deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Fence
unexploded ordinance
blasting through four walls
to the basement
a mother clutching her babies
to her breast:
“the Americans.”
her husband crossed a mine field
to reach the border fence —
Sopron was no longer home.
Now is Revolution.
in Estelí a man raised by the land
forced to swim in blood of brothers slain
an uneasy mixture
sandinistas and contras
and foreign interference:
“the Americans”
Now is Revolution.
Red Cross truck carried his family
to Vienna where they reunited
refugees
sent to work and live in a Swiss camp
an engineer supporting his family
while still wondering about
the Americans
the man left his tropical homeland
wild and deserted roads
his makeshift camp
his father shot
by rebels seeking sons for working
the man considered a future living among
the Americans
Now is Revolution.
the Hungarian family
patiently waited
for legal asylum
their journey that began
through a border fence
who would’ve thought they would now be
“the Americans”
when the man from Esteli reached the States
he stood before a border fence
with political asylum not an option, this refugee
crawled through sewage tunnels
and climbed onto White Man’s truck
working with his back and hands alone for
“the Americans”
today I watch immigrants cramped in trucks
come foolishly believing the States a refuge
their children separated at the camps
Hungary refuses refugees
and builds border fences
Nicaragua again wartorn
my grandparents accepted
my husband’s father rejected
the current immigrant problem
comparatively expected
one came legal, one came rogue
different political persuasions
can maintain respectful tone
the Americans
who think political rants in vogue
whether building or cutting the fence
Now is Revolution:
There is no place called Home.
Hungary (1956)
Nicaragua (1980)
USA (2018)
blasting through four walls
to the basement
a mother clutching her babies
to her breast:
“the Americans.”
her husband crossed a mine field
to reach the border fence —
Sopron was no longer home.
Now is Revolution.
in Estelí a man raised by the land
forced to swim in blood of brothers slain
an uneasy mixture
sandinistas and contras
and foreign interference:
“the Americans”
Now is Revolution.
Red Cross truck carried his family
to Vienna where they reunited
refugees
sent to work and live in a Swiss camp
an engineer supporting his family
while still wondering about
the Americans
the man left his tropical homeland
wild and deserted roads
his makeshift camp
his father shot
by rebels seeking sons for working
the man considered a future living among
the Americans
Now is Revolution.
the Hungarian family
patiently waited
for legal asylum
their journey that began
through a border fence
who would’ve thought they would now be
“the Americans”
when the man from Esteli reached the States
he stood before a border fence
with political asylum not an option, this refugee
crawled through sewage tunnels
and climbed onto White Man’s truck
working with his back and hands alone for
“the Americans”
today I watch immigrants cramped in trucks
come foolishly believing the States a refuge
their children separated at the camps
Hungary refuses refugees
and builds border fences
Nicaragua again wartorn
my grandparents accepted
my husband’s father rejected
the current immigrant problem
comparatively expected
one came legal, one came rogue
different political persuasions
can maintain respectful tone
the Americans
who think political rants in vogue
whether building or cutting the fence
Now is Revolution:
There is no place called Home.
Hungary (1956)
Nicaragua (1980)
USA (2018)
Published 25th Oct 2018
Author's Note
A personal story close to my heart.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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25th Oct 2018 5:31am
That is very well written.... it’s hard to know what to say in response!! It’s heartbreaking really to think what an uphill battle it is, to truly be free, to be independent and to find a place you can truly call home, to be accepted and embraced.... I have often felt that I am not American even though it is my birthright. I try to keep a grateful perspective but I feel this nation has been built on hypocrisy and treachery and I often feel the temptation to run to Canada or some other country, but I feel stuck. Alas, my home is here with my family, but my spirit empathizes with my roots, my ancestors, the ancestors of the land ....
Anonymous
- Edited 8th Nov 2018 00:49am
27th Oct 2018 11:39am
<< post removed >>
28th Oct 2018 5:48pm
Thanks for your comments! I never expect “political” poems to get comments, so it was nice a few people read it and provided some Input.
Nicaragua and Hungary both faced serious political revolution — which served as the main catalyst for emigration. A lot of 1956 Hungarian emigres actually went to Australia! They have a pretty large Hungarian Population.
Thanks for noting the repetition— I was hoping that the reader would pick up on the different uses of “camp” and “truck” in the different storylines. Originally I had wanted to write two separate poems parallel to each other, but I thought it maybe too ambitious or confusing for the reader so I tried this and used repetition to separate each timeline.
Nicaragua and Hungary both faced serious political revolution — which served as the main catalyst for emigration. A lot of 1956 Hungarian emigres actually went to Australia! They have a pretty large Hungarian Population.
Thanks for noting the repetition— I was hoping that the reader would pick up on the different uses of “camp” and “truck” in the different storylines. Originally I had wanted to write two separate poems parallel to each other, but I thought it maybe too ambitious or confusing for the reader so I tried this and used repetition to separate each timeline.
Anonymous
- Edited 8th Nov 2018 00:49am
29th Oct 2018 10:42am
<< post removed >>
