Poems.

           Perhaps it is a time for a wee poem or two, to say the thoughts that clamber and crash their way through the labyrinth of my mind. 

Tinsel Cities.

In the city of tinsel and bright lights
midst the playthings of the rich
just beyond the champagne bubble
out of earshot of the butterfly people
in the dark shadows where no one looks
there you’ll find poverty and destitution
dance a macabre dance of survival.
In Mammon’s city of grand illusions
where rivers of wealth feed frivolity
in its twisting dark and musty lanes
where the light of hope seldom shines
an army of the living dead sweat and toil
polishing the tinsel, changing light bulbs
refilling the champagne bottles
nothing must stop the flow of frivolity
or the butterfly people will die.

 

The Invisible.

We live there— yes— there
A little bit above the dead
But quite a bit below the living
Where poverty is a dream
Deprivation a reality
Our daily bread an illusion
We sigh--we weep—
As ruthless poverty
With its cold claws
Tears the heart from our children
We ask—WHY?
Surrounded by opulence
Invisible to arrogant greed
Anger simmers beneath the surface
We seek equality
We will have justice
If blood is the price
So be it. 

 

 Mirror Mirror On The Wall.

I can’t help but watch him
that old man
as he staggers across the room
with that unusual gait
punctuated by the odd stumble
I hear his groans and feel his pain
sometimes with a few profane words
he drags himself from the couch or chair
pauses for a moment to regain his balance
I sense his reluctance to bend down
and pick things off the floor
I’m fascinated by those hands
light brown withered looking bony structures
with their pronounced veins
running along the back of them
and up his slim arms
I sense his annoyance
that they’re not as strong as they used to be
I feel his regret
that he can’t do the things he once did with ease
I often think
that to have lived that long
he must have a chest full
of memories and experiences
that should be worth something
but what puzzles me most
is when
I look in the mirror
I see him and not me.

 

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National Poetry Day.

      Today, Thursday 6th. October, is National Poetry Day, so let's enjoy.

        This one is by Claude McKay, Black American poet, 1890-1948. It grasps a brutal scene form a not too distant America, and an aspect of society which here and elsewhere is once again on the rise, "racism"

The Lynching.

His spirit in smoke ascended to heave,
His father, by the cruellest way of pain,
Had bidden him to his bosom once again,
The awful sin remained still unforgiven.
All night a bright and solitary star
(perchance the one that ever guided him,
Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim),
Hung pitifully o'er the swinging chair,
Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowd came to view
The ghostly body swaying in the sun:
The women thronged to look, but never a one
Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue;
And little lads, lynchers that were to be,
Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.

 

       This one, from much further back, speaks a truth that has been known by some for centuries. It is by Tommaso Campanella, Italian Philosopher, 1568-1639, translated by John Addington Symonds.

The People.
 

The people is a beast of muddy brian
That knows not its own strength, and therefore stands
Loaded with wood and stone: the powerless hands
Of a mere child guide it with bit and rein;
One kick would be enough to break the chain,
But the beast fears, and what the child demands
It does; nor its own terror understands,
Confused and stupefied by bugbears vain.
Most wonderful! With its own hand is ties
And gags itself- gives itself death and war
For pence doled out by kings from its own store.
Its own are all things between earth and heaven;
But this it knows not; and if one arise
To tell this truth, it kills him unforgiven. 

One from the first world war, by an American poet, Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933.

"There Will Come Soft Rains"

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows calling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in pools signing at night,
And wild-plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done,

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she awoke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

This one with a little hope, perhaps, this time, we will get it right.

FROM GEORGE SQUARE TO TAHRIR SQUARE. 

In a global square, in a global village the people are gathering,
They want to sort out their village once and for all.
They have had enough of wild beasts stealing their chickens,
Of war lords pillaging and plundering their crops.
Though they labour hard, they live poor
While the wild beasts and war lords grow fat.
This time they will take the time and do it right,
This time they will finally and forever banish,
Wild beasts and war lords from their village.
This time all our chickens will feed all the children of the village
This time our crops will see all our people through the winter,
This time, all the fruits of our labour will be ours.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

A Short Break.

      I have my sister and her husband arriving from Canada for a few weeks, so my ranting may be sparse or absent during that time. I want to show them little gems of our beautiful country. In the meantime, just a fleeting thought.

The Vision.

In youth the future was so bright

a vision so near, so easy to see.

There was no guns

there was no wars,

the glow of love had banished night

my brothers and sisters all were free.

Peace and love replaced competition

in the future everybody was my friend.

There was no greed

there was no hunger,

each child blossomed free from exploitation,

to abuse another we could not comprehend.

Time and age has made the light so feint,

in the darkness it's hard to find my way.

Was it a dream

was it a vision

shall I ask Hope which path she meant,

tell me lady, where and why did I go astray?

In this accursed darkness I can no longer see,

dare I ask the strangers, are you still my friends.

Was there a way

did I fail to fight,

in the distance are my brothers free

or is the accursed darkness where it ends?

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Bereft Of dreams.

Sometimes it's hard to smile.

Bereft Of Dreams.

