way via Marble Arch and Oxford Street tothe US Embassy in London and will demand the unconditional and immediate release of Mumia Abu- Jamul. Many similar actions will take place across the globe,joining an international chorus who are actively calling for his immediate and unconditional release.

' Another Nameless Prostitute Says The man is Innocent'
                              For Mumia Abu -Jamal
By Martin Espada

The board-blinded windows knew what happened;
   the pavement sleepers of Philadelphia, groaning
in their ghost-infested sleep, knew what happened;
                    every black man blessed
        with the gashed eyebrow of nightsticks
                     knew what happened;
      even Walt Whitman knew what happened
             poet a century dead, keeping vigil
    from the tomb on the other side of the bridge

                  More than fifteen years ago,
        the cataract stare of the cruiser's headlights
                the impossible angle of the bullet,
                the tributaries and lakes of blood,
Officer faulkner dead,suspect Mumia shot in the chest,
       the nameless witnesses who saw a gunman
       running away, his heart and feet thudding.

               The nameless prostitute know,
       hunched at the curb, their bare legs chilled.
           Their faces squinted to see that night
     rouged with fading bruises. Now the faces fade
Perhaps an eyewitness putrifies eyes open in a bed of soil,
       or floats in the warm gulf stream of her addiction,
         or hides from the faged whispers of the police
                   in  the tomb of Walt Whitman         
                  where the granite door is open
                  and fugitive slaves may rest.

         Mumia: the Panther beret, the thinking dreadlocks,
dissident words that swarmed the microphone like a hive,
            sharing meals with people named Africa,
singing out their names even after the police bombardment
                    that charred their black bodies
         so the governer has signed the death warrant.
       The executioner's needle would flush the poison
                   down into Mumia's writing hand
              so the fingers curl like a burned spider;
        his calm questioning mouth would grow numb,
and everywhere radios sputter to silence, inhis memory.

                   The veiled prostitutes are gone,
             gone to the segregated balcony of whores
But the newspaper reportsthat another nameless prostitute
says the man is innocen, that she will testify at the next hearing.
   Beyond the courthouse,a multitude of witnesses chants,
 pray, shouts for his prison to collapse, a shack in a hurricane.
                   Mumia, if the last nameless prostitute
                 becomes an unravelling turban of steam,
                if the judges' robes become clouds of ink
                      swirling like octupus deception,
                if the shroud becomes yourAmish quilt
            if your dreadlocks are snipped during autopsy,
                 then drift above the ruined RCA factory
                             that once birthed radios
                         to the tomb of Walt Whitman
                         where the granite door is open
                           and fugitive slaves may rest.

Philadelphi, PA/Camden, NJ, april 1997



Mumia Abu -Jamal Radio Broadcasts

http://www.prisonradio.org/mumia.htm

Other Links

http://www.freemumia.com/

http://www.millions4mumia.org/

http://www.mumialegal.org/

Home page of John Africa's  MoveOrganisation
http://www.onamove.com/

Link to excellent film on the case
by acclaimed director Marc Evans here

http://www.inprisonmywholelife.com/intro


" This message comes toyou from the depths of America's dungeons, from the cages in Babylon's bowelsthat are in a sense, America's own 'Taten Trakle', Wings of death where men await execution by electrocution.
As radical journalists we have another tale to tell - it is a tale not of plenty but of loss, of torture and injustice. In short it is a tale of the oppressed, but it's also a tale of brighter tomorrows, of seas aflood with life, of air sweet to the lung, of forests green, of health, of hope, of freedom and peace, for all the worlds people.
We can create islands of liberated consciousness,afloat with truth of peoples sentiments for dignity and freedom, free from the systems slur of terrorism. We can produce you progressive portraits of the possible so that a better tomorrow may dawn."

- Mumia Abu-Jamal.

Further Reading :-

Mumia Abu-Jamal , Death Blossoms: Reflections of a Prisoner of Conscience, Plough Publishing House 1997

David Lindroff - Killing Time: An investigation into the Death  Row Case of Mumia Abu-Jamal.

Amnesty International - The Case of Mumia Abu-Jamal , Seven Stories Press.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Expect Us! - Bill Allyn



Heretic Productions brings you an extraordinary piece of Poetry by Bill Allyn

Expect us

Once we were weak, but now we stand tall.
Millions of citizens, heeding the call.
Demanding our freedom, the birthright of all.
The Arab Spring turns to the American Fall.

We're the 99, and we'll never forgive.
Well never forget how you've made us live.
Expect us at your door, prepare to defend!
The reign of the moneyed and privileged now ends.

Once we were few, now we grow by the hour.
The lamb sheds its mask - the emperor cowers.
The wolf bares her teeth, the hunger devours.
The gleaming skyscrapers, the ivory towers.

