Cry out warning and shatter illusions

Tonight marks the beginning of Pesach, when Jews celebrate the liberation of the Hebrews from Egyptian slavery. The story goes that when the Angel of Death passed through the land to kill the first-born sons, he passed over the houses that had been marked with lambs’ blood on the lintels—i.e., those of the Jews. Their children were saved, the Egyptians’ were not. Including Pharaoh’s eldest son.

The cumulative toll of various plagues prompted Pharaoh to let the Hebrews go. They were understandably in so much of a hurry to shake the dust of Egypt from their heels, they didn’t bother to wait for the bread to rise; they just upped sticks and headed for Israel.

If we’re going to talk resistance, persistence and resilience, the ne plus ultra of those qualities has to be the Jewish people. A lot of folks—evangelicals among them—focus on the Biblical suffering: Nebuchadnezzar, Goliath, Pharaoh, Caesar. After that they get pretty fuzzy. Many among them are Holocaust deniers; many others only focus on modern-day Israel as a component of the End Times. And they sure as hell don’t want actual Jews living anywhere near them. (They don’t even want me living near them.)

Plus—I remember a time when Catholics referred to Jews as Christ-killers, and every year on Palm Sunday the mass includes the congregation taking the part of the Hebrews before Pilate and yelling, “Crucify him!” several times. It was only 14 years ago that Pope Benedict XVI exonerated the Jews from this alleged crime, and there was a lot of pushback on it from the faithful.

All of this, of course, is before we even get to the Holocaust.

(I am distinguishing between the Jewish people and the government of Israel here, because I am frankly aghast at Israelis making mass murder in Gaza—nearly 70,000 killed since October 2023—policy. Netanyahu belongs in the dock at The Hague (he’s already been indicted). But then so does the Kleptocrat and his ilk.)

Okay, let’s have a couple of poems of resilience from Jews, starting with Psalm 142 (KJV):

I cried unto the Lord with my voice; with my voice unto the Lord did I make my supplication.

² I poured out my complaint before him; I shewed before him my trouble.

³ When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path. In the way wherein I walked have they privily laid a snare for me.

⁴ I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man that would know me: refuge failed me; no man cared for my soul.

⁵ I cried unto thee, O Lord: I said, Thou art my refuge and my portion in the land of the living.

⁶ Attend unto my cry; for I am brought very low: deliver me from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I.

⁷ Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name: the righteous shall compass me about; for thou shalt deal bountifully with me.

For something more recent, let’s turn to the Hungarian Miklós Radnóti, considered one of the premiere Holocaust poets. Today we’re having “Postcard 1”, in which we are reminded of what inspires people to persevere in the face of the uttermost cruelty. Victor Frankl spoke about this at length in Man’s Search for Meaning; those around him in Auschwitz who found something worth living for—a loved one, a focus of study, a hope for the future—all things being roughly equal, those people survived. Those who lost hope died.

“Postcard 1”

Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders,
resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence
while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase;
the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops;
and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos,
glowing within my conscience — incandescent, intense.
Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever —
still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death
or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree.

And finally, here’s a reminder of what constitutes resistance—it is not always taking up arms or marching in streets. It is a mindset of refusing to believe the false narrative of propaganda no matter how many times or how loudly it is repeated. It is an individual act of kindness or generosity, multiplied by tens of thousands of kindnesses and generosities. It is obstructing the oppressors at every possible turn. It is amassing a repository of evidence to everything that’s done and said. It is never surrendering.

Haim Gouri is an Israeli journalist, poet and film documentarian. Monia Avrahami was general director of the Ghetto Fighters’ House Museum in Israel, and collaborated with Gouri on the film Flames in the Ashes, in which this poem appeared. Avrahami died in 2014, Gouri in 2018.

