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CZM Book Club: Selected Poems of Voltairine de Cleyre

It Could Happen Here

Sun Apr 12 2026

Summary

It Could Happen Here – CZM Book Club: Selected Poems of Voltairine de Cleyre

Host: Margaret Killjoy
Date: April 12, 2026
Podcast: It Could Happen Here (Cool Zone Media & iHeartPodcasts)

Episode Overview

In this National Poetry Month special, host Margaret Killjoy explores the activism, artistry, and radical legacy of 19th-century anarchist poet Voltairine de Cleyre. With dramatic readings and passionate commentary, Margaret shares selected poems drawn from de Cleyre’s prolific body of work, edited by Sasha Berkman after her death. The episode celebrates de Cleyre’s advocacy for anarchism, feminism, and social justice, her experience of marginalization, and her literary brilliance. The focus is both educational and intimate, inviting listeners to engage with the political and emotional landscapes of de Cleyre’s poetry.

About Voltairine de Cleyre

(03:20–06:10)

Biographical Sketch:
- Born in the 19th century, radicalized by the 1886 Haymarket Affair in Chicago.
- Lifelong advocate for “free thought, women’s liberation, atheism and antitheism, and anarchy” who “spoke fiercely against authoritarianism and state repression.”
- Close ties with Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman, Lucy Parsons, the IWW, and both Philadelphia and Chicago anarchist scenes.
- Personal experiences with poverty, violence, chronic illness, and disability shaped her worldview.
- Died at 45 in 1912, buried at Waldheim (now Forest Home) Cemetery near the Haymarket Martyrs.
Legacy & Recognition:
- Emma Goldman praised her as “the most gifted and brilliant anarchist woman America ever produced.”
- Max Netlow called her “the Pearl of Anarchy.”
- Famously declared: “She was asked why she considered herself an anarchist and she responded because I cannot help it.” (06:05, Margaret)

Major Themes and Key Poems

1. On Revolution and Resistance

Poem: “The Hurricane”
(07:01–08:05)

A stirring call from the oppressed: the tumult before uprising, the justified rage of the people, and the hope for vengeful change.
Memorable lines:
- “Thy clasped hands part, O people, for thy praying warmed not the desolation. God did not hear thy moan; now it is swelling to a great drowning cry... Thou answered thine own prayer.” (Margaret reading de Cleyre)

2. Hope and Grief

Poem: “Optimism”
(08:11–09:19)

Speaks to the belief that suffering and love are not wasted, but transformed after death.
Margaret notes the religious undercurrent is complex, reflecting longing for justice beyond.

3. Mourning and Memory at Waldheim

Poems: “At the Grave in Waldheim” & “Light Upon Waldheim”
(14:32–17:30)

Elegies for the Haymarket Martyrs, fusing personal reverence with collective revolutionary memory.
Explores grief, justice, and the ongoing struggle against tyranny.
Standout quote:
- “No more shall the necks of nations be crushed. No more to dark tyranny’s throne bend the knee… By the brave heartbeats stilled... we swear that humanity yet shall be free.” (16:00, de Cleyre via Margaret)

4. Racialized Labor and Exploitation

Poem: “The Road Builders”
(17:40–18:40)

Personal witness to the death of a Black laborer.
Stark condemnation of societal indifference to the suffering underlying “progress.”
Notable passage:
- “Driven to death beneath the burning sun. Driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero. He, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking naught... You drive upon his corpse.” (Margaret reading de Cleyre)

5. Martyrdom and Political Violence

Poem: “Marsh Bloom” (for Gaetano Bresci, assassin of the Italian king)
(18:49–21:30)

Connects the eruption of revolutionary violence to cycles of repression and pain.
“A wild marsh blossom shall blow again from a buried root in the slime of men, on the day of the great red rain.” (20:50)

6. Love, Sacrifice, and Femininity

Poem: “Love’s Compensation”
(26:30–28:05)

Dialogues with God about the cost of self-sacrifice, particularly women’s suffering for men.
“But this is the thing that thou hath been, hath been since the world began — that love against self must sin, and a woman must die for a man.” (27:35, de Cleyre)

7. Wit and Whimsy

Poem: “A Novel of Color”
(28:10–30:30)

An inside joke between friends, featuring playful chipmunks and an elephant.
Margaret playfully admits: “I don’t know what the fuck it’s about, but it’s really fun to read." (30:30)

8. Internationalism and Revolutionary Solidarity

Poem: “Written in Red”
(30:45–32:58)

Written for the “living dead” of Mexico’s revolution.
Urges mass action—“seize the lands, open the prisons and make men free.”
Powerful refrain:
- “Bear it aloft, O roaring flame... slaves of the world, our cause is the same... Uncurse us the land. Burn the words of the dead written in red.”