We're the 99. and we'll mever forgive
We'll never forget, how you've made us live.
Expect us at your door, prepare to defend!
The world of the moneyed and  privileged now ends.

There's no "job creators" a "trickle-down" bust.
And time's running out for your greed and your lust.
You've earned no respect, and squandered our trust.
From this day forward, you must expect us!

We're the 99, and we'll never forgive.
Well never forget how you made us live.
Expect us at your door, prepare to defend!
The reign of the moneyed and privilged now ends.



Sunday, 4 December 2011

Ted Hughes (17/8/30 -28/10/98) - The God

You were like a religious fanatic
Without a god- unable to pray.
You wanted to be a writer.
Wanted to write? What was it within you
Had to tell its tale?
The story that has to be told
Is the writer's God, who calls
Out of sleep, inaudibly: 'Write'.
Write what?
Your heart, mid-Sahara, raged
In its emptiness.
Your dreams were empty.
You bowed at your desk and you wept
Over the story that refused to exist,
As over a prayer
That could not be prayed
To a non-existent God. A dead God
With a terrible voice
You were like those desert ascetics
Who fascinated you,
Parching in such a torturing
Vacuum of God
It sucked goblins out of their finger-ends,
Out of the soft motes of the sun-shafts,
Out of the blank rock face.
The gagged prayer of their sterility
Was a God
So was your panic of emptiness - a God.

You offered him verses. First
Little phials of the emptiness
Into which your panic dropped its tears
That dried and left crystalline spectra.
Crystals of salt from your sleep.
Like the dewy sweat
On some desert stones, after dawn.
Oblations to an abscence.
Little sacrifices. Soon

Your silent howl through the night
Had madeitself a moon, a fiery idol
Of your God
Your crying carried its moon
Like a woman a dead child. Like a woman
Nursing a dead child. bending to cool
Its lips with tear drops on her finger-tip.
So I nursed you, who nursed a moon
That was human but dead, withered and
Burned you like a lump of phosphorus.

Till the child stireed. It's mouth-hole stirred.
Blood oozed at your nipple,
A drip feed of blood. Our happy moment!

The little God flew up into the Elm Tree.
In your sleep, glassy eyed,
You heard its instructions. When you woke
Your hands moved. You watched them in dismay
As they made a new sacrifice .
Two handfuls of blood, your own blood,
And in that blood gobbets of me,
Wrapped in a tissue ofstory that had somehow
Slipped from you. An embryo story.
You could not explain it or who
Ate at your hands.
The little god roared at night in the orchard,
His roar half a laugh.

You fed him by day, under your hair-tent,
Over your desk, in your secret
Sirit-house, you whispered,
You drummed on your thumb with your fingers,
Shook Winthrop shells for their sea voices,
And gave me an effigy - a Salvia
Pressedin a Lutheran Bible.
Youcould not explain it. Sleep had opened.
Darkness poured from it, like perfume.
Your dreams had burst their coffin.
Blinded I struck a light.

And woke upside down in your spirit-house
Moving limbs that were not my limbs,
And telling, in a voice not my voice,
A story of which I knew nothing
Giddy
With the smoke of the fire you tended
Flames I had lit unwitting
That whitened in the oxygen jet
Of your incantaory whisper.

You fed the flames with the myrrh of you mother,
The Frankincense of your father
And your own amber and the tongues
Of fire told their tale. And suddenly
Everybody knew everything.
Your God snuffed up the fatty reek.
His roar was like a basement furnace
In your ears, thunder in the foundations.

Then you wrote in a fury, weeping,
Your joy a trance-dancer
In the smoke in the flames
'God is speaking through me,' you told me
'Don't say that,' I cried. 'Don't say that.
That is horribly unlucky!'
As I sat there with blistering eyes
Watching everything go up
In the flames of your sacrifice
That finally caught you too and you
Vanished exploding
Into the flames
Of thestory of your God
Who embraced yo
And your mummy and your daddy,
Your Aztec, Black Forest
God of the euphenism grief.

Reprinted from

New and Selected Poems 1957-94

Friday, 2 December 2011

Manchester walkabout.

What a lovely thing a movement is
when the currents of unity smell
and voices speak with optimistic roar
side by side, the young and old
shooting out branches to oppose
tory dereliction.
The hiss of collective breath
with hungry eyes
communities dreaming together
swarming with warmth
and much hospitality.
Lover bought an accordian
needs must, we lugged it through the streets
a little indulgence perhaps,
but we are not yet broken.
People grow fierce
learn how to paint the sky
committed though in debt,
we are as strong as tempered steel.
As spirits rised, canal crossed
popped into music stores
to overload senses
already worked overtime.
But long shadows are growing
tory spite charges at Winter's cold blast
disconnected themselves from the people.
They will not kill our spirit
they will not banish our care. 

