German far-right politician’s daughter’s nazi poems


Girl reads nazi poetry in Speyer, Germany

The background of this photo from Speyer city in Germany shows a sign, saying ‘Speyer without racism’. Unfortunately, Speyer is not yet completely without racism. As the person on the foreground of the photo, the daughter of a neofascist politician, showed.

Translated from Dutch (right-wing) daily De Telegraaf today:

German teenage girl shocks with Nazi poems

By Sander Tromp

A fourteen-year-old girl from Speyer in Germany caused a huge uproar by declaiming racist poems during a poetry competition for students.

Each participant in the contest was given a maximum of five minutes of time and the person who would receive the most applause was allowed to continue to the next round.

After Ida-Marie Müller (not entirely coincidentally the daughter of Nicole Höchst, politician of the extreme right-wing party AfD) stepped on stage for about a hundred listeners, she fiercely attacked foreigners. She recited a poem in prayer form with striking sentences like “multiculti[ral] tralala, hurray, the whole world comes here” and “see the hypocrites in the mirror and love your neighbor, the murderer.”

Bizarrely enough she got the most applause, so she was allowed another round. The adolescent girl then doubled down a little bit more.

“The negro is no longer a nigger, you can not say gypsy [about Roma] anymore. They are both racist, that’s what people hear every day. Whoever dares to do so is booed.”

Microphone off

The organization then switched off her microphone. Then, they gave the girl another chance, but as she kept going with her Nazi talking, the jury finally decided to get her out of the competition.

According to Belgian daily Het Laatste Nieuws, Ms Müller said the, anti-racist, poems by the other competitors, were ‘for arseholes’. One of her poems said that refugees cannot get women, so they rape German women at knifepoint. And, she said, trade unionists and left-wing parties, shouting: nazis out! are supposedly complicit in these knifepoint rapes, ‘usual in the east’. She also attacked ‘towelhead’ Muslims and anti-fascists.

See also here.

Ms Müller’s mother is an AfD member of parliament. She is notorious for her attacks on LGBTQ people, whom she blames for child abuse, and on disabled persons. According to her, Muslims should leave Germany. Women, according to Ms Höchst MP, face no discrimination problem in Germany. ‘Islam is their only problem‘.

The AfD, according to the German government commissioner on anti-Semitism Felix Klein, promotes anti-Semitism. Over 90% of anti-Semitic crime in Germany is by the German nationalist far right.

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Islamisation of Birmingham, England, satiric poem


This 2007 video from England is about Irish poet Kevin Higgins poetry reading for Oxfam.

By Kevin Higgins in Britain:

Monday, September 10, 2018

Poetry on the Picketline

The Islamisation of Birmingham

Most reckon it was the day Ozzy Osbourne
walked out the gates of Winson Green Prison,
ready to commit acts of musical terrorism
in a desperate effort to undermine Christ,
that the City began turning instead
to Mecca. All agree

the situation grew
more serious each time Roy Wood sang
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday
in the hope we wouldn’t notice
the big mad beard he got
at a training camp in Pakistan.

Spaghetti Junction was already
jammed with Muslim-only vehicles,
the night the Mulberry Bush
and Tavern in the Town
were blown up by Muslims
disguised as IRA men.
Since then every nil-all draw
between Aston Villa and Birmingham City
has been celebrated by stadiums half-full
of nothing but Muslims.

Truth is, it started way back,
the night Chamberlain signed
his secret treaty with Adolf, agreeing
in the event of war with Russia to hand
the birthplace of Enoch Powell
over to the Islamists.

These days the local economy is mostly
Jaguar Cars and Cadbury’s chocolate
being secretly manufactured by Muslims
for export to terrorist countries busy
thinking up new ways to kill us.

This is a satire on the remarks of [Rupert Murdoch-owned] Fox News commentator Steve Emerson, who said that “there are actual cities like Birmingham that are totally Muslim, where non-Muslims just simply don’t go.”

Note: All people, pubs, companies and football teams mentioned in this poem are native to Birmingham, with the exception of the late Adolf Hitler, who was born in the small Austrian town of Braunau am Inn, though his people did visit Birmingham from 1940 to 1943.

