Susie
D
19
Winchester St. #806
Brookline,
MA 02446
617-566-7557
Susie_d@yahoo.com
Susie
D (www.susied.com) is a Boston-area
poet with over 150 publications, and a weekly correspondent for the Jewish
Advocate, The Cambridge Chronicle, The Cambridge Tab and the Brookline Tab. She
won the 2002 Cambridge Poetry Awards’ Best Political Poem Award (for
“Viva La Causa, Viva Chavez”) and was nominated for the Best
Political Poem Award for 2003.
Her
poems appear monthly in Massachusetts Mensa’s The Beacon in “Susie
D’s Poetry Corner.” She has written articles for other local
newspapers and music magazines including The Beat! and Boston Rock. She fronts
a postpunk poetry band, Sound the Word, and moderates the internet discussion
group ProgressiveChat@yahoogroups.com.
Her first book, “I Refused to Die,” a compilation of the stories of
Boston-area Holocaust survivors, is due out in Fall, 2003 from Ibbetson Street
Press.
Susie has authored the poetry volumes It’s Only
Life – Rhythmic Forays into Politics and Human Nature (1992), After Gary
(1996) and Selected Poetry of Susie D (2002). She began and managed JP’s
World Stage and Cambridge’s Small Circle of Friends coffeehouses, hosted
the poetry show “The Spoken Scene” on WZBC-FM and has performed at
First Night Boston, the Bread and Roses Festival in Lawrence, CBGB’s in
NYC and other locales. She reads poetry at various Boston/Cambridge poetry
venues.
She
is an active member of the Jewish Alliance for Law and Social Action and The
Coalition on the Environment and Jewish Life.
Her
late father, Bernard Davidson, wrote one of the Massachusetts State Songs. She owned and operated My Type, Inc., a
Harvard Square typesetting and graphics company, from 1984-92.
Susie
can be contacted at Susie_d@yahoo.com or
Susie@SusieD.com.
¡Viva
La Causa! ¡Viva Chavez!
For
Cesar Chavez
Born
in '27 on a farm in Arizona
Evicted
with his family when the state became its owner
Depression
sent them westward
in
the Grapes of Wrath migration
Forced
them to surrender into migrant exploitation.
¡Viva La Causa! ¡Viva Chavez!
Forty
schools in 7 grades, he finally quit the 8th
Through
cotton fields and shining shoes
he
tried to keep the faith,
To
racist degradation he would cower in submission
Till
one night in a theatre when he made a bold decision.
Like
Rosa Parks he sat down in the Anglos-only side,
and
though the sheriff dragged him out
he
held his new found pride
No
longer would he stand in shame
while
rights were compromised,
Like
Wobblies in the 1910's,
he
marched and organized.
¡Viva La Causa! ¡Viva Chavez!
Strikes
and fasts and boycotts were his methods of defiance,
Though
growers rose against him
he
would not resort to violence
And
when dissent within his ranks
dispelled
the union's mission,
He
started yet another fast to gel the coalition.
¡Viva La Causa! ¡Viva Chavez!
The
AFL-CIO and RFK endorsed him,
But
Nixon's Teamsters plotted countermeasures
and
enforced them
For
every hard-won victory, for every small improvement,
The
agribusiness giants fought to try and squash the movement.
And
though the endless struggle left him weary from defeat,
and
though the road to human rights is yet still incomplete,
His
efforts can be realized in American conception
For
he brought the migrant workers' plight
to
people's comprehension!
¡Viva La Causa! ¡Viva Chavez!
And
now this month another hole's
been
ripped out from the heart
And
once again a source of strength's
been
stripped and torn apart,
and
solace, if it's anywhere, can only lie in knowing
That
on that final day he knew full well where he was going,
and
when he got there all the gates and doorways opened wide,
and
there arose a multitude to usher him inside,
Abbie
Hoffman, RFK, Brothers Christ and Ghandi,
Sisters
Emma and Sojourner, Ochs and Woody Guthrie,
Michael
Harrington, John Lennon, MLK, Joe Hill, Romero,
All
of those who lived and died the spirit of the hero,
Those
who fought for basic rights wherever people roam,
Standing
tall -- with fists held high –
they
welcomed Cesar home!
¡Viva
La Causa! ¡Viva Chavez!