Margaret’s Reflections & Book Club Invitation

(32:59–35:30)

Margaret praises the range of de Cleyre’s poetry; favorites include the whimsical “chipmunk” poem.
Announces the next book club experiment: listeners are encouraged to read two Ursula K. Le Guin stories (“The Ones Who Walked Away from Omelas” and “The Day Before the Revolution”) and participate via a Reddit thread.
- “I believe in you. I trust you. I believe in your capacity to read two short stories.” (34:20)
Tips on reading: Suggests the Anarchist Library as a resource for the stories.

Notable Quotes and Moments

“Maybe advertising is the poetry of our time in that most people don’t want to listen to it. No, it’s not poetry at all. It’s ads.” (09:36, Margaret; meta-commentary on podcast advertising)
“He was no hero. He, a poor black man… Still human. And you drive upon his corpse.” (18:35, Margaret quoting de Cleyre)
“I don’t have a lot specifically to say about the poetry besides, I like that she has a lot of different stuff. I actually really like the chipmunk poem.” (32:59, Margaret)
“Up the punks. I never say up the punks anymore. How come people don’t say up the punks? I guess because we moved beyond subculture, but I still believe we should up the punks.” (35:32, Margaret; closing sentiments)

Timestamps of Key Segments

| Timestamp | Segment | |-------------|----------------------------------------------| | 03:20–06:10 | Introduction to Voltairine de Cleyre | | 07:01–09:19 | Readings: “The Hurricane”, “Optimism” | | 14:32–17:30 | “At the Grave in Waldheim” & “Light Upon Waldheim” | | 17:40–18:40 | “The Road Builders” | | 18:49–21:30 | “Marsh Bloom” | | 26:30–28:05 | “Love’s Compensation” | | 28:10–30:30 | “A Novel of Color” | | 30:45–32:58 | “Written in Red” | | 32:59–35:30 | Reflections and next book club selection |

Conclusion

Margaret’s passionate readings and anecdotes bring Voltairine de Cleyre’s revolutionary spirit to life, highlighting her unique blend of poetic beauty, biting critique, and unwavering commitment to liberation. The episode not only serves as a tribute for National Poetry Month but also invites the audience into deeper engagement—with poetry, with radical history, and with one another in the ongoing book club experiment.

Ending message:
“I believe in you... Take care of each other. Fuck ICE. Free Palestine. Up the punks.” (35:32, Margaret)

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Transcript

Margaret Killjoy (0:00)

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Margaret Killjoy (3:20)