“Resistance is…”

To smuggle a loaf of bread - was to resist.
To teach in secret - was to resist.
To gather information and distribute an underground newsletter - was to resist.
To cry out warning and shatter illusions - was to resist.
To rescue a Torah scroll - was to resist.
To forge documents - was to resist.
To smuggle people across borders - was to resist.
To chronicle events and conceal the records - was to resist.
To extend a helping hand to those in need - was to resist.
To dare to speak out, at the risk of one's life  - was to resist. 
To stand empty-handed against the killers - was to resist. 
To reach the besieged, smuggling weapons and commands - was to resist.
To take up arms in streets, mountains and forests - was to resist.
To rebel in the death camps - was to resist.
To rise up in the ghettos, amid tumbling walls,
in the most desperate revolt humanity has ever known ...

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

Somebody to lean on

Although I am a military historian concentrating on the mass conflicts of the 20^th Century, it’s occurred to me recently that everything I know about resistance movements (specifically those in Nazi-occupied Europe) starts when they were already operational. I don’t know spit about how the various networks were formed; how people who’d had their country invaded, their lives turned upside down and their economies shattered shifted from thinking like law-abiding citizens of a reasonable (ish) government to thinking like clandestine law-breaking rebels who needed to build networks of people they could trust who also had the skills to do the necessary—like print and distribute pamphlets, finance covert operations, amass and use a variety of weapons and all the rest of it.

Resistance cells do not spring fully-formed and armed from the brow of a god, and there was no YouTube back in the 1940s to show you how to plant explosives on the struts of a railroad bridge or set up a radio receiver in your back bedroom. (Or where to find or manufacture the explosives or build a receiver.)

And when you’re living in an authoritarian state, you have to sneak everything you do that could be considered subversive. How do you know that your neighbor Dave is really trustworthy, in the engaging-in-illegal-activities-for-the-good-of-the-country sense of the term? How much are you willing to bet that Dave’s wife won’t inform on you, or get Dave to do it, because she’s terrified that your activities can place her entire family in serious danger? Where can you meet without being seen or overheard, in a region where more than two people having a conversation is suspect? How do you go about forging documents if you’re actually a shopkeeper? Which of your acquaintances have the strength of character and quick-wittedness to push anti-propaganda fliers through mail slots and talk German patrols out of looking in their bicycle basket that’s full of fliers?

And—once you’ve got that cell sorted, how do you connect securely to other groups trying to do the same thing in other villages and towns?

(Interestingly, in the WWII scenario, communists had the advantage in this respect: they already had their cells and networks set up, they had communication capability and they weren’t strangers to organized violence. As long as the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact was in force, they stood down, but after 22 June 1941, they hit the ground running. The problem was integrating their activities with those of resistance units of other political persuasions, and that’s another issue we face: uniting in a community of noncompliance when there are so many passionate opinions about what should be prioritized.)

The thing about authoritarian regimes is they’re built on terror. The current US administration is no different. For White people, we’re at the intimidation stage. Only this week, the Kleptocrat issued EOs directing his Bimbo General Pam Bondi to “investigate” Chris Krebs, head of CISA during the first term, and Miles Taylor, chief of staff at DHS during same. (The investigations extend to anyone who’s worked with Taylor and Krebs, so—colleagues, companies, possibly even their old fraternity brothers.) Their crimes? Krebs certified that the 2020 election was secure and therefore accurate; Taylor wrote an anonymous NYT op-ed in 2018 criticizing the legality of the policies the president wanted to implement. We are waist-deep in retribution and revenge, and it’s not even three months since inauguration. People who are not White are definitely in the fear and even terror stages. 

Intimidation, fear and terror militate against speaking out, standing out, attracting attention. So the challenge is the same as it was in 1940: building a secure community of trust aligned against the very loud, very bellicose oppressors. Creating a center of mass that counters the mechanisms of structural power and gathering numbers and momentum. It starts, necessarily, one by one.

All that being said, our National Poetry Month entry today is “Lean on Me”, by Bill Withers. Here are Stevie Wonder and John Legend, honoring Withers at his induction into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame in 2015.

Volume up.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Hold fast

Hope is integral to every resistance movement. You have to believe there’s something better out there, and that it’s achievable, in order to put everything on the line.