Vaya
con Dios, Cesar Chavez. 4.93
Lone
Stars Magazine, San Antonio, TX, 3.94
Winner,
Best Political Poem, Cambridge Poetry Awards, Cambridge, MA, 3.02
Selectoral
Fraud 2000
seems the good ole' boys
are well and alive
in this non-democratic
non-US of A
with an evil ring set to
strike votes ineffectual
in non-whitebread districts
while confused ballots stymie
those who've long paid their dues
who recall another holocaust
of dignity and so conservation lands
11 million mile wide ozone hole
women's rights
social equality
economic justice
fall victim when
those proudly cast ballots
can't be sure they are not
disenfranchised as carnage
in this land where
ghoulish cheerleader signs fascist sovereignty
antisemitic spokesman's brought back from dark past
partisan judges blindly, freely rule bias
these hatemongering relics of an angrier era
pulling dirty trick tactics stopping no way no how
till their 1% rise up
and the rest of us wallow
in what we could have done. 12.00
A dearth of grand
ideas,
a lack of communal
vision
manifests in vestigal
bodies
lying between the
cracks.
Horizontal reminders of
others, who
while prosperity
enraptures the few,
become gray-wool
remnants
of inequality, excess,
singular this, singular that,
self-limiting silence,
peripheral sight.
Poetic Eloquence,
Elgin, TX, Spring 1995; Abutilon, Longview, WA, 6.95.
anomaly in gingrich
america
as a banner-waving
mcgovernik,
public radio
devotée,
school lunch advocate,
federal health and
safety regulations backer,
affirmative action
afficionado
balanced budget realist
socialist media scribe
i say
get thee to oz, newt
get thee to oz
perhaps the wizard's
got another heart
in stock 3.95
Workers' Day
When sweat and toil have laid new ground,
For millions of castles of mortar and brick,
With basic requirements provided by all,
And nobody needlessly hungry or sick,
Then we'll know it's Workers' Day.
When the fruits of endeavor are harvested fully,
As storehouses bloat with provisions galore,
And profits and shares are just means of ensuring,
That all have the same, no less and no more,
Then we'll know it's Workers' Day.
When communal gatherings are welcoming venues
For voices on every side of the fence,
And no one's afraid to state an opinion,
In this new world order of the highest sense,
When laborers' monuments stand in the squares,
Societies are rebuilt with inhabitants in mind,
Arsenals are stocked with food for the people,
Respect is bestowed upon all of mankind,
When unions and strikes are a thing of the past,
and there's no need to picket or get in a line,
with health, education and welfare in order
There really aren't any demands to define,
When people have time to smell lilacs and roses,
Because there's no anger, no issues, no race,
When within a cooperative built upon honor,
Envy and greed just haven't a place,
When organization replaces dissent,
And it's only ourselves that we need to obey,
When with our needs met we can be who we are,
And Utopia's only a hair's-breadth away...
Then we'll know it's Workers' Day. 3.91
Struggle
Magazine, Detroit, MI, 9.91;
Randolph
Mariner, Randolph, MA, 9.91;
The
Advocate, Prattsville, NY, 10.91;
Poetry
Break Journal, Oceanside, CA, 5.92;
Omnific,
Artemas, PA, 7.93;
Lead
poem, 7th Ann. Bread & Roses Labor Day Heritage Festival, Lawrence, MA,
9.2.91
Star
Spangled Banter
Oh,
say, can't you see
Underneath
the street light,
Once
so proudly he hailed,
Now
the twilight's on dreaming.
His
broad sights now blight's scars,
In
these perilous nights,
While
the fat cats we watch,
Are
so callously scheming.
With
his pockets stripped bare,
They
fund bombs, cut welfare,
As
if proof of our might's,
That
our flag commands fear.
Oh,
say, doesn't that star spangled
Banner
really wave,
Oe'r
the land of the bereaved,
And
the home of the depraved? 6.91
Struggle,
Detroit, MI 11.91
The
Sidewalks of New York 1993
or:
this poem doesn't rhyme
it's
2:30 am and we stumble through the lower east side
in
post-gig stupor
we
being big-haired mexican american street singer
german
fiddle virtuoso
former
bagel purveyor
new
york citywise ex-bostonian
and
socially-oriented woman of verse,
and
even in this concrete metropolis of sprawling squalor
it's
a starkly incomprehensible exposé
of
the foreboding pavement and its populace
a
no-budget less-than-cinematic revelation of
walking
economically wounded social castaways en masse
wasted
in this wasteland
soldiers
of misfortune chaotically grabbing
for
sympathetic pizza
in
a momentary interlude of evening ritual
amid
this bleakest of
day-to-day
night-to-night
armies
of the unseen and unheard
battling
for existence
you
in a squat? asks martinez
hell
no, man. i'm on the streets.
