"Adivinanza Facil", music by mselasco:
The song featured above is based on a little poem written by Laureando Palomete that appeared on July of 1928 in Impulso, a monthly anti-fascist, anti-imperialist magazine based out of Punta Alta, Argentina. We have translated this poem in our collection of Argentine anarchist poetry entitled Voices from the Lost Cannon.
By re-introducing such poems we manage keep alive a history and culture of resistance that would otherwise be lost. Here is a video of a reading and live performance in Claremont, CA:
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Freedom and Education
This series of woodblock prints by Marnie Corrina (2010) explores the themes of freedom and education from an anarchist perspective, with quotes by important revolutionary thinkers:
Monday, September 6, 2010
Notas de Libertad
Here is a compilation put together by the anti-authoritarian newspaper, El Libertario, from Venezuela. It is a collection of anarchist folk songs (mostly in Spanish) from countries such as Argentina, Ecuador, France, the United States, and Spain.
01- pastel celestial / Joe Hill
02- mala reputación / Georges Brassens
03- carteo / Paso a Paso
04- hambre de vida / Paso a Paso
05- lloro por dentro / Paso a Paso
06- hey / Moi Rojo
07- historia maldita / Moi Rojo
08- el anarquista / Gabriel Sequeira
09- perdido en las calles / Gabriel Sequeira
10- errante extremeña / Sena Jaraiz
11- lindos gatitos / Lengua de Trapo
12- la copla del palo bueno / Lengua de Trapo
13- bandera negra I / Jaime Guevara
14- bandera negra II / Jaime Guevara
15- only 8 / Ethan Miller
16- el hombro / Juanito Piquete
17- voces libertarias / Juanito Piquete
18- la mulata / Pablo Garabato
19- bienvenido al camino / Pablo Garabato
20- maknovtchina / Serge Utge
21- ay margarita / Pito Karcoma
22- revolución / Pito Karcoma
23- indios de la calle / Sonoris Kausa
Sunday, September 5, 2010
La Patria
The following poem was written by Ernesto Recagno. It was published in Buenos Aires in March of 1907, in periodical named Germen. Included is the original poem in Spanish and an English translation by the Poison Oak Collective.
Patria
La patria es grande, es fuerte y feliz cuando cuenta con el amor de sus hijos; -ellos defienden la integridad de su suelo, el honor de su bandera y la gloria de su nombre; -le rinden culto en su mente, y es su corazón baluarte que la protege en el día de la prueba.
Cuando ella lo quiere, parte el guerrero con el corazón palpitante de orgullo y de fiereza á castigar al audaz que le infirió un ultraje ó á humillar al que altivo é insolente pretendió empañar el color de su bandera ó el brillo de su gloriosa tradición.
Y cuando el guerrero parte, cuando el hijo del pueblo marcha armado a defender la frontera y las leyes del suelo en que naciera, deja abandonado en el hogar á todo lo que constituía la alegría de su vida humilde, ignorada y laboriosa.
Queda allí la esposa triste sin el cariño del esposo y sin que el sostén de su labor y de sus fuerzas puedan mientras no regrese, hacer posible la realidad del brillante porvenir que ambos soñaron para su idolatrado hijo.
Y queda también allí la anciana madre que presiente en amargo llanto y con la experiencia de sus largos años que ya no volverá el guerrero que cuando niño amamantó en su seno.
Y él fue; -entusiasta soldado combatió con el valor de un león por la patria y por la ley; - y rindió por ellas gloriosamente la vida en el campo de batalla.
Cuando todo terminó; - cuando la multitud y el gobierno hubieron premiado el arrojo y la pericia de los que mandaron en la guerra, quedó uno, quedaron ciento, quedaron mil hogares en ruinas y muchas madres, esposas é hijos, sumidos en la miseria, el la desolación y en el llanto.
La patria es grande, es fuerte y feliz cuando cuenta con el amor de sus hijos; -ellos defendieron la integridad de su suelo, el honor de su bandera y la gloria de su nombre; -le rinden culto en su mente, y es su corazón baluarte que la protege en el día de la prueba.