We live in a world, where

hopes and dreams are bought and sold

commodities of a cruel market,

always struggling,

robbed of our gold

the many are excluded.

Our hopes disappear in shreds

as poverty tears with its iron claw,

plundering our heart,

devouring our dreams,

creating a land where desire fears to tread,

love dies in anguished screams;

driving us into isolation,

separating each from other,

instilling fear,

when our will would have us form a chain

drag some bright horizon near.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

There Will Come A time.

      Today's poem, is, I think, in keeping with the previous post. I'm sure there will come a time, my only hope is that it is soon.

THERE WILL COME A TIME.

There will come a time when the hordes remember,

who bound our grand-parents to the yoke of oppression,

who sentenced our parents to deprivation,

who bid poverty sink its teeth into our heart,

who teach our children, greed is a noble art.

Who sent our sons through the gates of hell

to a litany of cambist brawls,

crammed coffers with blood-stained gold

while laughing in Ares' halls.

"Who does these terrible things to us?" they will ask,

and when they remember,

they'll bring an energy that is endless

to drive a fist that is fearless.

Then this merciless market-driven world will crumble

under an insurrection of integrity,

the poor will emerge from the dark husk of capitalism

to live in the light of social justice.

There will come a time when the hordes remember.

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WE ARE THE MAKERS OF HISTORY.

     Wouldn't it be wonderful if our children and grandchildren could read history like the following article? Well only this generation can make that possible, it is up to us to decide what history will look like to our following generations. Will it be a history of leaders and billionaires, of war and poverty shattering the lives of millions, of corporate greed still running rampant while raping and pillaging the planet for the gain of the parasitical few? Or will it be a history of peace, and an economic system that sees to the needs of all our people?  What we do in the coming year will shape our history, will we continue to allow the financial Mafia to pillage the public purse creating deprivation and death, or do we, with one united voice, cry out, enough is enough?

This from A World to Win:

When people decided that enough was enough.

New Year's message

society was being overwhelmed by a series of catastrophes to which there seemed no answers. Unemployment, poverty and inequality were rife as a global crisis took hold. The old capitalist economic system had run its course and was unsustainable.
The world was choked with products, many of them out of date as soon as they came off the production lines. Huge dumps and rubbish piles accumulated and overwhelmed parts of the planet. Waste, some of it lethal, became big business as it was shipped across the globe.
People became poorer as they lost jobs and services were cut by undemocratic governments in the pockets of the corporations. Increasing numbers depended on charity food banks just to survive. Obesity and diabetes epidemics affected the poor – due to the marketing of junk food by agribusiness and supermarkets.

Read the full article HERE:

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I'M PROUD.

I’M PROUD.

I’m proud of my people, proud to be one of them,

that great mass on society’s bottom rung.

Those who, with coal-dust under their nails

in their eyes, in their lungs

claw at the earths entrails.

Their brothers,

cement in their hair

in their mouth, in their ears,

oil ingrained in their fingers,

on their face.

Sisters, glistening with sweat

midst the ceaseless noise of machines

that throw out shirts, shoes, toys, carpets

for other people.

Those with soil and sweat stuck to their skin

smelling of the earth, feeding the multitude,

grinding out their lives in a harsh pitiless system

weighted down

with a sack load of half-dead dreams,

sometimes brought to their knees

by a tidal wave of despair,

never defeated,

groping in the dark to find tomorrow,

keeping hope alive;

they amaze me.

Somehow, from somewhere

in this cold, cruel

unforgiving scheme of things

they find love for their children.

Not a teaspoonful, not a cupful,

but buckets full, to bathe them in,

to pour over them.

They seem to know

that one day this world will be ours

and to take care of it

we will need those who have been loved.

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GLASGOW'S MAY DAY.

      Glasgow's May Day parade took place this afternoon in the city centre, it was a colourful affair with most left political groupings present. This year saw a good turnout, perhaps the weather had something to do with that, but I feel it was because people are looking for ways to display their anger at what is happening in their communities across the country. The chanting and coloured banners symbolised their hope that something can be done to stop the savage cuts to their standard of living.

      However, though they are looking for answers, unless those answers include a dramatic change to the economic system its self, those hopes are going to be dashed. To call for no cuts means keeping the system, which really means postponing the cuts for another day and another generation, as we have struggled against cuts for about as long as we have had the capitalist system.

      May Day, is about the people and their desire for a better world for all, it is not about asking our lords and masters, the parasite class, for some relief from the perpetual struggle, a struggle for which they are responsible. So I to have hope, I hope that all those involved in the May Day celebrations go back to their communities and their work places and begin to organise with their workmates and neighbours, to change society forever and to the benefit of all our people. If not, our children and grandchildren will still be struggling and hoping as they march on future May Days.

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THE PROPAGANDISTS.

THE PROPAGANDISTS.

When the hordes run with their flaming torches,

When they light the torch of freedom

Burning all injustices

Scorching all hypocrisies

Making a bonfire of poverty

Throwing dogma, patriotism and religion on the flames,

I’ll be there, among them with my box of matches.

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