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

All OUT N30

Remember the public sector workers strike will cost economy 1/10th of the royal wedding.
Cameron seems to think people are going to  take what he is doin to this country lying down, well its clear that the people are not,  it is he who is unwilling to compromise, still talking to the public like their idiots, he'd rather spin the media, he critisises the unions when he himself is on a sticky electoral mandate, ordinary people did not make this economic crisis. Up in  the North at moment, joining Manchester's people in their time of struggle.
A total of 29 unions will be walking out across the U.K, the biggest Industrial action in Britain since the 1970's.
The tories protect their own, up to 3 million workers are trying to protect the future.

Solidarity with all those out tomorrow.

United we stand
Divided we fall.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Cecil Collins (23/4/01- 4/6/89) - Fool and Flower

Fool & Flower
(1944)
Private collection

Some whimsy, why not.  Cecil Collins  an artist of transcendent imagination, was born in Plymouth , he became influenced by the Surrealist Movement, he had two paintings exhibited at the Surrealist Exhibition in 1936.He had won a schorship at 15 to the Plymouth School of Art from 1923 -1927 and then onto the Royal College of Art until 1931. He fell in love with a Elizabeth Ramsden  a fellow student who inspired him to create a series of visionary paintings celebrating her beauty.
He departed with surrealism  however and subsequently he said:" I turned my back on it and went into the country and started to think..... and meditate on what I wanted to do."  And this is what most of his subsequent work were about,  they were both  meditative and gentle.
In this picture a fool reaches out to a single flower to a backdrop of an empty sky. A sense of wonder occurs, a moment in time suspended, the earth reaching back , a symbol of unity, a balancing act. The present or the future perhaps offering possibilities providing a link between what is visible and under the ground the roots, that we cannot see. An image of ceremony, an image of ritual beyond mere materialism, a touch of Zenarchy.Connecting us to an aesthetic window. Sometimes what binds us is both outside and in.

More on Cecil Collins here.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecil_Collins



( For Ervine

space bard

r.i.p )
.

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Thanksgiving: A Native American View

Today at a time of poverty, recession, unemployment, occupation and discontentment, a little revisit to the less than benevolent beginnings of the good old  U.S.A.Thanksgiving day a whitewashing of genocide, colonialism and racism is celebrated. Hey ho.
To any American visitors of this blog hope your fox New relatives try not to season too much of  their thanksgiving dinner with to much pepper spray and I thank goodness I'm not a turkey.





More  info
here

http://unsettlingamerica.wordpress.com/

John Trudell - The voices said.




Tuesday, 22 November 2011

The Workers: Let's Work Together



The workers are a group of 14 public service staff from around the country, who have come together to record the classic song ' Let's work Together ' .Please help get some solidarity in the charts on the day of action on November 30th, by watching the video, buying the song, and spreading the word. On November the 30th millions of workers across the country will be taking action in support of a fair deal on public service pensions. Up the workers, even though I don't at moment, solidarity is the keyword word. Always thought music and politics make healthy bedfellows, depending I guess on which side. Yes charts are rigged, like the economy is rigged, just like banking is rigged, the system and the government used against the interests of the whole, so we have to try out different methods.Power concedes nothing without a demand.

More info on single and campaign
here.

http://action.goingtowork.org.uk/page/share/the-workers

 to download

 http://www.theworkers.org.uk/download-the-single/

Sunday, 20 November 2011

Edward Thomas (3/3/1878 - 3/4/17) - November


November's' days are thirty:
November's earth is dirty,
Those thirty days, from first to last;
And the prettiest things on grounds are the paths
With morning and evening hobnails dinted,
With foot and wing-tip overprinted
Or seperately charactered,
Of little beast and little bird.
The fields are mashed by sheep, the roads
Make the worst going, the best the woods
Where dead leaves upwards and downward scatter.
Few care for the mixture of earth and water,
Twig, leaf, flint, thorn,
Straw, feather, all that men scorn,
Pounded up and sodden by flood,
Condemned as mud.

But of all the months when earth is greener
Not one has clean skies that are cleaner.
Clean and clear and sweet and cold,
They shine above the earth so old,
While the after-tempest cloud
Sails over in silence though winds are loud,
Till the full moon in the east
Looks at the planet in the west
And earth os silent as it is black,
Yet not unhappy for its lack.
Up from the dirty  earth men stare:
One imagines a refuge there
Above the mud, in the pure bright
Of the cloudless heavenly light:
Another loves earth and November more dearly
Because without them, he sees clearly
The sky would be nothing more to his eye
Than he, in any case, is to the sky:
He loves even the mud whose dyes
Renounce all brightness to the skies.