Poetry on the Picket Line is a squad of like-minded poets putting themselves about to read their work on picket lines, in the spirit of solidarity. Invitations to rallies etc. welcome, contact facebook.com/pg/PicketLinePoets.

Jewish poet Norbert Hirschhorn interviewed


Norbert Hirschhorn's new poetry bookBy Leo Garib in Britain:

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Interview: Poetic Justice

‘At this stage of my life my purpose is to connect the younger generation with history’, NORBERT HIRSCHHORN tells Leo Garib

TWO Jewish families pile onto carts and flee world war one as it rages across what is now southern Poland. A couple of decades later, their children are a step ahead of the nazis, escaping Vienna to London. Those left behind perish.

Relatives in Greece slip into the mountains when the nazis invade the island where they live and fight with the resistance. After world war two, surviving members of the Hirschhorn family emigrate to the US, where young Norbert Hirschhorn becomes a doctor, works in some of the poorest countries, develops a rehydration system that saves 50 million lives and is made an “American Health Hero” by President Clinton.

Finally he retires and becomes a respected poet.

It’s the stuff of Hollywood, but Norbert Hirschhorn, who recently turned 80, is in no hurry for a posthumous movie. “I hope I’ve got another 10 years left. On the other hand”, he winks, tapping his forehead, “there’s probably a little senior cognitive decline in there, so maybe I need to wrap my life up.”

In fact, he is, if anything, embarking on a new mission to bring his family history of refugees back to life. His latest book of poems, Stone. Bread. Salt. is partly a moving meditation on his wide-ranging life and partly a celebration of his footloose Yiddish heritage. But it’s another book he calls the “most important I’ve been involved in.”

It’s a privately published collection of family letters from the last couple of centuries. He stumbled across them six years ago, was instantly struck, and had them printed privately for his family. In Yiddish and German, they reveal the intimacy of quotidian life for Jewish tradespeople, their terror at being uprooted and going on the run and the struggle of starting all over again.

Included are letters from his mother, who never recovered after being forced to leave her parents in Vienna. They couldn’t get permits and were exterminated. There are also letters from his uncle, a socialist who joined the Greek anti-nazi resistance before escaping the murderous right-wing regime Britain installed after the war. Copies of the books are held in museums.

“I cry when I read them”, Hirschhorn says. “I really cry and I want my grandchildren, nieces, nephews and cousins to feel their power too. “At this stage of my life, my purpose is to connect the younger generation with history and show what they can bring to life by understanding what their forbears lived through.”

Later, he quit a prestigious teaching post at a US medical school where he had invented the discipline of rehydrating sick children and went to Lebanon, where he met Syrian doctor Fouad M Fouad, his closest friend. He helped translate some of Fouad’s poems for inclusion in his latest book. Now Hirschhorn has one foot in north west London and another in the Lebanese capital Beirut. “When you spend time in another place, you respect the way people are, you look for commonalities and respect the differences”, he says.

“That’s one of the great gifts working in public health has given me.”

The importance of history is understanding the present, he stresses, particularly when the ghosts of the 1920s and 1930s are looming large.

“It’s bullshit that the UK, the US, France, Italy and others complain about refugees. During world war one, Vienna took in hundreds of thousands of people and in the last few years Lebanon has taken in 1.5 million. …

“War and disaster force people to start all over again and only some manage. Just think of Grenfell Tower. People can absorb change, find sustenance from family and friends, but we have to give them a chance. Besides, refugees contribute wherever they are.

“Still, the fascists in America, Britain, Italy, Austria, Hungary want to stir up hatred. The fascists never went away and we’ve got to resist. The blinkered intolerance they espouse is “the exact opposite of what Judaism teaches us”, he adds.

“Nobody learns from history unless you keep reminding them. You can’t give up doing it.” Which he won’t, he chuckles.

“At my age, I’m only just starting to mature — 80, I’m finally becoming a mensch.”

Stone. Bread. Salt: Poems by Norbert Hirschhorn is published by Holland Park Press, £8.