Pero con sangre y lágrimas está escrito en el corazón del hijo, de la esposa y de la madre, que… la patria es terrible!...
- Ernesto Recagno
The Fatherland
The fatherland is great, is strong and happy when it can count on the love of its children; -they defend the integrity of its land, the honor of its flag and the glory of its name; -they worship it in their thoughts, and it is their fortress heart that protects it in time of trial.
When the motherland wants, the soldier departs with a heart palpitating with pride and fierceness to castigate the audacious one who has inflicted insults or to humiliate the haughty and insolent one who attempted to tarnish the color of her flag or the brilliance of her glorious tradition.
And when the soldier departs, when the son of the town marches armed to defend the border and the laws of the land in which he was born, he leaves behind in the home everything that constituted the joy of his humble life, laborious and ignored.
The sad wife is left there without the love of her husband and without the support of his labor and his strengths, that can make possible the reality of a brilliant future that both dreamt of for their adored child, until he returns.
The old mother also stayed there, foretelling in bitter weeping and with the experience of her long years that the soldier, who had as a child nursed at her breast, would not return.
And he went; -the enthusiastic soldier battled with the valor of a lion for the fatherland and for the law; - and gloriously surrendered his life for them in the field of battle.
When everything ended; -when the multitude and the government had rewarded the daring and the fearlessness of those they sent to war, there remained one, remained one-hundred, remained one-thousand homes in ruin and many mothers, wives and children, submerged in misery, in desolation and in tears.
The fatherland is great, is strong and happy when it can count on the love of its children; -they defended the integrity of its land, the honor of its flag and the glory of its name; -they worshiped it in their thoughts, and it is their fortress heart that protected it in time of trial.
But with blood and tears it is written in the heart of the child and mother, that… the fatherland is terrible!...
Patria
La patria es grande, es fuerte y feliz cuando cuenta con el amor de sus hijos; -ellos defienden la integridad de su suelo, el honor de su bandera y la gloria de su nombre; -le rinden culto en su mente, y es su corazón baluarte que la protege en el día de la prueba.
Cuando ella lo quiere, parte el guerrero con el corazón palpitante de orgullo y de fiereza á castigar al audaz que le infirió un ultraje ó á humillar al que altivo é insolente pretendió empañar el color de su bandera ó el brillo de su gloriosa tradición.
Y cuando el guerrero parte, cuando el hijo del pueblo marcha armado a defender la frontera y las leyes del suelo en que naciera, deja abandonado en el hogar á todo lo que constituía la alegría de su vida humilde, ignorada y laboriosa.
Queda allí la esposa triste sin el cariño del esposo y sin que el sostén de su labor y de sus fuerzas puedan mientras no regrese, hacer posible la realidad del brillante porvenir que ambos soñaron para su idolatrado hijo.
Y queda también allí la anciana madre que presiente en amargo llanto y con la experiencia de sus largos años que ya no volverá el guerrero que cuando niño amamantó en su seno.
Y él fue; -entusiasta soldado combatió con el valor de un león por la patria y por la ley; - y rindió por ellas gloriosamente la vida en el campo de batalla.
Cuando todo terminó; - cuando la multitud y el gobierno hubieron premiado el arrojo y la pericia de los que mandaron en la guerra, quedó uno, quedaron ciento, quedaron mil hogares en ruinas y muchas madres, esposas é hijos, sumidos en la miseria, el la desolación y en el llanto.
La patria es grande, es fuerte y feliz cuando cuenta con el amor de sus hijos; -ellos defendieron la integridad de su suelo, el honor de su bandera y la gloria de su nombre; -le rinden culto en su mente, y es su corazón baluarte que la protege en el día de la prueba.
Pero con sangre y lágrimas está escrito en el corazón del hijo, de la esposa y de la madre, que… la patria es terrible!...
