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Donation campaign February 2022
Dear reader friends. We are launching a new donation campaign for this month of February and we are counting on you to help us continue our work of information. Recently, we carried out tests of advertising insertions in our publications, but we quickly gave up because they proved to be very invasive and considerably hindered the reading of the articles. We are therefore counting, once again, on you to ensure the continuity of our work of reflection and re-information. Today, with widespread disinformation erected into a mode of governance on a global scale, Réseau International needs you more than ever.
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by A. Meilhan.
In 1948, Pablo Neruda fled Chile, where the newly elected president had turned against the people. He wrote the Chant général, a vast epic fresco on Latin America, but also on the state of the world, the conflicts, the Cold War which was beginning, the hopes for peace for all.
In Canto IX, Let the Woodcutter Awaken, he appeals to America, to wake up the people, to stop the American state from spreading war in the world.
Some excerpts from this song:
• https://www.imagespensees.org/que-s-eveille-le-bucheron-i
• https://www.imagespensees.org/mais-si-tu-armes-tes-ordes-amerique-du-nord
• https://www.imagespensees.org/que-s-eveille-le-bucheron-iii
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I
It is your peace that we love, not your mask.
Your warrior face isn’t pretty.
You are beautiful and wide, North America.
You are of low birth, like a washerwoman
at the edge of your rivers, white.
Built in the unknown,
is your honeycomb peace, your sweetness.
We love your man with the red hands
of Oregon mud, your black child
who brought you the music born
in his province of ivory, we love
your city, your substance,
your light, your machines, the energy
of the west, the pacific
hive and village honey,
the giant boy on the tractor,
the oats you inherited
of Jefferson, the wheel of a hundred rumors
which gauges your terrestrial Oceania,
the smoke of a factory and the kiss
number thousand of a new colony:
your industrious blood is the one we love,
your popular hand full of oil.
II
(…)
An unexpected guest
like an old gnawed octopus, immense, enveloping,
settled in your house, little soldier,
the press distils an ancient venom cultivated in Berlin,
newspapers (Times, Newsweek, etc) have converted
in yellow den sheets. Hearst,
who sang the love song to the Nazis, smiled,
he sharpens his nails so that you leave again
towards the reefs or the steppes,
fight for this host who occupies your house.
They don’t give you a break: they want to keep selling
steel and bullets, they prepare a new powder,
and it must be sold quickly, before it appears
fresh powder, and falls into new hands.
On all sides, the masters installed
in your dwelling extend their phalanxes,
they love black Spain and offer you a cup of blood
(one shot, one hundred): le cocktail Marshall.
Take Young Blood: Peasants
of China, prisoners
from Spain,
blood and sweat of Cuba the sugar plantation,
women’s tears,
copper and coal mines in Chile,
then beat with energy,
like a tourniquet,
without forgetting small ice cubes and a few drops
some singing Defend Christian Culture.
Is it bitter, this mixture ?
You’ll get used, little soldier, to drinking it.
In any corner of the world, in the light of the moon,
or in the morning, in a luxury hotel,
ask for this beverage that invigorates and refreshes
and pay for it with a good note bearing the image of Washington.
You also saw that Charlie Chaplin, the last
father of tenderness in the world,
must leak and that the writers (Howard Fast, etc.),
scholars and artists
in your homeland
must sit to be judged for thoughts unamerican
before a tribunal of war-enriched merchants.
To the far reaches of the world comes fear.
My aunt reads, frightened, this news,
and all the eyes of the earth are watching
these tribunals of shame and revenge.
These are the platforms of the bloody Babitts,
slavers, Lincoln assassins ;
these are the new inquisitions drawn up today
no for the cross (and then, it was horrible and inexplicable)
but for the round gold that strikes
the tables of brothels and banks
and who has no right to judge.
_________
Excerpt from The general song, Pablo Neruda
IX WHAT yesDAY BEFORE THE BÛCHERON
Volume 2, Traduction de Alice Ahrweiler
French publishers united
source : greasing point
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