The Disappeared

What makes us human is soil.
Even landfill of bones, shredded jeans;
mass graves paved over for parking.

What makes us human are portraits
— graduation, weddings
mounted in house shrines and on fliers, Have You Seen?

Names inscribed around memorial pools
or incised on granite. Names waiting,
waiting for that slide of DNA, or any piece of flesh —
for the haunted to be put to rest.

What makes us human is soil.
To stare into a hole in the ground,
fill with the deceased, throw earth down,
place a stone. Bread. Salt.

For Fouad Mohammed Fouad

British World War I poet Isaac Rosenberg


This video from Britain says about itself:

WW1 Poem: ‘Dead Man’s Dump‘ by Isaac Rosenberg ~ Verdun ‘Feb 21 – Dec 18’ 1916

21 February 2016

One hundred years ago, on February 21st, 1916, a Monday, the first shots were fired in the battle for the French fortress town of Verdun.

German and French soldiers fought of every last metre of ground, making it the longest battle of the war, almost twice as long as any other encounter.

In the 303 days of this so called ‘meat grinder’, close to 750,000 men died, were wounded or simply disappeared, pulverised to tiny, unrecognisable bits by shelling from as far away as 17 miles, or eviscerated on the end of a bayonet in man-to-man, whites of their eyes grappling. A French soldier Albert Joubaire summed up his experience at Verdun: “What a bloodbath, what horrid images, what slaughter! Hell cannot be this dreadful”.

By Ben Cowles in Britain, 5 April 2017:

Isaac Rosenberg: The war-time poet time forgot

CHRIS SEARLE speaks to the Star about an East End poet who met an untimely end in the trenches of World War I and how his work has inspired not only his new book but his entire life

CHRIS SEARLE has been sending in his handwritten jazz columns to the Star on a weekly basis for years and, while old hands might be familiar with his poetry and politics, our new readers probably have no idea just how fascinating a life he has led.

It might surprise both new and old readers to find out how our jazz correspondent’s entire life has been inspired by an early 20th century poet as he revealed when I spoke with him last week about his new book Whitechapel Boy: A Reading of the Poetry of Isaac Rosenberg.

Isaac Rosenberg is one of the lesser-known poets of the first world war. The son of working-class Jewish immigrants, his family moved from Bristol to Stepney Green in London’s East End in 1897. “I owe to him and his poetry”, Searle says. “Everything that I’ve ever tried to do has been originally inspired by Rosenberg.”

“Ever since I’d first read his poetry at Leeds University in the early ’60s, I’d been fascinated by him. The power of his poetry, the way in which he wrote and what he wrote about completely captured me.

“He was a working-class boy, who spoke Yiddish at his home and only learnt English at school. But he mastered the language to such an extent that he wrote some of the great poems of English literature.

Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon were officers and could go into their underground shelters where they had desks and such, but all Rosenberg had was the trenches.

“If you read some of the poems he wrote in the last part of his life when he was in the trenches, they’re very profound and humane, with an enormous depth and understanding of the power of English verse.”

Searle was born in Romford in 1943 and has been a teacher his whole adult life. His early career saw him teach in Canada, Tobago, Grenada and Mozambique. He has lived the past 30 years in Sheffield, but it was his fascination with Rosenberg’s life that brought him back to Britain and to teach in Stepney Green in the early 1970s.

“I lived and worked in the streets where Rosenberg lived. The school where I taught was in the same row where he had lived 60 years before. It was almost as if he was there with me while I was teaching.”

Searle saw many of the children he taught in East London as being in the same linguistic position as his literary hero. They were bilingual and learnt to speak English at school. His main focus was to get the children to write their own poetry. He says the poetry they wrote came out of his love for Rosenberg.

“But the of course, I found myself in deep trouble in 1971. I made an anthology of my students’ poems called Stepney Words and sought to get the permission of the school to sponsor and publish it. But the governors of the school, who were mainly right-wing Anglican priests and City businessmen, forbade me to publish it.

