Two takes on justice between the living and the dead. For Black poet June Jordan, a rattling grocery cart and tic-inducing appearance induces horror in the living, while “the dead do not give a damn.” For Iraqi poet and prose-author Sinan Antoon, the horror emerges because the living do not give a damn — not even when facing their victims’ ghosts. Two great pieces of literature to put together for discussion… yalla, talk!

From the Memoirs of a Ghost

by Sinan Antoon, translated by Marwan on Angry Arab News Service ; Arabic on Kikah

When I died and was on my way to the cemetery, I was told that my life, as a ghost, would be wonderful and it would make up for the misery that I went through before death.

“You will sleep the whole day in a comfortable tomb where you can toss and turn all you want. You will avoid the traffic, transportation and the daily misery. You will wake up at night and roam freely in your city without being stopped or asked to show your ID by anybody. You can cross the street whenever you want and you will not be hit by a car. You can violate all the laws and travel to any country without a visa. You’ll never be hungry or thirsty and you will not feel cold or hot. Nobody will kill you, because you’re dead. And you will be able, if you desire, and most importantly, to finally take revenge on your enemies. Your mere sight will deprive them of their sleep. Those are the ones who oppressed you and stole your hard-earned living and killed you and your children. You will indulge in torturing them as you please and turning their nights into hell. You will enter their homes and wreak havoc. You can scare their children at night so they wet their beds. You will be the master and will see them, all of them, kneeling in front of you like dogs, or running to a psychiatrist without telling anyone they saw you for fear of being accused of insanity. All the prescriptions and pills they will take will be useless. And you will return before each dawn to your grave ecstatic with your might, humming your favorite song and planning your next night. “

For years, I’ve been lingering in the streets of my city every night. Nobody sees me and nobody is scared of me; not even children. Those who killed me have multiplied their wealth and grown their bellies. I get lost sometimes in their large homes, but I often find them celebrating around their lush tables, and their nights are replete with laughter. They do not care about me passing by or staying. I stand at their beds and scream with all my strength in their ears but I only hear their snoring get louder. Their dogs are the only ones who salute me, sometimes with a bark or a wag of the tail, when I leave in the early morning hours, disappointed with my failure.

The grave is much narrower than I imagined. I haven’t slept for over a year. My neighbor advised me to consult a psychiatrist. He said that he was, like me, suffering a lot during the first years. Then he accepted the status quo, that we’ve been deceived twice. I will see the doctor tomorrow.

I Must Become a Menace to My Enemies

by June Jordan, Dedicated to the Poet Agostinho Neto, President of

The People’s Republic of Angola: 1976

I will no longer lightly walk behind

a one of you who fear me:

Be afraid.

I plan to give you reasons for your jumpy fits and facial tics

I will not walk politely on the pavements anymore

and this is dedicated in particular

to those who hear my footsteps

or the insubstantial rattling of my grocery

cart

then turn around

see me

and hurry on

away from this impressive terror I must be:

I plan to blossom bloody on an afternoon

surrounded by my comrades singing

terrible revenge in merciless

accelerating

rhythms

But

I have watched a blind man studying his face.

I have set the table in the evening and sat down

to eat the news.

Regularly

I have gone to sleep.

There is no one to forgive me.

The dead do not give a damn.

I live like a lover

who drops her dime into  the phone

just as the subway shakes into the station

wasting her message

cancelling the question of her call:

fulminating or forgetful but late

and always after the fact that could save or

condemn me

I must become the action of my fate.

II

How many of my brothers and my sisters

will they kill

before I teach myself

retaliation?

Shall we pick a number?

South Africa for instance:

do we agree that more than ten thousand

in less than a year but that less than

five thousand slaughtered in more than six

months will

WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME?

I must become a menace to my enemies.

III

And if I

if I ever let you slide

who should be extirpated from my universe

who should be cauterized from earth

completely

(lawandorder jerkoffs of the first the

terrorist degree)

then let my body fail my soul

in its bedevilled lecheries

And if I

if I ever let love go

because the hatred and the whisperings

become a phantom dictate I o-

bey in lieu of impulse and realities

(the blossoming flamingos of my

wild mimosa trees)

then let love freeze me

out.

I must become

I must become a menace to my enemies.

Source: Trouble the Water (325-327) via Chicken Bones

Related posts:

1. Sinan Antoon Breaks it Down on Charlie Rose
2. A Nice Thing About Jordan
3. Jordan Seeks Nuclear Power. Israelis Crap pants.
4. Jordan Bombings
5. How’s that ceasefire going?