Bork Klorb Blorq Klorb Blorq Korb hello and welco to Cool Zone Media Bork Klorb the only Bork Klorb where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. Wait, no. Book club? The only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. I'm your host, Margaret Killjoy, and today I'm gonna read some poetry. I'm gonna read some poetry to you. I'm not sorry because April is National Poetry Month and so we figured we'd read you some poetry from a prominent anarchist, feminist writer and public speaker, Voltairine Declare. Voltaire Declare. If you haven't heard of her, she's like 19th century, right? She was radicalized to anarchism by the Haymarket Affair of 1886 in Chicago. See the very first episode of the podcast Cool People who did cool stuff about that story and why you have an eight hour workday. I don't know anyone who has an eight hour workday. Why we ostensibly have an eight hour workday. She was a lifelong advocate for free thought, women's liberation, atheism and antitheism and anarchy, and spoke fiercely against authoritarianism and state repression. She was a friend of Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman, Lucy Parsons, the iww, some of the people I talk about all the time on my podcast, and also the broader Philadelphia and Chicago anarchist scenes. Her politics were influenced by her lived experience with extreme poverty and gender based violence, as well as chronic illness and disability. Disability. She passed away in 1912 at the age of 45 after a long and painful period of decline. She was buried in Waldheim Cemetery, now called the Forest Home Cemetery in Chicago, which is kind of the pilgrimage place of choice for American anarchists, right next to the Haymarket Martyrs whose executions changed her life. And remember that name, Waldheim, because it will come up in her Poems after her death she was remembered by her friend Emma Goldman as the most gifted and brilliant anarchist woman America ever produced. Max Netlow honors her more simply as, quote, the Pearl of Anarchy. She was asked why she considered herself an anarchist and she responded because I cannot help it. And today we're going to read some of her poetry. She wrote prolifically her whole life and published in all the radical journals of the time. Newspapers were just a huge thing. Just every radical had their newspaper and they had huge distributions. You're talking tens, hundreds of thousands of copies of things going around. So this is. It's a bigger deal than it might sound when we think about, like the newspapers of this or that radical clique right now we aren't thinking in the same scale. Usually published in Lucifer, the Light Bearer, the Rebel Free Society and Mother Earth and we'll read her poems about revolution, martyrdom, grief, the systemic violence of racial capitalism, the Mexican Revolution. A lilting lyric poem that could probably best be described as an inside joke between friends and one that I can only describe as Heretic Pride or maybe Staging a revolution against God and Heaven. These poems come from a volume of her work edited by her longtime comrade and literary friend Sasha Berkman who I haven't covered on the show yet Besides, he shot a robber baron who was killing a bunch of workers he tried to break out of prison. He was bisexual. King. Yeah, Sasha Berkman's cool. These were collected into a volume of her work edited by Sasha Berkman in tribute to her memory after her passing. So the poetry of Voltaire and declare the hurricane we are birds of the coming storm August spies the tide is out the wind blows off the shore bare burn the white sands and the scorching sun the sea complains but its great voice is low Bitter thy woes, O people and the burden hardly to be borne wearily grows O people all the aching of thy pierced heart bruised and torn but yet thy time is not and lo thy moaning desert thy sands not yet is thy breath hot Vengefully blowing it wafts o' er lifted hands the tide has turned the vane veers slowly round Slow clouds are sweeping o' er the blinding light White crests curl on the sea Its voice grows deep angry thy heart, O people and it's bleeding fire tipped with rising hate Thy clasped hands part, O people for thy praying warmed not the desolation God did not hear thy moan now it is swelling to a great drowning cry A dark wind cloud a groan now backward veering from that death sky the tide flows in the wind roars from the depths the world white sand heaps with the foam, White waves thundering the sea rolls o' er the shell crunched wall Strong is thy rage, O people, in its fury hurling thy tyrants down Thou meetest wage, O people, very swiftly now that thy hate is grown Thy time at last is come. Thou heapest anguish where thou thyself wert bare no longer to thy dumb God. Clasped and kneeling Thou answered thine own prayer. See Isle City, New Jersey August 1889. All right, next poem. Optimism There's a love supreme in the great hereafter the buds of earth are bloom in heaven the smiles of the world are ripples of laughter when back to its Aiden, the soul is given and the tears of the world, though long and flowing water the fields of the by and by they fall as dews on the sweet grass growing when fountains of sorrow and grief run dry Though clouds hang over the furrows now sowing There's a harvest sun wreath in the after sky. No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly There's a vast perfection beyond the grave up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly the stars lying dim on the brow of the wave and the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they shall shine all undimmed in the aether nave. For the altars of gods are lit with souls fanned aflaming with love where the star wind rolls. St. John's Michigan, 1889 but do you know what isn't a poem but has its own certain poetry? That's right. Maybe advertisement is the poetry of our time in that most people don't want to listen to it. No, it's not poetry at all. It's ads. It's just a thing that happens. I don't know. Here's the ads.

Margaret Killjoy (14:32)