“They thought the poetry was too gloomy, too realistic. They wanted the lighter side of local life, but the children had written about social problems, about bad housing, about racism and about the loneliness of city life.”

Searle went ahead and published Stepney Words and, when the governors saw what he had done, they sacked him.

“When the children heard I got the sack for publishing their poems, they came out on strike. For three days they refused to go into school and rallied and campaigned outside on the green outside.

“It took me two years, but I eventually got back into the school. But really it was the children’s strike and the publicity that it generated that was responsible for getting me back into the school plus, of course, the tremendous support from my union, the National Union of Teachers.”

The time in which Rosenberg lived in London, the early part of the 20th century, was a crucial period for the working class. After centuries of oppression, they finally began to organise.

“In the years before World War I, Rosenberg was one of the so-called ‘Whitechapel boys’ — a group of artists, poets and political activists on the left. They were all members of the Stepney and Whitechapel Socialist League and gave terrific support to the tailors in their strike in 1906 and the 1911 strike of dockers and transport workers.”

During this time, however, Rosenberg never escaped sheer poverty and so, despite his deep opposition to the war, Rosenberg enlisted in the British army in 1916.

“Some people became conscientious objectors, like Bertrand Russell, but Rosenberg was so impoverished that the only way he could see his family surviving was to join the war. When you were a soldier, you were paid what was called a separation allowance, which went to your parents.

“He only joined the army so that his mother and father wouldn’t starve. It was the situation for thousands of working-class young men when the war started.

“Most of the famous poets of the first world war, people like Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, were officers. So, although they endured terrifying experiences, they had a very different life to the privates.

“Rosenberg talks about being a private as being akin to absolute slavery and, of course, because he was physically very weak, working class and Jewish, he was subject to all the authoritarianism and racism of army life.

“To write poetry from the depths and degradation from the trenches was almost impossible, but he managed it. And that’s another extraordinary facet of his achievement. You know, the officers could go into their underground shelters where they had desks and such, but Rosenberg had nothing like that. All he had was the trenches. He had no resources, no materials.

“Here am I sitting at a table with a cup of tea writing about jazz and Rosenberg wrote a poem half-covered in mud, with dying people one side of him, with shots raging, shells exploding and shrapnel going everywhere and yet he still managed to write such works as Dead Man’s Dump — a poem of enormous power and humanity, which I believe to be perhaps the greatest war poem in the English language.”

Rosenberg never made it back from the trenches. He was killed on April 1 1918 at 27 years of age.

Searle believes Rosenberg has been largely ignored and that his work is all too often dismissed as non-mainstream, non-English. This, he says, is a form of cultural racism similar to the type he dealt with throughout his life.

“When he moved into Stepney as a boy, his local [Conservative] MP was a member of the British Brothers League, which was a fascist organisation. He called the Jewish immigrants ‘the off-scum of Europe’. Imagine your local MP referring to you as that.”

Searle’s book is an attempt to redress this and bring his work into the spotlight. “The thing about Rosenberg is that his deep humanity shines through his work. He was an internationalist.

“Although he was immersed in the horror of war, he hated it. He was a deep critic of it. He talked about his ‘brothers dear’, the ordinary soldiers not only of the British army but also of the German army that he faced.

“In one of his most famous poems, Break of Day in the Trenches, it’s dawn, which was the hour of the most likely and imminent attack from one army against the other, and he sees a rat crossing back and forth across No man’s land.

“The rat becomes a symbol of unity, of fraternisation between the German soldiers and British soldiers, most of whom in the front lines would be young and working class, from all over the world in the British army.

“In the last weeks of his life, he was trying to write. He could only write fragments because of the conditions in the trenches, but he was writing a verse play called The Unicorn. It’s about a slave revolt led by an African man, who is a leader of immense intellectual qualities, who leads his people away from oppression. And this was 1918. He was in the French trenches in the most horrendous conditions and here he was writing of Africa freeing itself of oppression.

“I used to teach in Africa, in Mozambique. And that was deeply inspiring for me to know that Rosenberg had written in that way when back in 1918 in the most terrifying of conditions.

