A literary protest against creeping authoritarianism in the United States under Donald Trump. This powerful anthology brings together 44 poems from voices across the country—and beyond—each one confronting repression, silence, and the slow erosion of democratic norms. Record of Dissent is a curated collection of resistance poetry—raw, reflective, and unflinching. These are poems of protest, survival, memory, justice, and defiance. From personal reckonings to sharp political critique, every piece speaks to the urgency of this moment and the role language plays in pushing back. Created by the Chaos Section Poetry Project, this collection amplifies the voices of poets who refuse to look away. Whether you're a longtime reader of political poetry or simply searching for something honest in an age of misinformation and apathy, this book is for you. Sample Poems from the Book They’ll Say They Didn’t Know by Bartholomew Barker I can imagine how it feels to cross a border for a better future and not do the paperwork to get pregnant and not want to have a baby to live in a body not carrying the right gender I can imagine how it feels to be vilified — to be hunted to be afraid of every stranger and some friends But I'm a straight white man in America I can't truly understand it in my gut but I can sympathize So why then can't I imagine what caused so many of my fellows to vote the way they did? Hope by Rachel Armes-McLaughlin Days like today it feels like all's about to end. The earthquakes with thousands lost. The floods, never seen before. The fires consume forest and home. Democracy gone. Then nights like tonight, there's hope restored: Cory Booker on the senate floor, making history. A record broke. Wisconsin, fighting back against purchased votes. Blue Violets at the park, and news of a new, unexpected home. The battle, uphill—but hope. Hope. What We Tend by Meridith Allison The long and short of it is, I’d rather not be listening to a podcast about how democracies die as I pull weeds on a Saturday morning while the American flag on my neighbor’s porch flaps loudly in the wind. But this much I know: summer remembers both the gardener and the absence of one. The long and short of it is, I have two sons, not yet caught up in the life ahead of them, their days filled with Minecraft and marble runs, chess openings and lightsaber duels. But of this I’m sure: the empire of childhood, like all empires, falls slowly at first, and then all at once. And so I teach my gentle boys of Napoleon III and the Reichstag fire, Kent State, Selma, Tiananmen Square, the rise of Mussolini and the fall of Rome. We learn habeas corpus , coup d’état , la migra! la migra! , et tu, Brute? And I ask them to notice the bowl in the sink before the oatmeal hardens, the sock on the floor, passed over for days, the sirens, the scared, the hungry, the helpers. Where do the lizards get their water? The long and short of it is, I’m still trying to figure this out for myself. Do we fight fire with fire? Look for the cracks, push where it leans? Do we run, do we wait, do we garden, can we grieve? I think: you can only fight a tyrant where your feet touch the ground. I think: the roots that we tend will return in the spring.