And we're back. This poem is called at the Grave in Waldheim, which is. Yeah. Where she is later buried, next to some of her heroes, the Haymarket Martyrs. Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest, Their lids kissed close Neath the lips of peace over each pulseless and painless breast. The hands lie folded and softly pressed, As a dead dove presses a broken nest. Ah, broken hearts were the price of these. The lips of their anguish are cold and still for them are the clouds and the gloom all past no longer the woe of the world can thrill the chords of those tender hearts o' erfill the silent dead house the people's will has mapped asunder the strings. At last the people's will. Ah, in years to come, dearly ye'll weep that ye did not save. Do ye not hear now the muffled drum, the tramping feet and the ceaseless hum of the million marchers trembling dumb in their tread To a yawning giant grave? And yet. Ah, yet there's a rift of white. Tis breaking over the martyr shrine. Halt there, ye doomed one. It scathes the night as lightning darts from its scabbard bright and sweeps the face of sky with light. No more shall be spilled out the blood red wine. These are the words it has written there. Keen as the lance of the northern morn, the sword of justice gleams in its glare. And the arm of justice, upraised and bare, is true. To strike, aye Tis strong to dare. It will fall where the curse of our land is born. No more shall the necks of nations be crushed. No more to dark tyranny's throne. Bend the knee. No more an abjection be ground to the dust by their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades trust. By the Brave heartbeat stilled by the brave voices hushed we swear that humanity yet shall be free. Pittsburgh, 1889. This next poem is called Light Upon Waldheim. And the figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago Martyrs in the Waldheim cemetery is a warrior woman dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony. And her right hand is drawing a dagger from her bosom. This is worth knowing. Light upon Waldheim and the earth is gray. A bitter wind is driving from the north. The stone is cold. The strange cold whispers say, what do ye hear with death? Go forth, go forth. Is this thy word, O mother with stern eyes crowning thy dead with stone caressing touch? May we not weep o' er him that martyred lies slain in our name? For that he loved us much? May we not linger till the day is broad? Nay, none are stirring in the stinging dawn. None but poor wretches that make no moan to God. What use are these? O vow, with dagger drawn, Go forth, go forth. Stand not to weep for these till weakened with your weeping, like the snow ye melt, Dissolving in a coward peace. Light upon Waldheim. Brother, let us go. London, October, 1897. Okay, the next poem is called the Road Builders. Opens with a little parenthetical aside. Who built the beautiful roads? Queried a friend of the present order. As we walked one day along the macmedized driveway of Fairmount Park. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth, and he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone. But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun. Driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero. He, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking naught. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road a human creature died. Tis a blood gift to an o' erreaching world that does not think. Ignorant, mean and soulless was he, well still human. And you drive upon his corpse. Philadelphia, July 24, 1900. The next poem is called Marsh Bloom, and it's Dedicated to Gaetano Bresci. Gaetano Bresci. I don't have my notes in front of me, but he was this Italian immigrant who lived in Paterson, New Jersey, worked as a shoemaker. And one day, when the Italian king, Umberto ii, I think, gave an award to a man who had gunned down hundreds and hundreds of workers who had peacefully demonstrated for bread, you know, they had been like, hey, we're hungry. And the government had killed them all. Gaetano Bresci was like, you know, I can't really just sit around and make shoes in New Jersey. So he bought a gun and a one way ticket to Italy, and he killed King Umberto too, and his comrades then raised his kid. That's Gitano Breschi. This poem is called Marsh Bloom. Requiem, Requiem, Requiem. Blood red blossom of poison stem broken for man Swamp sunk leafage and dungeon bloom seated bearer of royal doom. What now is the ban? What to thee is the island grave? With desert wind and desolate wave will they silence death? Can they wait thee now with the heaviest stone can they lay aught on thee with be alone thou hast conquered breath. Lo, it is finished. A man for a king. Mark ye well who have done this thing. The flower has roots bitter and rank. Grow the things of the sea. Ye shall know what SAP ran thick in the tree when ye pluck its fruits. Requiem, Requiem, Requiem. Sleep on, Sleep on, accursed of them who work our pain. A wild marsh blossom shall blow again from a buried root in the slime of men. On the day of the great red rain. Philadelphia, July 1901. That line, on the day of the great red rain. Yeah, anyway. But do you know what won't sweep away the existing order in a wash of blood? Our advertisers. They are the existing order.

Margaret Killjoy (26:30)