and
off into the myriad clutching web of consequence
street
steam enveloping his majestic stride
hell's
angels headquarters
imposing
ghoulish edificial dignity
upon
its grey-brown neighbors
which
shrink by default to a blander congruence
in
a bar now
jukebox
blaring undertones, pistols, buzzcocks
low
rent, seth explains. people our age can be proprietors
ya,
i guess so. but the environment
the
environment and the boxes
folded
and fitted together
accommodating
the unaccommodated
dourly
dotting this livid landscape
back
at cb's dan wilson sang of anger's alley
"the
final resting place,
finish
line for the human race"
but
now it's me feeling the anger
and
this poem doesn't rhyme. 4.93
Naked
City Coffeehouse Newsletter, Cambridge, MA, 7.93;
Lone
Stars Magazine, San Antonio, TX, 2.94
His
Luminous Eyes
I
thought I saw masses being fed in Somalia,
And
boat people everywhere welcomed ashore,
While
treaties were signed in Croatia and Israel,
And
Native American pride was restored.
But
I guess it was only his luminous eyes
And
the sounding of peace in his Midwestern twang,
The
triumph conveyed in his innocent smile,
The
harmony and hope in the lyrics he sang.
I
thought prisoners of conscience were freed by the thousands
And
women united to take back the night
As
oppressive regimes fell apart through the world,
And
nuclear arsenals vanished from sight,
But
I guess it was just conversational flow,
Where
the most mundane chatter was somehow profound,
In
an equal exchange without scheme or designing,
Person
first and then woman, not the other way around.
The
pathways to justice are rocky and steep,
Sometimes
hope for the future lies only in song.
But
new rays of sunlight from voices who join us
Make
the load a bit lighter as we struggle along.
4.93
Poet's
Pen Quarterly, Galena, IL, 12.93;
Lone
Stars Magazine, San Antonio, TX, 2.94;
Poetic
Eloquence, Elgin, TX, Fall 1996;
Omnific,
Artemas, PA, 10.95
Barred in Bosnia
The strongest blockade is of womanly will
Where intent turns to iron and motive to fire,
Feminine fervor defying all reason,
Bodies connecting in common desire.
But something's gone wayward in Mostar today,
Croats convening in hatred and grief,
A convoy of women united in thwarting
27 trucks aiming for Muslim relief.
Driven by rancor, they vow to prohibit
The cargo from reaching a beleaguered site,
Where 55,000 have two months been held
In a place all sides claim as their holding by right.
How could such horror exist in this age
Where countrymen feud in eternal dissent,
With dry milk and baby food weapons and ploys,
Where conflicts unveil genocidal intent?
Yet a faraway region becomes our backyard
When we honor our ties to our brethren, our kin
Realize we too have a share in their plight,
And see it won't lessen until we begin.
8.93
In August, 1993 a large group of Croatian women repeatedly
attempted to block a Mostar-bound U.N. convoy carrying basic supplies for Muslim
infants.
Lone Stars Magazine, San Antonio, TX, 12.93;
My Legacy, Artemas, PA, 8.95.
The
Marching Goes On
Rob
told me yesterday
That
he'd been listening to Phil Ochs.
And
here I am now, doing the same.
Just
that small mention
Brings
all of it back.
And
the marching goes on,
And
the struggle remains.
The
harder we cling to Phil’s words
The
more we cling to Phil’s memory.
That
circle of friends was too small to save him,
And
500 out of 300,000 showing up in Chicago
Fed
his frustration
And
sealed his despair.
But
we look around, at those who barely show up for life.
We
can't let it kill us,
We
can only persevere
as
Phil could not.
Like
Ian Curtis Phil's image hangs with me still,
But
where love tore him apart,
The
world did it to Phil.
And
I wonder
If
those who feel the most
suffer
the most as well,
Why
is it they
who
leave the most behind?
Why
is it they
who
ignite and inspire,
Then
snuff themselves out
and
extinguish their essence,
While
the flames of their impact
Burn
brightly as ever?