That means you have to actively disbelieve the propaganda that’s shat all over you on the daily by the oppressor’s firehose of lies. No, the Kleptocrat is not an economic (or any other) genius; no, heaving a chainsaw and a pack of brochachos at the federal government will not improve anything; no, Canada does not have a gigantic water faucet that we can call on whenever; no, that was not a fucking touristic “day of love” at the Capitol on J6.

Sadly, there are way too many people in this country incapable of doing that even a little.

But for the rest of us, we can start with hope.

And that’s where poets like Langston Hughes can help us. In just a few lines, he’s able to place that small, glowing star in our hands, and open our hearts to the power of dreams, and the devastation that comes when we don’t have them.

“Dreams”

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

I cover all

It seems appropriate that somebody should mark the 160^th Anniversary of the surrender of Robert E. Lee to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House. I look around me at the media and I see nothing—I mean to say, bupkis—so I guess that somebody is me.

Perhaps the DOGiE brochachos/Proud Boys/Three Percenters crowd are deep in denial about the event. And perhaps that’s because not only did it represent the final loss of the Army of Northern Virginia and a big win by the Army of the Potomac, but because after Lee surrendered, so did every other Confederate general across the country.

It ended the War Between the States, and the Confederacy absolutely, positively, unquestionably lost. And this is something the White Christian nationalist lot really does not like to acknowledge.

Not for nothing are they called the Lost Cause. (Hint: because they lost.)

The pity is that Abraham Lincoln let the 11 Confederate states back into the Union without some kind of thorough de-Nazification process. Well—okay, not his fault, really, him having been assassinated six days after the Appomattox surrender by one of those sore loser Lost Causers. And yes—Congress did pass the Fourteenth Amendment, which does provide for banning insurrectionists from serving in elected federal office, but that doesn’t appear to have stuck; viz: the current occupant of the White House, several Senators and a whole flock of Representatives.

(The Fourteenth also guarantees birthright citizenship, which the insurrectionists are currently riding over in APCs. It appears that it’s one thing to pass laws and an entirely different thing to follow and enforce them. The Constitution these days being more of a guideline or a suggestion than the actual foundation of our civil society.)

So it turns out that that war didn’t actually end 160 years ago, or at least that the ideals of the Confederates—White, male supremacy floating on a completely unsustainable economy--have re-emerged in recent years like zombies. SECDEF Pete Hegseth (who might possibly be able to drink more than Grant, although I'm betting the latter would be able to get up from the table while Petey would be under it) is busy texting war plans to random reporters and renaming military bases after Confederate (losing) generals. They're also rewriting history to blot out things like slavery and anyone non-White who accomplished anything. Ergo silence on this anniversary. So we have to do it all over again, somehow.

In the meantime, for our National Poetry Month entry I’m giving you Twentieth Century American poet Carl Sandburg’s take on the endgame of all wars. Happy 160^th, y’all!

“The Grass”

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
                                          I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

                                          What place is this?
                                          Where are we now?

                                          I am the grass.
                                          Let me work.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Once more you will grant me strength

Women in pretty much every culture live lives of quiet resistance, learning to persevere possibly as early as through their mothers’ milk. No matter where you are, part of the tradition is almost certainly to make women less-than [whatever men are].

So we have learned to resist in small ways as well as large, despite being told over the centuries to shut up and make sandwiches. Poetry, of course, is one way of doing this. Poems are subject to interpretation, and somewhat like ciphers, unless you have the key, you can miss the message.

This is certainly the case with Iranian women poets. They call on the rich heritage of Persian poetry to frame their depiction of life under the ayatollahs, finding brightness where they can, facing darkness with resolution. The weapons of poetry—language, form, words—can strike with the force of a club, or slice like the sharpest Shamshir.

I think that we can draw inspiration from the poets—and especially the female poets—of Iran. They’ve had decades of experience using those weapons to lay bare the corruption and the tyranny of their government. They’ve had to be subtle and clever about it to evade the surveillance state. This is something that we are discovering we need to do in a time when the president of the United States uses the mechanism of government to oppress, suppress and repress anyone who doesn’t plant their lips firmly on his orange arse.

