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POETRY

‘Am I allowed my fantasies?’ Joan Baez ponders lifelong pacifism in Trump-inspired poem

Last year, the acclaimed singer and civil rights activist Joan Baez published her debut poetry collection. Today, she shares a fiery new work exclusively with ‘The Independent’ that takes aim at the Trump administration and wrestles with her lifelong dedication to pacifism

Joan Baez has composed an acerbic new poem titled ‘Cranberry Sauce’
Joan Baez has composed an acerbic new poem titled ‘Cranberry Sauce’ (Getty)

Since being crowned the “Queen of Folk” in the early 1960s, Joan Baez has consistently used her voice to advance the causes dear to her heart. In 1963, she sang with Bob Dylan at the March on Washington from the podium where Martin Luther King Jr delivered his “I have a dream” speech, and ever since she has been unwavering in her support for issues including civil rights and environmentalism.

Last year, Baez published her first book of poetry, When You See My Mother, Ask Her to Dance, a deeply personal collection of verse that reckoned with her upbringing, her struggles with depression and her musical peers, including Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. In the months since, she has continued to write, finding herself drawn once more to speak out about the most pressing political issues of the day.

In this new poem, published for the first time by The Independent, she turns her attention to America’s political leadership and ponders her own lifelong dedication to a philosophy of pacifism:

Baez published her first poetry book 'When You See My Mother, Ask Her to Dance' last year
Baez published her first poetry book 'When You See My Mother, Ask Her to Dance' last year (Dana Tynan)

Cranberry Sauce

As a pacifist, do I have to love everyone?

Do I have to love the

psychos who are running the country?

I hope not.

Am I allowed my

fantasies

so long as I don’t hurt anyone?

Not to worry,

these guys and gals are

immune to pain!

Though I have heard

some of them are sensitive

to ridicule.

So when I say I’d like to see them all dead

at their Thanksgiving dinners,

face down in the cranberry sauce . . .

well, I can dream, can’t I?

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