One Year After the Police Abduction of Professor GN Saibaba

Anti operation green hunt front calls for building peoples movement, demands Prof Saibaba` release

BATHINDA: Anti operation green hunt front on Monday held a massive convention at Teachers Home Bathinda.

Delhi University Professor GN Saibaba, political prisoner

The convention presided over by revolutionary Telgu poet and Maoist sympathiser Varavara Rao marked the first anniversary of detention of eminent human rights activist and Delhi University professor Saibaba. Saibaba was arrested in April 2014.

Image result for varavara rao

the poet Varavara Rao

Varavara Rao, who is in Punjab for the last two days, given a clarion call to build a peoples` movement against the operation green hunt and asked the persons subscribing left leanings to oppose the arrests of human rights activists in the name of such operations.

GN Varavara Rao said “It is learnt that the union government in next few days is trying to put heavy arsenals in the Dandakarnia area with 1.5 lakh Army Men to put the area under its total control. The various governments have already snatched jungles, land, mines from the adivasis to handover to the big corporates and the poor adivasis are treated as second rate citizens in their own country”.

When people raise voice in the favour such persons are branded as anti national and they are put in jail as has been done with Prof Saibaba, who is handicapped. The present Narendra Modi government was also pursuing the same policies.

He said the union government working on the diktats of US and other Western forces is allowing the corporates and multi national companies to indulge in open loot in the areas where adivasis somehow are making both ends meet. The all present in a resolution demanded release of Saibaba and another rights activist Hem Mishra.

 

December 26, 118 years since the birth of Mao Zedong: revolutionary leader, thinker, teacher, poet

Mao Zedong with peasants in Yenan, 1937

Reascending Chingkangshan

(To the tune of Shui Tiao Keh Tou – May 1965)

I have long aspired to reach for the clouds

And I again ascend Chingkangshan.

Coming from afar to view our old haunt, I find new scenes replacing the old.

Everywhere orioles sing, swallows dart,

Streams babble

And the road mounts skyward.

Once Huangyangchieh is passed

No other perilous place calls for a glance.

Wind and thunder are stirring,

Flags and banners are flying

Wherever men live.

Thirty-eight years are fled

With a mere snap of the fingers.

We can clasp the moon in the Ninth Heaven

And seize turtles deep down in the Five Seas:

We’ll return amid triumphant song and laughter.

Nothing is hard in this world

If you dare to scale the heights.

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Gil Scott Heron, RIP (Revolution In Poetry) — 1949-2011

[The poetic pulse of generations seeking all forms of liberation grew with the rhythmic jazz voice/words of Gil Scott Heron, whose contributions are beyond measure and whose influence is unstoppable.  From the hundreds of his creative works we present two of our favorites — both timeless and timely as they echo through the streets today. — Frontlines ed.]

Gil Scott HeronAlien (hold on to your dream)

Gil Scott-Heron: Jose Campos Torres

from: The Mind Of Gil Scott-Heron (a collection of poetry and music) (Remastered 2000; Original 1978)

I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
I had confessed to myself all along, tracer of life, poetry trends
That awareness, consciousness, poems that screamed of pain and the origins of pain and death had blanketed my tablets
And therefore, my friends, brothers, sisters, in-laws, outlaws, and besides — they already knew
But brother Torres, common ancient bloodline brother Torres is dead
I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
I had said I wasn’t going to write no more words down about people kicking us when we’re down
About racist dogs that attack us and drive us down, drag us down and beat us down
But the dogs are in the street
The dogs are alive and the terror in our hearts has scarcely diminished
It has scarcely brought us the comfort we suspected
The recognition of our terror and the screaming release of that recognition
Has not removed the certainty of that knowledge — how could it
The dogs rabid foaming with the energy of their brutish ignorance
Stride the city streets like robot gunslingers
And spread death as night lamps flash crude reflections from gun butts and police shields
I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
But the battlefield has oozed away from the stilted debates of semantics
Beyond the questionable flexibility of primal screaming
The reality of our city, jungle streets and their Gestapos
Has become an attack on home, life, family and philosophy, total
It is beyond the question of the advantages of didactic niggerisms
The motherfucking dogs are in the street
In Houston maybe someone said Mexicans were the new niggers
In LA maybe someone said Chicanos were the new niggers
In Frisco maybe someone said Orientals were the new niggers
Maybe in Philadelphia and North Carolina they decided they didn’t need no new niggers
I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
But dogs are in the street
It’s a turn around world where things are all too quickly turned around
It was turned around so that right looked wrong
It was turned around so that up looked down
It was turned around so that those who marched in the streets with bibles and signs of peace became enemies of the state and risk to national security
So that those who questioned the operations of those in authority on the principles of justice, liberty, and equality became the vanguard of a communist attack
It became so you couldn’t call a spade a motherfucking spade
Brother Torres is dead, the Wilmington Ten are still incarcerated
Ed Davis, Ronald Regan, James Hunt, and Frank Rizzo are still alive
And the dogs are in the motherfucking street
I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
I made a mistake

Farewell to the Utterly Unique John Ross

January 17, 2011

All the Right Enemies

By FRANK BARDACKE

John’s gone. John Ross. I doubt that we will ever see anyone remotely like him again.

The bare bones, as he would say, are remarkable enough. Born to show business Communists in New York City in 1938, he had minded Billie Holliday’s dog, sold dope to Dizzy Gillespie, and vigiled at the hour of the Rosenberg execution, all before he was sixteen years old. An aspiring beat poet, driven by D.H. Lawrence’s images of Mexico, he arrived at the Tarascan highlands of Michoacan at the age of twenty, returning to the U.S. six years later in 1964, there to be thrown in the Federal Penitentiary at San Pedro, for refusing induction into the army.

Back on the streets of San Francisco eighteen months later, he joined the Progressive Labor Movement, then a combination of old ex-CPers fleeing the debased party and young poets and artists looking for revolutionary action. For a few years he called the hip, crazy, Latino 24th and Mission  his “bio-region,” as he ran from the San Francisco police and threw dead rats at slumlords during street rallies of the once powerful Mission Coalition. Continue reading