Rock over rock over jagged rock
look trembling at the edge
look humbling at the edge
into mystery
into nothingness
into meaning
into doubts
into danger
into fears
into light
into truth
into unchartered
cells in the brain
into unspoken words
poets speak
unspoken words. That which you hear
those who hear,
sound echo mountain echo
cut by jagged rock,
blood spilling
to make the ink
to make the words
unspoken words
dangerous thought!
(too near the edge)
jagged rocks and boulders
bigger boulders
not the spirit,
not his spirit...
Limbs ache, blood spilling to make the ink
to make the words.

Soldiers crushing his fingers
Ripping notes from within chords.
crushing the hands of Chile’s
crushing the small hands
with the butt of a rifle
No!Not the spirit!
Victor Jara!
Victor Jara!
Who dares break the strings
Of your revolutionary guitar
Saying, play now if you dare,
for your Allende!"
eyes emptied of tears, soul forgetful
of death, tho familiar
too tired
yet, the poet’s passion
is thrilling, soaring,
and sealing the secrecy
of valor beyond blood.
We are here to die
yet, shout VIVA!
Victor Jara, long live your song
it celebrates our people
Dear Poet-musician
Friend of my friend Malvina
who put your small record
she produced
a revolutionary version
of Little Boxes!
She told me sadly, how you
died, how she loved you

Soldiers, crude, less than animal
(some say Allende failed, he would
not arm his people)
Soldiers, no kin to
a bird or a playful sea otter
followers of the money
but they don't know
Soldiers, easily, can learn to fight
brother, neighbor, when their
dark side is tapped!
learn to hate with veangance,
simple as crushing a
spider, and many do!
it’s easy to die, easy
to hate

crushing hands first,
with the butt of a gun
siilence the strings, and then, kill the body
so that the voice cannot speak
unspoken words, telling
that which is witnessed
at the edge,
the mysterious edge,

into vastness
into mystery
into the void
into the meaning,
into the doubts
into the dangers
into love
into the fears
into the hot truth of man
into the universe,
into the calm,
into the rage
into the pain
of separation
into the oneness
into the wholeness
into the hot light of truth
into the unchartered cells in the brain
speaking unspoken words
some ear might hear before your hands
are crushed
before the strings on your guitar
are stilled forever.

Premiered for CAFÉ POETRY WEEK, SF

© Dorothy Jesse Beagle

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