“He is a symbol of working-class internationalism. He hasn’t been portrayed that way to any great extent, but to me that’s what he means.”

Chris Searle’s Whitechapel Boy is released today (April 5), with a book launch taking place at Tower Hamlets Local History Library and Archives, 277 Bancroft Rd, London E1 4DQ, 6.15pm. Ben Cowles is the Morning Star’s web editor. You can chat with him on Twitter via @Cowlesz.

Yesterday marked the 100th anniversary of the armistice which finally brought an end to World War I. Nothing like it had ever been seen in human history—a bloody inferno costing the lives of more than ten million soldiers and six million civilians with millions more permanently maimed, disfigured and injured: here.

Trump attacks children, British poem


This video about the USA says about itself:

Does Trump‘s Executive Order Fix Anything?

22 June 2018

The executive order includes no provision to reunite the 2,300 separated families and illegally proposes to detain children indefinitely.

By Kevin Higgins in Britain:

Thursday, June 21, 2018

The Truth Behind the Wire

Kindly disregard the attention seeking cries of the few.
They are child actors being given scripts by liberals.
Most of the young people there are delighted with
what we’re doing. There is no policy
of separation from parents. It’s just
if you’re going to process the mamas
and papas, you’ve gotta take
the bambinos away.
The wire we put around them,
for their own safety, isn’t even barbed.
In there, we help kids go to school,
even give them haircuts
with our giant — and deadly
accurate — Immigration
and Customs Enforcement scissors.

This is the exact opposite of cages.
Despite the headlines,
no one has been gassed.
There are, and never have been,
any concentration camps.
These children are in temporary custody
playing video games
and soccer, getting two snacks
a day and lots of sleep
under their resplendent thermal blankets.
The chain-link fencing
we’ve used to divide into bedrooms
the building we’re warehousing them in
is entirely incidental.

Almost none of the adolescents in our possession
have, as of yet, been turned
into bespoke hat-stands
and raffled off to the dissatisfied wives
of Texan cattle-hands.

And we have, as of today, no plans
to use the hindquarters of the small ones
to fashion a new face for
Rupert Murdoch.

US separates 2,000 children from their families as they cross the border: here.

Pro-peace poem


This 6 Match 2018 video from the USA says about itself:

Sen. Chris Murphy: The U.S. Is Exporting Violence & Killing Civilians in Illegal War in Yemen

On Capitol Hill, three U.S. senators have introduced a bill that would force Congress to vote for the first time on whether to continue U.S. support for the Saudi-led coalition’s war in Yemen. The measure was introduced by Republican Mike Lee, Democrat Chris Murphy and Vermont independent Bernie Sanders, who noted that the Constitution gives Congress—and not the president—the power to declare war. For more, we speak with Senator Chris Murphy of Connecticut.

From the blog of Rick Rozoff, this poem by 19th century British author William Stokes:

The peace of nations to destroy

To the Genius of War As Embodied in the Warrior

Forbear, thou man of blood, forbear,
To claim a birth Divine;
No Son of Heaven can be the heir
Of passions such as thine.

Thy boasted trade, thy sole employ,
Is death to deal around
;
The Peace of nations to destroy,
Wherever man is found.

The wide-spread earth, through all her lands,
Has mourned thy kindred tread;
And widows raise their pray’rful hands,
For vengeance on thy head.

In Europe’s polished courts, the seeds
Of hatred thou hast sown
;
And yonder Southern island bleeds
With sorrows all thine own.

In thronging East, or far-spread West,
Or where the Niger rolls;
Thy murd’rous train has proved the pest
And curse, of human souls.

No sex, no nation, and no clime,
Has ‘scap’d thy cruel rage;
Thy plague has flow’d throughout all time,
And spread through every age.

And shall that plague, with curses rife,
Pass down to other times;
And spread around the seeds of strife,
To poison other climes?

Shall men be found for wealth or gain,
To doom a world to woe?
And all that earth can feel of pain,
Give earth that all to know?

Learn, then, man to murder given,
Note thou the mandate well;
“The work of Peace came down from heaven,
The work of War from hell.”