- Ernesto Recagno
The Fatherland
The fatherland is great, is strong and happy when it can count on the love of its children; -they defend the integrity of its land, the honor of its flag and the glory of its name; -they worship it in their thoughts, and it is their fortress heart that protects it in time of trial.
When the motherland wants, the soldier departs with a heart palpitating with pride and fierceness to castigate the audacious one who has inflicted insults or to humiliate the haughty and insolent one who attempted to tarnish the color of her flag or the brilliance of her glorious tradition.
And when the soldier departs, when the son of the town marches armed to defend the border and the laws of the land in which he was born, he leaves behind in the home everything that constituted the joy of his humble life, laborious and ignored.
The sad wife is left there without the love of her husband and without the support of his labor and his strengths, that can make possible the reality of a brilliant future that both dreamt of for their adored child, until he returns.
The old mother also stayed there, foretelling in bitter weeping and with the experience of her long years that the soldier, who had as a child nursed at her breast, would not return.
And he went; -the enthusiastic soldier battled with the valor of a lion for the fatherland and for the law; - and gloriously surrendered his life for them in the field of battle.
When everything ended; -when the multitude and the government had rewarded the daring and the fearlessness of those they sent to war, there remained one, remained one-hundred, remained one-thousand homes in ruin and many mothers, wives and children, submerged in misery, in desolation and in tears.
The fatherland is great, is strong and happy when it can count on the love of its children; -they defended the integrity of its land, the honor of its flag and the glory of its name; -they worshiped it in their thoughts, and it is their fortress heart that protected it in time of trial.
But with blood and tears it is written in the heart of the child and mother, that… the fatherland is terrible!...
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Cantor Anarquista
Here is a song recorded by mselasco (me!) that is based on a poem entitled Cantor Anarquista ("Anarchist Singer"). The poem was written in 1927 by the famous anarchist payador named Martin Castro, who would travel the country singing songs of protest and freedom. In addition to being a brilliant poet and musician, Castro also directed an anarchist cultural magazine called La Voz de los Tiempos (The Voice of the Times) that featured artwork, poetry, short stories, and reviews. His efforts were essential in creating a culture of resistance that gave the anarchist movement in Argentina a larger sense of community and identity.
El Cantor Anarquista
Guitarra del alma mía,
Tu vibración esplendente
Al ancho mar de mi mente
Lo inunda de inspiración
Contigo formo tribuna
Y al pueblo que sufre y siente
En verso rudo y valiente
Le hablo de su redención.
Mi verso no es el badajo
Que hará sonar la campana
Apostólica romana
De la mentida piedad:
Nunca, mi ideal no se vende,
Mi carácter no se allana,
Ante la miseria humana
Que hiere a mi dignidad.
No elogiaré al fabricante
Porque se que es un tirano,
Que desde el niño al anciano
Les usurpa el sudor,
Jamás llevaré en mi frente
Tan vergonzosa mancilla.
Haré mi guitarra astillas
Antes de herir mi pudor.
No prostituiré al cerebro
Con hurras a los cosacos,
No es himno de policíacos
Mi canción libre y triunfal.
Nunca llegaré a ser cómplice
De tan baja mansedumbre,
Ni hundiré en la podredumbre
La pureza de mi ideal.
Mi verso no es gloria patria,
No ensalzaré en mis cantares
A laureados militares
Enemigos de la paz.
Yo voy hacia un pueblo libre,
Sin esclavos ni señores,
Sin envidias ni rencores
De un sentimiento solaz.
No aplaudiré al propietario,
Que fronteriza, que encierra
En lotes la libre tierra,
Desconociendo su embrión:
La tierra es libre. es del pueblo
Toda la extensión del globo.
Lo propiedad es un robo
Definida por Prohudon.
De la santa religión.
Banqueros y gobernantes.
Propietarios, comerciantes.
Es el trust del capital.
Trust que lo sostiene el pueblo
Sometido al barbarismo,
Del torvo militarismo
Y la tribu policial.