And we're back. Okay, this next poem is called Love's Compensation. I went before God, and he said, what fruit of the life I gave, Father, I said, it is dead, and nothing grows on the grave. Wroth was the Lord and stern. Hadst thou not to answer me. Shall the fruitless root not burn and be wasted utterly? Father, I said, forgive, for thou knowest what I have done, that another's life may live. Mine turned to a barren stone. But the Father of life sent fire and burned the root in the grave. And the pain in my heart is dire for the thing that I could not save, for the thing it was laid on me by the Lord of Life to bring fruit of the ungrown tree that died for no watering. Another has gone to God, and his fruit has pleased him well. For he sitteth high while I plod the dry ways down towards hell. Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord, whose tears made that fruit's root wet. Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword, and thy guards by the gateway are set. Thou wilt give me up to the fire, and none shall deliver me. For I followed my heart's desire, and I laboured not for thee. I laboured for him. Thou hast set on thy right hand high and fair. Thou lovest him, Lord, and yet twas my love won him there. But this is the thing that thou hath been, hath been since the world began that love against self must sin, and a woman must die for a man. And this is the thing that shall be shall be, till the whole world die. Kismet. My doom is upon me. Why murmur, since I AM I? Philadelphia, August 1898. This next poem is called A Novel of Color, and this is the one that's probably an inside joke, but it's just kind of neat. And it opens with a parenthetical aside. The following is a true and particular account of what happened on the night of December 11, 1895, but it is likely to be unintelligible to all save the chipmunks and the elephant, who, however, will no doubt recognize themselves. Chapter One Chipmunks three sat on a tree, and they were as green as green could be. They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late, and chirruped and chirruped and ate and ate. Tis a pity of chipmunks without nuts and a gnawing hunger in their guts. But they should be wise like you and me, and color themselves to suit the tree. Achi, achi, achi achi. Gay chaps are we, we chipmunks 3. An elephant white in sorry plight, Hungry and dirty and sad benight straggled one day on the nutting ground. Lo. Chatter. The chipmunks are chances found. Behold the beast's color were he as we green and sleek and not full were he but the beast is big and the beast is white, and his skin full of emptiness Serves him right. Achi, achi, achi achi. Let us sit on him, sit on him. Chipmunks 3. Chapter 2 Three Chipmunks, green right gay, Were seen to leap on the beast, his brows between. They munched at his ears and chifetered his tongue chin and sat and sat and sat on him. Not a single available spot of hide where a well sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride, but was chipped and chipped and chipped, Chipmunked till aught but an elephant must have flunked. Achi, achi, achi achi. What a ride we're having. We Chipmunks three Chapter three Brr. Chapter four what was it? Blue. Awoo. Awu. Three grinned chipmunks have all turned blue. The elephant smiles a peaceful smile and lifts off a tree trunk sans haste or guile. Seize him. Seize him. He's stealing our tree. We're undone. Undone. Shriek the chipmunks 3. The elephant calmly upraised his trunk and said, did I hear? Or a green chipped monk? Achi achi, achi achoo. Chippy you're blue. So are you. So are you. Philadelphia, December 1895. And this next poem I actually, I think first heard about. Because the person who did our theme music for cool people who did cool stuff is an amazing songwriter and cellist named Unwoman. And she at one point set this poem to music. And this poem is called Written in Red. It's going to be really interesting to not try and read it in the same cadence as the song. This is dedicated to our living dead in Mexico's struggle. This was about the Mexican Revolution. Written in red, their protest stands for the gods of the world to see on the dooming wall Their bodiless hands have blazoned upharsin and flaring brands Illume the message Seize the lands, open the prisons and make men free. Flame out the living words of the dead written in red. Gods of the world, their mouths are dumb. Your guns have spoken and they are dust. But the shrouded living whose hearts were numb have felt the beat of awakening drum within them Sounding the dead man's tongue calling smite off the ancient rust have beheld resurrects it. The word of the dead written in red. Bear it aloft O roaring flame Skyward aloft Where all may see slaves of the world. Our cause is the same One is the immemorial shame, One is the struggle and in one name manhood we battle to set men free. Free. Uncurse us the land Burn the words of the dead written in red. I think this was Voltaire and Declare's last poem. Then she wrote, Uncurse us the land Burn the words of the dead. Yeah, I don't know. I don't have a lot specifically to say about the poetry. Besides, I like that she has a lot of different stuff. I actually really like the chipmunk poem. It might be my favorite poem of it. I don't know what the fuck it's about, but it's really fun to read. And I would read a kid's book of it. Anyway, vaguely speaking of Haymarket and May Day, which I was a while ago. Because some of these poems are about that. We have some exciting stuff happening on book club for you. We're going to do an experiment because this is always the book club where we do the reading for you. But we're going to try a thing where we listen to what you have to say about some stuff. We have some reading that I'm not going to do for you ahead of time that you have to go and read yourself these stories. I believe in You, I trust you. I believe in your capacity to read two short stories so that when we talk about it in early May, we'll be able to include your words. I want you to read the stories. They're both by Ursula K. Le Guin. One is very, very short. It's called the Ones who Walked Away from Omalas O M E L A S and the other story is called the Day before the Revolution, both by Ursula K. Le Guin. You can find them both online. I believe in you. And then we're going to talk about them. I'm going to talk with some other people about these stories, but we're also going to include your words. And I think the way that we're going to do this, I will update you, if this is not the way we're doing it, is that I'm going to make a post on the It Could Happen here Reddit. I never use Reddit. That's not true. I lurk on Reddit, not the podcast Reddit. I can't bring myself to do that. But I do like Reddit. But I'm going to post on the It Could Happen Here Reddit and people can add their comments about those stories there. And we'll kind of curate them and include them in our discussion. We'll make it a good and proper book club with your help. I believe in you. Anyway, I'm Margaret Killjoy. You can find me on the Internet, MargaretKilljoy, and on Bluesky and Instagram in particular, as well as my substack where I write about things every week. And I'll find you on the Internet. I don't know how I'm gonna be able to find you, but maybe I am paying attention to your web traffic. I'll find you reading the Ones who Walked Away From Omelas and the Day before the Revolution by Ursula K. Le Guin. For example, on the Anarchist Library. There's a very large library on the Internet called the Anarchist Library that has a lot of texts and I believe it includes those texts. Alright, Take care of each other. Fuck Ice Free Palestine. Up the punks. I never say up the punks anymore. How come people don't say up the punks? I guess because we move beyond subculture, but I still believe we should up the punks.