Siminbar Khalili, who wrote under the name Simin Behbahani, was one such. Coming from a progressive and literary family, she produced a body of work that earned her the sobriquet “The Lioness of Iran”. It also earned her nominations for the Nobel Prize in Literature twice, in 1999 and 2002. (The Laureates for those years were, respectively, Günter Grass and Imre Kertész.)

As you might imagine for anyone known as a lioness, Behbahani made authorities uncomfortable. In 2010 at age 82, she was refused permission to leave the country; arrested and detained as she attempted to board a flight to Paris. She was released, but without her passport. If they thought to contain her strength, they were mistaken. She died in 2014, having never been allowed out of Iran, but her poetry remains as a source of strength and hope for us all. Viz.:

“My Country, I Will Build You Again”

My country, I will build you again,
If need be, with bricks made from my life.
I will build columns to support your roof,
If need be, with my bones.
I will inhale again the perfume of flowers
Favored by your youth.
I will wash again the blood off your body
With torrents of my tears.
Once more, the darkness will leave this house.
I will paint my poems blue with the color of our sky.
The resurrector of “old bones” will grant me in his bounty
a mountains splendor in his testing grounds.
Old I may be, but given the chance, I will learn.
I will begin a second youth alongside my progeny.
I will recite the Hadith of love and country
With such fervor as to make each word bear life.
There still burns a fire in my breast
to keep undiminished the warmth of kinship
I feel for my people.
Once more you will grant me strength,
though my poems have settled in blood.
Once more I will build you with my life,
though it be beyond my means.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

So cunning and so cold

I vowed not to look at my 401(k) account for at least the first six months of this year. I knew that it wouldn’t make me feel better, and also that there’s not much I can do about it except ride it out. At the end of last year, I asked my financial adviser whether I’d be okay through 25% tariffs coupled with a 2008-like market drop; he said I would be (and showed me the receipts), so that’s what I’m going with.

(I did, however, go to Wegmans last Tuesday, to use my $15-off-purchase-of-$75-or-more coupon on wine before the tariffs hit. Just in case.)

Even so, when the Kleptocrat announced them before an audience of barking seals on Wednesday, they exceeded all expectations for arbitrariness and idiocy. There’s no doubt in my mind that nations who’ve pissed him off (or just not extolled him to the degree to which he thinks he’s entitled) got higher tariffs, just because he’s president of the United States and he can do it. (Certainly he can as long as Congress rolls over and plays dead; which they are.) Or maybe he does not find their national flag esthetically appealing. Or he has it in mind that they’re a “shithole” country.

We all noticed, for instance, that Russia was not on the list. For the time being, the poodle isn’t going to bite its master.

But it did strike as strange everyone with three synapses firing in sequence that two “nations”—Heard Island and McDonald Islands—got hit with 10% tariffs, despite the fact that they are very small islands off the coast of Antarctica, with no human inhabitants. Yes—Stable Genius is showing penguins (and a few seals) who’s boss around here. He fer dang sure is.

But today is Gratitude Monday, and it’s also National Poetry Month. So my thanks goes to Janel Comeau, whom I follow on Bluesky. On Friday she [ta]riffed on the William Carlos Williams poem, “This Is Just to Say”, with absolute perfection. Viz:

We are talking chef’s kiss here; it was magnificent.

So were other memes.

And then Saturday, all over the US and the world, more than five million people turned out on city streets, in village squares and in front of Tesla dealerships, to tell the greedy bastards to keep their sticky mitts off our rights.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

The nation whose breath is money

Lawrence Ferlinghetti was the grand old man of the Beat generation—poet, artist, bookseller and publisher. Although he didn’t consider himself a Beat poet, he certainly captured those times.

Ferlinghetti identified as a philosophical anarchist, and he opposed totalitarianism all his life. In 2006 (in the midst of our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the rise of the Tea Party and other bad juju), he wrote a response to Khalil Gibran’s “Pity the Nation”. Nineteen years on, with the Tea Baggers having morphed to MAGAts, this poem is even more pertinent than it was when he wrote it.

Listen to it as you read it, let the sharp edges pierce you and the fury and disgust envelop you. That’s what good poetry does.

