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Profound meditations on life, death, freedom, family, and faith, written by radical Black journalist, Mumia Abu-Jamal, while he was awaiting his execution.
During the spring of 1996, black journalist Mumia Abu-Jamal was living on death row and expecting to be executed for a crime he steadfastly maintained he did not commit—the murder of a white Philadelphia police officer. It was in that period, with the likelihood of execution looming over him, that he received visits from members of the Bruderhof spiritual community––refugees from Hitler’s Germany––anti-fascist, anti-racist, and deeply opposed to the death penalty. Inspired by the encounters, Mumia hand-wrote Death Blossoms—a series of short essays and personal vignettes reflecting on his search for spiritual meaning, freedom, and truth in a deeply racist and materialistic society.
Featuring a new introduction by Mumia and a report by Amnesty International detailing how his trial was “in violation of minimum international standards,” this new edition of Death Blossoms is essential reading for the Black Lives Matter era, and is destined to endure as a classic in American prison literature.
“In this revised edition of his groundbreaking work, Death Blossoms, convicted death row prisoner Mumia Abu-Jamal tackles hard and existential questions, searching for God and a greater meaning in a caged life that may be cut short if the state has its way and takes his life. As readers follow Mumia’s journey through his poems, short essays, and longer musings, they will learn not only about this singular individual who has retained his humanity despite the ever present threat of execution, but also about themselves and our society: what we are willing to tolerate and who we are willing to cast aside. If there is any justice, Mumia will prevail in his battle for his life and for his freedom.”––Lara Bazelon, author of Rectify: The Power of Restorative Justice After Wrongful Conviction
“Mumia Abu-Jamal has challenged us to see the prison at the center of a long history of US oppression, and he has inspired us to keep faith with ordinary struggles against injustice under the most terrible odds and circumstances. Written more than two decades ago, Death Blossoms helps us to see beyond prison walls; it is as timely and as necessary as the day it was published.”––Nikhil Pal Singh, founding faculty director of the NYU Prison Eduction Program, author of Race and America’s Long War.
Title: Death Blossoms
Subtitle: Reflections from a Prisoner of Conscience, Expanded Edition
Author: Mumia Abu-Jamal
Foreword: Cornel West
Introduction by Mumia Abu-Jamal
Preface by Julia Wright
Publisher: City Lights Publishers
Tags: African American history, black lives matter, black panther party, death row, injustice, institutional injustice, mass incarceration, prison industrial complex, prison writing, racial injustice, U.S. political prisoners, white supremacy
Format: Paperback
ISBN-10 0872867978
ISBN-13 9780872867970
Publication Date; 12 November 2019
Main content page count 240
List Price $16.95
# new books
Mumia Abu-Jamal
Death Blossoms
Reflections from a Prisoner of Conscience
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Cour
Brieven zweven gangen in vol leugens zonder
wonden, op iedere verdieping. Zicht daarop
vanaf de binnenplaats. Binnen zeggen spiegels:
Geen mens. Naar buiten wordt niet gekeken. Er
gaat een ochtend volgen om nimmer te vergeten.
Bert Bevers
Ongepubliceerd
Juli 2019
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Thy Days Are Done
Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country’s strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
The slaughter of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!
Though thou art fall’n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow’d from thee
Disdain’d to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!
Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour’d!
To weep would do thy glory wrong:
Thou shalt not be deplored.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Thy Days Are Done
(Poem)
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Protestgedicht, 1968
(gevonden in een oud schoolboek van een soixante-huitard)
Ga weg, op uw plaats wil ik zitten.
Va-t’en, gij daar in uw driedelig grijs.
De tijd is rijp voor nieuwe winden.
Wij willen grote auto’s, en een parking
voor onszelf. Want ruimte moet er zijn.
Recht hebben wij daarop, besef dat wel.
Het volk moet alles weten, iedereen toch
evenveel ongeveer. Af willen wij van geloven
in de Werkelijke Tegenwoordigheid, af!
En negers mogen dromen wat ze willen,
maar negers mogen zij niet meer heten.
Ouden-van-dagen bestaan niet meer
en vrouwen moeten kinderen wíllen.
Herenigen zullen wij hier families die
uit hun bergdorpen oma’s willen en net
zo ongeletterde bruiden. Opvoeden zullen
wij het volk vanachter megafoons en vanaf
uitklaphoezen, beschijnen met nieuw licht.
Ga weg, maak onze plaats snel vrij nu.
Wij pardonneren u uw desertie.
Wij vergeven jou jouw deesertsie.
Bert Bevers
Ongepubliceerd
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
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Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom
Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender
gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the
dead!
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou – who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom
(Poem)
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So we’ll go no more a roving
So we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
So we’ll go no more a roving
(Poem)
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By the Rivers of Babylon
We Sat Down and Wept
1
We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem’s high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
2
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
3
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were
ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne’er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept
(Poem)
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Terugwerkende kracht
Bij Nostalghia van Andrej Tarkovski
Toen ik het hier voor het eerst zag
moest ik huilen, want dit licht doet
me denken aan herfst in Bologna.
Ik wil niets meer voor mezelf alleen.
Wat kan er gebeuren?
Alles wat je wenst als je knielt, want
zonder enig gebed gebeurt er niets.
Je wilt zeker gelukkig zijn, maar
in het leven zijn er belangrijker zaken.
Dus: een, twee, drie, geloof!
Wat moeten wij dan doen
om elkaar te leren kennen?
Grenzen slechten.
Welke?
Die tussen vroeger en later.
Bert Bevers
Terugwerkende kracht
Bij Nostalghia van Andrej Tarkovski
Verschenen op Versindaba, Stellenbosch, februari 2019
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
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Remind me not, remind me not
Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish’d hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
Can I forget—canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach’d yet rais’d desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes’ darken’d gloss
Seem’d stealing o’er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven’s plumage smooth’d on snow.
I dreamt last night our love return’d,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn’d,
For eyes that ne’er like thine could beam
In Rapture’s wild reality.
Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Remind me not, remind me not
(Poem)
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Gouy
Bij de Scheldebron
Schuw welhaast laat zich traag water
wellen tot niet veel meer dan beek.
Ze heeft geen weet nog van de haven
die zij op zal rekken in een ander land.
Grond die krimpt en zwelt is klei, dat
voelt ze naarmate het noorden nadert,
haar oevers verder van elkaar te liggen
komen. Hier echter is zij beleefd nog
stroompje dat gehuchten passeert waarin
lopers roesten in lang vergeten sloten.
Met zicht op haar eerste meander schiet
iemand in de regen zich door het hart.
Bert Bevers
Gouy
Bij de Scheldebron
Verschenen in Ballustrada, jaargang 33, nummer 2-3, Terneuzen, april 2019
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
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It is the hour
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale’s high note is heard;
It is the hour — when lover’s vows
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
It is the hour
(Poem)
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Euthanasia
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o’er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.
‘Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see:
Forgetful of its struggles past,
E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.
But vain the wish?for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And women’s tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.
Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan;
For thousands Death hath ceas’d to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.
`Ay, but to die, and go,’ alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!
Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o’er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
‘Tis something better not to be.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Euthanasia
(Poem)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord
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