And
we,
who
look for new guidance in a leaderless world,
We,
who
search for the road to freedom
In
the thick forest of oppression,
We,
who
hold to our visions of equality
While
injustice crashes around us,
We,
who
dream of that better world
While
living the nightmares of reality,
Know that sometimes all there is
Is
that collective spirit which those like Phil have left us,
And
we somehow continue,
As
the marching goes on,
and
the struggle remains. 8.91
Squawk
Magazine, Cambridge, MA, 9.91;
The
Advocate, Prattsville, NY, 3.92;
Struggle,
Detroit, MI, 3.92;
Celebration
of Life (Poetry Press Anthology, Pittsburg, Texas, 1993);
Read
at 18th Annual Phil Ochs Song Night, Cambridge, MA, 11.92 (only poem);
Moments
in Time, Maryville, TN, 2.95.
Bound
For Glory (The Phil Ochs Story)
It
started at Ohio State in 1959,
John
Wayne, James Dean and Elvis were his heroes at the time,
But
spurred on by Jim Glover he began to write and play,
While
Jim's dad introduced him to the issues of the day,
And
now he's bound for a glory all his own,
now
he's bound for glory.
He
filled the student paper with his essays and his views,
But
they deemed him controversial in his coverage of the news,
And
when they passed him over for the editor that year,
He
left the role of student for the role of balladeer.
He
went to New York City at the age of 21,
And
wound up in the Village where the folk scene had begun,
In
hundreds of his songs he put the headlines into words,
And
to a larger audience he got his message heard,
And
now he's bound for a glory all his own,
now
he's bound for glory.
Now
like Joe Hill he sang about the rights of the oppressed,
And
just like Woody Guthrie he befriended the distressed,
And
though he sang on stage and not the farmlands or the train,
Workers'
rights or Vietnam, the spirit was the same.
With
Paxton, Blue and Dylan
he
would spend his nights and days,
And
with Baez and Seeger, Newport '63 they played,
Elektra
Records heard him and they knew they wanted more,
And
All The News That's Fit To Sing came out in '64
And
now he's bound for a glory all his own,
now
he's bound for glory.
His
musical career took place upon the social stage,
A
study of his life becomes a portrait of the age,
And
though his disappointments were imprinted in his eyes,
His
values and his visions simply knew no compromise,
And
now he's bound for a glory all his own,
now
he's bound for glory.
When
rock outstripped the folk scene
he
could not keep up the pace,
The
glitter pushed the protest song outside the public grace,
Though
shunned by TV hosts, the FBI was on his tail,
And
on a beach in Kenya he was brutally assailed.
He
kept up with the struggle; it was all he'd ever known,
The
demons that possessed him were the only things he owned,
But
through the tribulation he retained his faith and pride,
Until
Chicago '68, when something in him died,
And
now he's bound for a glory all his own,
now
he's bound for glory.
The
changing of the era in his life was symbolized,
The
ending of the movement paralleled his own demise,
Like
Elvis, Hill and Dean with whom he most identified,
Death
became the rebel in the form of suicide.
Although
his loss is something that is hard to understand,
No
one said the spirit has to go down with the man,
And
if we stay together and we keep to our ideal,
The
world that he envisioned could just finally be real,
It'll
be the Phil Ochs story in the end,
It'll
be the Phil Ochs story. 8.92
read
to the tune of Phil's song Bound For Glory.
Struggle,
Detroit, MI, 3.93
E.
Berlin
Bombed-out,
Shell-shocked,
Socialist
shrapnel.
Not
long ago.
Plans,
dreams and visions
Now
a larger-scaled settling
Of
dust rising anew
In
grey, dingy air
Within
a single canvas
Of
muted yellow.
With
proletariat aspirations
A
stench of disappointment
Which
lingers still.
The
reconstruction of brick.
Is
never in spirit.
6.91
Bratwurst
Among Ruins
Reminders.
Halves
and quarters of churches and palaces.
Pre-1945
splendor,
Now
shocking consequences
of
human aggression.
US
and British aggression.
German
and Russian aggression.
Gothic
ruins.
They
sell bratwurst below them
In
gaily painted booths.
Tourists
gather, eating and talking. 6.91
Poetic
Eloquence, Elgin, TX, Winter 1995
Now
Ve Are Home
(The
Streets of the New Capital)
There's
mayhem tonight
On
the streets of the new capital.
"Now
ve are home" says the old man,
All
5'4" of him.
He's
trying to explain it to us
Through
his broken teeth and glassy stare,
He
thinks that Berlin now will be
The
starting and the ending
Point
of convergence
For
the world.