Let it ignite your own anger and help you focus on actions to change this current reality. That line about letting our rights erode, man... 

“Pity the Nation”
(After Khalil Gibran)

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerors
And acclaim the bully as hero
And aims to rule the world
By force and by torture
Pity the nation that knows
No other language but its own
And no other culture but its own
Pity the nation whose breath is money
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed
Pity the nation oh pity the people
who allow their rights to  erode
and their freedoms to be washed away
 My country, tears of thee
 Sweet land of liberty!

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Between the sword and the block

When I was a teenager, Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet was all the rage. I confess I did not read it, but my lack of support notwithstanding, Gibran is the third-best selling poet of all time. (Shakespeare and Lao Tzu were ahead of him, if you’re asking.)

Gibran was born in Lebanon when it was part of the Ottoman Empire and moved with his mother and siblings to the United States around the turn of the last century. He was a gifted artist as well as a poet; another of those super-creative types.

Today’s entry for National Poetry Month, “Pity the Nation”, was published in 1933, two years after Gibran’s death. I think you’ll agree that it is heartbreaking, and that we are living that heartbreak today.

Again.

Still.

“Pity the Nation”

Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.

Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.

Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.

Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking.

Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

No hiding place

Since National Poetry Month this year is about how we find a way not only to rid ourselves of the fascist locusts that have swarmed our government, but also to build a lasting foundation for democracy, inclusion and justice, our first earworm is Curtis Mayfield’s “People Get Ready”.

(I’d have said “rebuild”, except I don’t know how much of the old structure is left. When Republicans openly call for anti-constitutional measures, we crossed a rather terrifying line some time ago.)

Because I think we’re in that stage—reeling from the Daliesque environment that has settled around us, each of us wondering, “Well, but—I’m one person; what can I do?” I feel that myself. But fortunately, there are people much smarter (and more organizationally adept) than I who are already working on actions that we can take en masse. And the “masse” part is what is important: not only are we stronger together, and thousands of voices are heard better than one, but we are also safer in the face of authorities who do not hesitate to take extra-judicial measures to silence opponents.

“People Get Ready” has some Gospel components, but it’s definitely a song for our times. “Faith is the key” isn’t necessarily limited to faith in God, or in Christ; we need faith in our cause and in our strength. The movement is open to all—open the doors and board. Moreover, I like this warning, which all the Bible thumping Rs might want to consider:

“There ain’t no room for the hopeless sinner

“Who would hurt all mankind just to save his own”

Okay, no they won’t. Tough toenails, then.

There’s an embarrassment of riches when it comes to performances of “People Get Ready”. I do like Jeff Beck and Rod Stewart, but for this time and this place, it’s Eva Cassidy, a woman who exhibited such grace, resilience and joy in her tremendous talent. Let her inspire you.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Laugh like you've got gold mines

An essential component of resistance, resilience and persistence—all three—is hope. You have to believe that there is light, no matter how long and dark the tunnel is, so that you can fight, protect yourself and continue. There is no quick fix for the mess we're in, so we've got to be ready to play the long game.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl observed fellow inmates of Nazi concentration camps and concluded that those who had something to hope for—a fiancée, a home or (in his case) an academic paper to reconstruct—on the whole survived, while those who didn’t, died, all other things being equal.

During his captivity in the Hanoi Hilton from 1965 to 1971, Lieutenant Commander Bob Shumaker constructed a home for his family, line by line and brick by brick—in his mind, as POWs weren’t allowed writing materials. Eight years later, he built the house, laying the bricks he’d seen in his mind. “Everyone has to have a dream to preserve in prison. Mine was to have a house for my family,” he later said. It’s what kept him going.

We who find ourselves imprisoned in the Project 2025 hellscape also need hope to sustain us as we organize to resist for however long it takes. Today’s entry for National Poetry Month is therefore Maya Angelou’s “And Still I Rise.”  As your eyes fly across the page, feel the cadence, the rise and fall of emphasis, the sibilance and glottal stops.

Then watch her recitation below and experience it even more fully.

“And Still I Rise”

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu