Don West Poem of the Day, #2

For those who may be just joining us, I've started taking the opportunity to introduce everyone to one of my heroes, the poet Don West. If you haven't yet, take a second to read the first post in this series; I think you'll enjoy it.

To get a sense of Don's poetry, start by thinking about T.S. Elliot. Now think about his complete opposite. That's Don. Don didn't have any time for subtly or obfuscation. To him, poetry was an opportunity to give a voice to the voiceless, to stand up for the poor and oppressed. If your writing didn't take that opportunity, Don wasn't interested. He thought that truth should be expressed as clearly and plainly as possible, so that even the most uneducated, unsophisticated Kentucky coal miner could understand it.

Don found himself in an era and a place of a lot of injustice, and he couldn't help but write about it. He suffered quite a bit for his stances, but kept on fighting for the truth. This next poem was written after the incidences of September, 1963, in Birmingham, Alabama. Within a week, four black children in Sunday School were killed by a church bombing, and two others were killed by white hoodlums and police officers. Requests for federal troops to protect against racial violence were denied, since the military was stretched too thin in Asia, "to support an acknowledged dictatorship in South Vietnam", as Don put it. Don pulls no punches on this one.

Bombs Over Birmingham

Four little girls in Birmingham
America, hang your head
Four small bodies in Birmingham
Now lying cold and dead.

Four little Black girls went to church
On a Sabbath morn
Four little children bombed to death
Mourn, America, mourn

Six little dead ones in Birmingham
What does our leader do?
Noble words in a U.N. speech
And soldiers sent to Nhu.

Six dead children in Birmingham
Toll of less than a week
With his eyes hard set on South Vietnam
What does the President seek?

Six mothers there in Birmingham
O Jesus, mourn their dead.
Millions cry for federal law,
The President turns his head.

Six little children laugh no more,
Bleed, America, bleed.
Six dead children accuse us of
Greed America, greed.

Six murdered children's voices cry:
Blood is over this land
Blood on the streets of Birmingham
Blood on the President's hand!