Social Justice Poetry

Ximena Gautier Greve

The Hours of Evil | A Social Justice Poem by Ximena Gautier Greve

Nowadays, suffering is the clock of time
The fallen ones mark the passing hours,

maltreatment and illness have a long life,

the famine ever onward and upward.

A persistent cultural conviction
guides this Chilean blood
ruthless enemy of their origins

throughout the centuries

At morning, hunger tighten the belly.
Filling up the afternoon
Special local Forces, repression and gunfire
Midnight, raid warrant, inhuman arrest.
mattocks and equipments destroyed,

Then comes interrogation and torture,
trial, forged evidences, masked witness,
anti-terrorist law, unjust convictions.

The second hand walks on natural rights
that now are criminal offenses: no protest,
no defending roof and family, nor crying starvation.

The cry of Chilean indigenous territories
the mainstay of the South
fire alive that has not gives ashes.
Time goes by
in lands burned by chemicals.

Cannot hear even one trill.
Small birds ate the wilted venomous berries,
the skunk hunts the swollen poisoned rabbits
Eagles, cougars, humans… All perish.

The whole food chain is polluted
To sow is impossible:
the soils are contaminated
everything withers
and if it grows, it kills.

At the water landscapes, no drinking water.
Pipelines and rubbish dumps
pollute groundwater and wells.
Rivers and lakes receive industrial waste.

Come check health of the sick children!

Come to count thousand of dead fishes!
washing up along poisoned rapids
found in estuaries and deltas!

Come hear song of swans when dying!

Come see their long black necks falling
as they expire by hundreds of thousands!

Criminal productivity. Maximum performance.
No matter if nature and men die.

But as these crimes occur on indigenous land,
over there, in the skyscrapers of Santiago or New York
some sex slave raises a leg, bottle and gets high
with “Chilean Tigers”,
North Americans and another foreign
bank, portfolio and stock exchange.
Flowing out whiskey, dollar, drugs,
business deals, intrigue.
One aseptic cueca for fake local flavour
and the omnipotent guffaw who feeds itself
from the billions of billions looted
to life of fields, animals and people:
evil money goes against life…

Goes against life
Goes against life
Against life, goes.

From Ximena’s book, Mapuche Apology.

Tupak Amaru Condorkanki | A Social Justice Poem by Ximena Gautier Greve

Over there at height, the absolute haze,
Condors and flamingos flying the escarpment,
Cordillera Vilcanota of four hundred glaciers
whose clouds are the thinking of mountains.
Snow-capped Ausangate, the tutelar spirit,
its eyes are the turquoise lagoons
that are loving the Stone Forest,
the sun writes the seasons over
the inca sundial at Intihuatana,
Elusive deers leap by black rocks
like blades that hide the cougar.
Down at the huge precipice heather covered
the mighty Urubamba is breaking its swell.

Towards Vilcabamba, sacred city of Pachacútec
the Sons of Sun go fleeing from faith
and treachery of friars, of greedy conquerors
and viceroys, all of them accomplished enemies.
The dew-morning at Cordillera, are tears…

On the peaks of almost solid mist,
The student of Garcilaso, Jesuit scholar,
clandestine reader from Rousseau and Voltaire,
survivor of the Solar Lineage exterminated,
Túpak Amaru returns to life.

With rebellion are inhabited, the peaks in November
that only slavery and domination lived in those heights.
Creoles, zambos, Indian, mestizo, both male and female
one same body and beginning, fraternity
with some aftertaste of compass, level and plumb.

The Eight Haughty Peoples rose in revolt,
the Council of Five and Túpac’s wife Micaela
formed a poorly equipped army of seven thousand,
seven thousand disinherited following
their solar Inca Tupac Amaru the second,
against the detestable tyranny and forced labour
of Indians at mercury mines and chained blacks.

Speaks the ch’anka oracle, roar of the Apurimac,
torrent river like sea. And enslaved people
rise up victorious throughout all the country.

Nevertheless they will be dominated again. Tortured,
Túpac Amaru writes messages with his blood.
He is forced to witness the atrocious executions
of his family and followers unto the fourth generation,
ordered by José Antonio de Areche, the Visitador.
badly injured, the last Inca faced death.
First, they cut off his tongue, then tie up his members
to four horses pulling in the four directions, but he dies not.

Then, bored, the Spanish barbarian
beheads and dismembers in parts, that he sends
unto all latitudes of Tiwantinsuyo to be exposed.
Adds abomination doing the same to Micaela’s body.

On the heights of love and light,
the terror stayed like a dagger, rooted in souls
as a stab, terror stays planted in souls,
a dagger that no one was strong enough to take out.

In tears, the Inca people go burning
the bloodcurdling pieces of bodies of their sovereigns
Later, their ashes and continental insurrection
were scattered, beyond time,
by royal eagles and crowned hawks.

And you resurrect, again and again, son of the Sun,
Tupac Amaru Inka, in Uruguay, Argentina and Chile.
In Ecuador, Bolivia, Colombia and Venezuela,
to set fire at American freedom.

The end.

Architects of The Hell | A Social Justice Poem by Ximena Gautier Greve

They all wanted to be good.
It strikes me that about desire.
That the lovers incessantly express
after all indecision
troubadours of nightmares and sorrows
under all lunar and terrestrial shadows,

They all wore their lamps working on hands
clean or dirty, bloody or diaphanous,
murderous poetries
of hatred and misunderstanding
or tender feathers of hope,
like canals channeling the torn sails
in the improbable boats of miserable dreams.

They all wanted one day be the best
Was the hope of open and pale childhoods
shot to death, leafless, and in despite of all,
with the arrow of sun still between their fingers,
they all continue to follow that mystery
persisting in the open estuary
before devouring ocean surf
millenary like the immortal desperation
of so many empty wishes,
with no place in the infamous present
doomed to death, consumed
into the flames of any local crematory,
on the lips of a mother
who failed to maintain the immortal flame,
or on the seals of national loan bonds,
such as lullaby to empty cradles.

Everyone wanted to conquer evil
forgetting that good is not absolute,
forgetting the pains of Icarus and Apollo,
but we all wanted to be good,
forgetting that perfect good is inhuman.
This is how we build The Hell!

Bow Figurehead | A Social Justice Poem by Ximena Gautier Greve

Cut the seas
run ominous waves! …

Shew us
new damned reefs,
coral of human vermilion
loaded with chunks of rails
the ruthless sowed
on the high seas.

The Pacific roars its distress
rises to sky its monstrous waves,
as arms that last rocked
agonizing bagged bodies
on the innocent cradle of sea …

But they fall not silent,
not die neither rest.

Badly wounded,
this waning boat
go aimlessly.

Badly wounded,
ardent bow figurehead …

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