Si la religión católica
Prostituye y mistifica,
El propietario trafica
Con la tierra maternal.
El fabricante es el pulpo
Que vive del hambre ajeno.
El militar es el freno
Del engranaje fatal.
El hombre ha creado la ley
Para inculcar la obediencia,
Impuesto por la violencia,
Aplastando la razón,
Leyes fatuas que dividen
La fortuna y la miseria,
Y de la misma materia
El esclavo y el mandón.
Entre el amo y el esclavo,
Entre el amor y el desdén,
Entre la maldad y el bien,
Entre el ocio y la labor,
De pie con la frente erguida,
Combatimos la codicia
Con un ideal de Justicia,
De felicidad y amor.
The Anarchist Singer
Guitar of my soul,
Your resplendent vibration
Floods with inspiration
The wide sea of my mind
With you I form a stage
And speak of redemption
To the people who suffer and feel
In verses coarse and valiant.
My verse is not the clapper
That will bring about the ringing
Of the holy roman bell
Of false piety:
Never, my ideal cannot be sold,
My character cannot be broken,
Before the human misery
That wounds my dignity.
I will not praise the manufacturer
Because he is a tyrant,
Who usurps the sweat of all
From the child to the elder,
I will never carry on my forehead
Such a shameful stain.
I will break my guitar into splinters
Before wounding my decency.
I will not prostitute the mind
With cheers for the Cossacks,
My free and triumphant song
Is no police anthem.
I will not become accomplice
To such base docility,
Nor will I sink the purity of my ideal
Into that putridity.
My verse is not for patriotic glory,
My songs will not exalt
Military heroes,
Enemies of peace.
I move towards a free people,
Without slaves nor masters,
Without envy nor resentment
Of a comforting sentiment.
I will not applaud the landowner,
Who makes borders, who encloses
In lots the free land,
Unaware of his embryo:
The land is free. The entire span of the globe
Is of the people.
Property is theft
As defined by Proudhon.
The monopoly of Capital.
Belongs to the holy Church,
The Bankers and governors,
Landowners and businessmen.
The trust holds the people
Submitted to the barbarism
of grim militarism
and the police tribe.
As the catholic religion
Prostitutes and mystifies,
The landowner traffics
The maternal earth.
The manufacturer is the octopus
That lives off others’ hunger.
The military is at the controls
Of the fatal machine.
Man has created laws
To instill obedience,
Imposed through violence,
Crushing reason,
Fatuous laws that divide
The fortunate and the miserable,
And in the same manner
The master and slave.
Between master and slave,
Between love and disdain,
Between good and evil,
Between idleness and labor,
Standing with heads held high,
We fight against greed
With an ideal of justice,
Happiness and love.
(English translation by the Poison Oak Collective)
El Cantor Anarquista
Guitarra del alma mía,
Tu vibración esplendente
Al ancho mar de mi mente
Lo inunda de inspiración
Contigo formo tribuna
Y al pueblo que sufre y siente
En verso rudo y valiente
Le hablo de su redención.
Mi verso no es el badajo
Que hará sonar la campana
Apostólica romana
De la mentida piedad:
Nunca, mi ideal no se vende,
Mi carácter no se allana,
Ante la miseria humana
Que hiere a mi dignidad.
No elogiaré al fabricante
Porque se que es un tirano,
Que desde el niño al anciano
Les usurpa el sudor,
Jamás llevaré en mi frente
Tan vergonzosa mancilla.
Haré mi guitarra astillas
Antes de herir mi pudor.
No prostituiré al cerebro
Con hurras a los cosacos,
No es himno de policíacos
Mi canción libre y triunfal.
Nunca llegaré a ser cómplice
De tan baja mansedumbre,
Ni hundiré en la podredumbre
La pureza de mi ideal.
Mi verso no es gloria patria,
No ensalzaré en mis cantares
A laureados militares
Enemigos de la paz.
