Los fusilamientos del 3 de mayo

a sequence of poems

At the Death: Goya's "The Shootings of May Third 1808"

So they'll die, in living colorscythed down by the French fusilladeof musketballs shot by shakoed privatesfar from home before a green Spanish hill

But not before a final demonstration as one man stands defiant, arms raised, hismouth stretched in final speech, a last beseechby this actor in bright white shirt

momentarily caught by the painter's eye,his focal shirt blindingly white,though we the viewers know it soonwill bleed carmine like the ground,dun, shit-colored, sullied when he subsides.

Christopher T George

Bloody Street

I believeso do theyKill mebut you will not winwith your gunsbecause you are paidto be murderersby a machine of evilwe believethat which is just and goodKill melay me in the blood already below meothers are witnessesyou will never winthat man over there he will report in paint for as long as it remains on the canvas

• Carol Sircoulomb

may third 1880shootings  

i feel my arms raisedwhy. why?it is if i am standing justbeyond my own reachit is all sound and no soundi can see my eyes reflected in the drop of sweat that runsdown my killer's cheekmy eyes but yet notfor i am already gonejust beyond my reach.

• Sherry Pasquarello

GOYA BURLESQUE

Of course it isn't funny,that's the pointbut neverthelessthe guy being shot could bea blacked up minstrel,Al Jolson being shot for a finalrendition of "Mammy"as he waves his hands in the air

tho' that was not what they shotpeople for in Spain in 1808

The blood gives it away,how recent it looks, so red stillso gaudy you can mistakethe well lighted scenefor theatre lightswhere poor auditionersare sent away deadand the tablelaux ofsoldiers stop for a smoke.

• James Bell

calayaElementary Slam-amanic Journey 

War: neither "art," nor "thou art,“but yet another chance to wake up, especially

me,to : to be or not to be is not the question.How fast I feel I must go when I’m afraid. 

Ghastly, to feel so near out of time.Personally, I must spell myself outof the shoot, out of the gallery and shout,"I’m having trouble breathing through  

the horrors of what we do to each other."Not so fun, either, what I do to myself.Nor the sorrows I feel over us.Makes me want to stop singing, 

"Whether or not at war, whether or not in love,whether or not we’re in harmony, seems to me we stammer 

round after round hoping for another rounddoing little except hoping for another round.Ghastly, feeling so out of rhyme.I must take some time to shout, 

"I feel bound to you, goinground and around Earth in the tail of the Milky Way,sometimes hated, sometimes loved. 

Not always fun, blowing in the wind.But here I am, beautiful and terrible.I may seem to be or not to be.And when I sail on my breath  

I see what feels like us, waters and airs swathed in diverse skins at war, and I am unmasked.

unmoving 

a painting is visualand unmovingin this oneis a figure dressed in the white lightof innocencehis poseinvites bullets to pierce him as the nails pieced Christdemanding the stigmatato prove his martyrs deathbut here in the final captured moments of his lifewe are forced to stand beside the firing squadshare an eternity of watchingwaiting for the hammers to fallas they will

• Jim Bennett

Goya poster: May 3, 2008

the intensity of la coche-bomba grows,los rebeldes grow ever bolderas if their version of freedom will prevailsix years after victoria first declared

no painter captures the atrocitiesof this never-ending war,no photographer there when insurgents lined against a ox-marked wall

two-hundred years after Goyaexpressed his displeasure of waragainst the harmless and débil,the victims remain as inocente

six years or two-hundrednada changes except technology

• Gary Blankenship

I tried to tell youthat I'd walked into someone else's dreamthat I'd tried to runescape from the blood shedyou never listened 

you lifted your gunwith the restturned the streetsinto stenching riversthat ran redcarrying the deadinto another dream  

I tried to tell youthat my shirt was too whiteto be spoiled by the blood of innocenceI pleaded with youto let me continue my sleepunder the stars 

I didn't belong hereI tried to tell youthat I was trappedin someone else's dreamyou never listened

• jazz

The Third of May 1808 Pity the soldier in a foreign land.Armed with anonymity, he’s become the uniform he wears, the arms he carries.Between him and his loved ones - now he’s given up his face and name -is only atrocity. Atrocity made easyby the uniform and the comradeship of the firing squad. When you’re nothingbut your country’s political willit never does to show a human face,to love a little the folkwhose kids you’re bayoneting.

• Stuart Nunn

FIRING SQUAD  

We must make an example of you.Too many library books go overdue.Face the wall and wear your glassesWe must educate the masses. The message reads loud and clear.We don't trust those who take the books away

from hereWhen others are waiting to borrow. Yours were due back yesterday. Not today or

tomorrow.We're using silencers so we don't make a din.Please don't scream,  there's people  readingAbout the value of not being lateSo they don't meet your sorry fate. They'll bring their books back on time,Knowing we cannot tolerate such a crime.You took a book upon the lawYou kept that book despite what you sawOn page two-hundred and twenty two.You knew what would happen to you. You also took one on Harry Houdini.....  Hey, where's he gone? Did anyone see....  ?

• Arthur Chappell