All
around
Flags,
horns, voices, arms
All
emanate approval
Of
the decision
Made
by 337 members of Parliament
On
this day.
They're
jubilant; they're hopeful.
They
see their future
In
their importance.
Their
Western influence
Is
alive.
6.91
Lean back
and hurl
Those
double-edged words
It takes
but a moment
To shatter
decorum
And flatten
esteem.
Draw back
on that bow
With your
poisonous barb,
Send it
along
In its
hellish direction
To the
innocent target
Whose
misfortune was crossing
Your
angst-ridden path.
Analysis
fails
To uncover
the source
Of your
daggers of malice.
What was it
that prompted
Your chosen
appointment
As Satan's
disciple,
Delivering
hatred,
Espousing
abuse?
Do those
double-edged words
Fill the
gaps in your pride?
Is their
evil embrace
Such a powerful
force
That you
slander your brother
With venom
and vice
As the
ramifications
Escape your
perception,
And the sin
reproduces
In your
virulent soul?
And your
innocent target,
In
confusion and shame,
Tries to
salvage his honor
And
continue the night. 8.91
with
just one letter, words can cut.
My Legacy,
Artemas, PA, 5.93
In the portrait
presented
of Palestine's plight,
these innocent victims
are peaceful, upright
under years of
apartheid,
brutal sanctions and
laws,
of their evil
oppressors
who destroy their just
cause.
In the public persona
they're a populace
scorned
joined together in
virtue
cast aside, homeland
torn
It's a curious picture
without research,
inspections,
those who champion
rights
look in other
directions
While documentation
of torturous acts
against their own
people
are left out of the
facts.
Firing squad killings
with a loud cheering
crowd,
for suspected
collaboration
legal trials aren't
allowed.
Gays nonexistent,
women out of the loop
minorities silenced
no say for these
groups.
Negotiation or
compromise
are unheard-of
conceptions,
each offer refused,
without pause or
reception
as they want nothing
less
than Israel in the sea,
death to all Jews,
and democracy.
As proclaimed in their
textbooks
and in youth education
while they place them
on frontlines
for the good of the
nation?
Their state they should
have,
settlers may well need
to leave
but how will they
govern?
let's not be naive.
Especially we women
who seek far and
beyond,
here's a few little
factoids
of what really goes on.
Palestinian Arab women
murdered by their kin,
in what's called
"honor killings"
for implication of sin.
Society that believes
honor's only restored
by the spilling of
their blood,
the Arab Jerusalem
Times implored.
"Palestinians
believe a woman
is among a man's
possessions,"
said the head of Gaza's
health group
of its victims of
aggression.
No laws on sexual
harrassment,
a widely-occuring
aberration,
reported August 2000's
JT,
newspaper of the Arab
population.
Judges and police
will side with the man,
finding
"justifiable exuses,"
said a Unicef criminal
exam.
Legal polygamy
gets them wed at 13,
80 percent in
Bethlehem's district
married at under 16.
Under Arafat's Fatah
decency squads,
107 women killed
from 1988 to '93,
"honor
killings" blood again spilled.
For women working out
of the home,
targeting's more acute
four hooded men killed
a chief nurse
six women medics
followed suit
Arab professor Mohammed
Haj Yahya
said 39 percent of
wives are battered,
in a Bir Zeit
University lecture,
male dominance the
heart of the matter.
Gang raping by masked
Arab henchmen
of the wives of Israeli
employees
both Jerusalem and
Jewish Posts uncovered
these terrorist
underground stories.
Are we blind to these
cases
of oppression of our
gender?
Or is it now time to
instead
become their defender?
Do we stoop to condone
such barbaric abuses
by upholding a people,
towing the line, the
excuses?
People who danced
following 9/11?
those who blow up
schoolchildren
on their way to martyr
heaven?
Or do we seek
objectivity
hope for truce on both
sides
which involves
evolution,
which requires
compromise?
Holding trials with
fair juries
bringing victims some
grace
acknowledging Israel
and its own ancient
place,
Reaching out as a
neighbor
with genuine intent
negotiating grievance,
resolving dissent.
This goes for both
parties
but we can't side with
one
while people are dying,
and reform's not begun.
We can hope, we can
dream
for a Middle East peace
in the name of all
victims,
for injustice to cease.
But no one will get
there
Not they, you or I
till the vision is
clear
it's futility's
cry. 3.7.03