Yo voy hacia un pueblo libre,
Sin esclavos ni señores,
Sin envidias ni rencores
De un sentimiento solaz.
No aplaudiré al propietario,
Que fronteriza, que encierra
En lotes la libre tierra,
Desconociendo su embrión:
La tierra es libre. es del pueblo
Toda la extensión del globo.
Lo propiedad es un robo
Definida por Prohudon.
De la santa religión.
Banqueros y gobernantes.
Propietarios, comerciantes.
Es el trust del capital.
Trust que lo sostiene el pueblo
Sometido al barbarismo,
Del torvo militarismo
Y la tribu policial.
Si la religión católica
Prostituye y mistifica,
El propietario trafica
Con la tierra maternal.
El fabricante es el pulpo
Que vive del hambre ajeno.
El militar es el freno
Del engranaje fatal.
El hombre ha creado la ley
Para inculcar la obediencia,
Impuesto por la violencia,
Aplastando la razón,
Leyes fatuas que dividen
La fortuna y la miseria,
Y de la misma materia
El esclavo y el mandón.
Entre el amo y el esclavo,
Entre el amor y el desdén,
Entre la maldad y el bien,
Entre el ocio y la labor,
De pie con la frente erguida,
Combatimos la codicia
Con un ideal de Justicia,
De felicidad y amor.
The Anarchist Singer
Guitar of my soul,
Your resplendent vibration
Floods with inspiration
The wide sea of my mind
With you I form a stage
And speak of redemption
To the people who suffer and feel
In verses coarse and valiant.
My verse is not the clapper
That will bring about the ringing
Of the holy roman bell
Of false piety:
Never, my ideal cannot be sold,
My character cannot be broken,
Before the human misery
That wounds my dignity.
I will not praise the manufacturer
Because he is a tyrant,
Who usurps the sweat of all
From the child to the elder,
I will never carry on my forehead
Such a shameful stain.
I will break my guitar into splinters
Before wounding my decency.
I will not prostitute the mind
With cheers for the Cossacks,
My free and triumphant song
Is no police anthem.
I will not become accomplice
To such base docility,
Nor will I sink the purity of my ideal
Into that putridity.
My verse is not for patriotic glory,
My songs will not exalt
Military heroes,
Enemies of peace.
I move towards a free people,
Without slaves nor masters,
Without envy nor resentment
Of a comforting sentiment.
I will not applaud the landowner,
Who makes borders, who encloses
In lots the free land,
Unaware of his embryo:
The land is free. The entire span of the globe
Is of the people.
Property is theft
As defined by Proudhon.
The monopoly of Capital.
Belongs to the holy Church,
The Bankers and governors,
Landowners and businessmen.
The trust holds the people
Submitted to the barbarism
of grim militarism
and the police tribe.
As the catholic religion
Prostitutes and mystifies,
The landowner traffics
The maternal earth.
The manufacturer is the octopus
That lives off others’ hunger.
The military is at the controls
Of the fatal machine.
Man has created laws
To instill obedience,
Imposed through violence,
Crushing reason,
Fatuous laws that divide
The fortunate and the miserable,
And in the same manner
The master and slave.
Between master and slave,
Between love and disdain,
Between good and evil,
Between idleness and labor,
Standing with heads held high,
We fight against greed
With an ideal of justice,
Happiness and love.
(English translation by the Poison Oak Collective)
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Songs of Pietro Gori
This album offers us a collection of songs written by or for Pietro Gori (1865-1911), the Italian anarchist and poet.
Perhaps Gori's most famous poem is "Addio a Lugano", a farewell song written from the perspective of an exhiled anarchist. In this song, Gori's words describe the way that anarchists were arrested and driven from their lands for promoting peace, fighting oppression, and spreading ideals of love.
Perhaps Gori's most famous poem is "Addio a Lugano", a farewell song written from the perspective of an exhiled anarchist. In this song, Gori's words describe the way that anarchists were arrested and driven from their lands for promoting peace, fighting oppression, and spreading ideals of love.
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