Posted on
November 12, 2008 in
There was a dictator named Shwe
Whose couldn’t get dates, straight or gay.
To compensate for this lack
He imprisoned a pack
Of activists — watch what you say!
This being America, we don’t have to watch what we say.
We can say, for example, that Burma’s dictator, Than Shwe, is a subhuman pederast without fear of being imprisoned (TimesOnline, h/t Tannebaum).
The same is, sadly, not true the world over.
So here’s the deal:
Blogosphere Poetry contest.
- Theme: “Criticism of Burmese Dictator Than Shwe.”
- Form: Your choice.
- Language: Your choice (extra credit for Burmese).
- Leave your entry in the comments. If you have a blog and send in a poem, I’ll give you some link love.
- For this post only, the rule against anonymous ad hominem attacks is suspended. I don’t know if they pick us up in Myanmar, but I don’t want anyone thrown into prison on my account.
- My staff of experts and I will choose the winner.
- No prize, just bragging rights.
- Entries close in two weeks.
Please spread the word.
crushing all dissent,
it’s all in a good day’s work
for Burma’s Than Shwe.
A challenge by Bennett to you
to speak of said dictator Than Shwe
The Blogger’s of Burma, face long prison termas
and their lawyers, per Shwe, do too.
For Phone Latt
Manicured, gold-gilded hands,
Encircle an ivory pen,
Deliberately, dip its silver tip
Into thick, black ink.
The hand slides down the page,
Forms characters, into a sentence:
20 years, six months,
A violation of public tranquility.
Then the hand moves further down,
Signs its name, an official seal.
His crime? Hiding meaning
Inside a seven-line love poem.
Other saffron revolutionaries,
Some monks, sit, likewise,
Imprisoned, where this dangerous
poet serves, with 2000 others.
20 years six months:
That’s 560 moons. 7300 sunrises.
10 seasons for every line.
120 days per word.
The saving grace? Poet’s pens
Outlast swords, unjust judges:
In time, sentences are reversed.
Even worse, returned.
(I should be working, and giving someone else a chance, but here’s another one:)
Poets in Prison
Solzhenitsyn, gulaged, paperless,
scratched poems on bars
of soap, committed
lines to his memories,
then washed its surface clean,
To compose new verses.
And that Buddhist master,
A former “freedom fighter”
Survived prison, thrived even
Through forgiveness, learned
to purge revenge.
After his escape, his sentence,
Those torture tests, proved to raise
his practice, above those cloistered monks,
Prison surpassing monastery,
for training purpose.
In Burma, the poet’s pencil-calloused hands
Grasp bars, fingernails ooze pus, dried blood,
Remnants of unfathomable pain,
creating unexpected distance.
Still enclosed, his lines resonate
between bars, beyond walls,
Prove his convictions,
Achieve his release.
You’re going to scare off all the competition.
Beautiful. Brilliant. Thanks so much, David.
Thanks Mark and Suzie. I’m glad you enjoyed them. I finished one about 10:30 pm and started the next one at 5am, so you can probably tell I enjoyed writing them too. I hadn’t written any poetry since the ranch in ’05 and wouldn’t have if not for this contest, which is a great idea.