The “Tulaan sa Tren” project, which began in August to promote poetry to Light Rail Transit commuters, will soon reach school teachers, libraries and creative writing institutions after it was captured in book and CD form.
“Through the book, you can savor the poems for heavier reading,” said Andrea Pasion-Flores, executive director of project proponent National Book Development Board (NBDB).
“Tulaan,” she said, was such a success that it had gained attention from The New Yorker online, which said playing poetry on the trains gave the publishing industry a well-deserved boost.
By immortalizing the project, Flores said they will create a more lasting impression by distributing the materials to the academe.
Unfortunately Train of Thought which comes with an accompanying audio CD of the readings that were played through the PA systems of various train stations is not for sale to the reading public. Hmmm. There must be a profitable business venture somehow lurking here. Yeah right.
Chevron’s 2008 annual report is a glossy celebration of the company’s most profitable year in its history.
What Chevron’s annual report does not tell its shareholders is the true cost paid for those financial returns, or the global movement gaining voice and strength against Chevron’s abuses.
Thus, we, the communities and their allies who bear the consequences of Chevron’s operations, have prepared an alternative annual report of Chevron entitled “The True Cost of Chevron.” We will release the report at a press conference on May 26 and a day later at Chevron’s Annual Shareholder Meeting in San Ramon, California on May 27.
Never before has one report brought together the information, stories, and struggles of communities from Angola, Burma, Canada, Chad, Cameroon, Ecuador, Iraq, Kazakhstan, Nigeria, the Philippines and across the United States directly impacted by, and in struggle against, Chevron’s operations.
Bolivian President Evo Morales has presented title deeds to workers of the land of its previous owner, ex-president of Bolivia, Gonzalo Sanchez de Lozada.
The house and lands were expropriated from de Lozada’s estate on the grounds that they could serve the greater good of the people.
“There are still some landowners here or there who only use their lands to relax, or have a party or a cook out for a weekend and they would come here and never work,” Morales told his audience.
Throughout the mountainous region of Los Yungas, Afro-Bolivians and indigenous Bolivians danced and played traditional instruments in celebration of the land given back.
“Mission accomplished, brothers and sisters,” said President Morales after presenting the property titles. “Now you are owners and not slaves of the lands as you were before.”
In all, Morales presented some 283 property title deeds to local residents.
Visibly moved local resident Alejandro Iriondo is grateful for the land. “I say to and pray to the president, thank God that our ancestors put him there (as president),” said Iriondo. “He has come to give us our land back.”
I asked my sister for this, this letter
that lays bare the last days of my father.
Our father. For then I was in a distant land,
the furthest side of the world,
where no one I knew had ever been.
Two years after he died
I came for a brief visit,
introduced my young family
to the grass that grows
above my father’s bones.
One evening, laughter, hysterical
laughter, filled the living room I grew up in
as my sisters tickled my twin daughters.
Those moments drove away the stale darkness
that hung unspoken. In all the days I was there
No one shared a word about his passing.
Not to me, at least, but to my wife
from another land. I was spared
the details of grieving. And that
silence clung, a hungry beast.
Until finally this letter. Not really a dagger
for the beast, but fodder. My god,
you do have a sick sense of humour.
Hiding the key from my father
when he was no longer himself,
At the mercy of chemicals,
underpaid nurses. His body
like a puppet tied by a prankster
to a rattling exhaust pipe.
You cut us down to size, god.
So I gave you a small “g” here,
for now. Until I wake up from this
endless grief, see this pathetic rant,
and somehow repent. Or curse some more.
Whichever wins. You always do.
Go ahead. Do your mad dance.
I can stare forever at your antics,
silent as a lump of meat
before a fire,
before a feast.
Monsters came one day, dressed
in stiff uniforms. They were fed
largely on red meat and so had grown
like giants compared to the islanders.
They scarred the land as they drove,
engines growling like hungry beasts,
churning sand and dust into the terrified
eyes of the children. Those little
Brown arms grew powerless at the sight
of fists clutching the collars of their pets.
Never before had they seen such dark
nightmares. The monsters had come
To gather all the dogs of the island.
They were taken amid screams and cries,
hearts cracking like husked coconuts
flung against a jagged rock.
Almost 1,000 pets were rounded up and gassed, using the exhaust fumes from American military vehicles. “They put the dogs in a furnace where the people worked,” says Lizette Tallatte, now in her 60s, “ … and when their dogs were taken away in front of them, our children screamed and cried.”
Our cigarettes become aborted babies
in an ashen, glassy womb. The TV
Newscaster talks to our napes
about the latest developments in eastern
Europe and the rest of the warring
civilized world. Our ears
Are keen to every slap
of playing cards. Our eyes are sharp
But see nothing beyond
the moving curtain of smog
Around us. Mosquitoes have
their own ways of passing
Time while fulfilling their urges
as we keep the itch
That they leave,
tiny bulges that won’t
Turn into babies.
This was written in June 1990 and was published in the May 1991 issue of The Asian Literary Journal. I wonder what my friends who live in eastern Europe think of this. The accompanying painting is by Van Gogh. He didn’t know I was going to use it. But I suppose this is his way of reaching back from the grave. (Canned laughter please)