National Poetry Day 2017.

       Today is national poetry day, so in my humble way I attempt to celebrate and further the idea that, poetry is a magic portal through which you can see a different world. Enjoy.

 

Anarchy

 

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
rings false for a pillaging empire.
To die for war-mongers
and criminals in business suits
is sour.

The Pledge of Allegiance
is sinister and violent.
National identity empowers
the American war machine.
Proudly waving flags
conceal the unjust bloodshed.

War needs public support;
propaganda makes it possible;
repetition makes it stick.
Indoctrination into the fold
of nationalistic pride
from birth.

Do governments truly
unite their peoples...

...or divide the world
with flags and gods?

Mind control
on an unbelievable scale,
a shill production scheme.

And who votes either
"For" or "Against"

plays into
unknown
fists.

Mucro Pondera Divinus Sep 2014 

 

WE THE LABOURING MASSES.

We the people have, every brick laid,

have fed the world with sweat and spade,

every instrument played in every band

created by the skill of the craftsman's hand.

We made every truck and every load,

our toil our effort every winding road,

every ship that ever sailed the sea,

our power our imagination made it be.

Cities and towns large and small,

our labouring hands fashioned them all,

every home, every spire,

luxury mansion or humble byre.

No matter what dreams the mind might spawn

without labour's hand, never see the light of dawn,

without labour's strength and labour's skill,

we would be foraging beasts in a jungle still.

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 

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 Wee Bit Late.

      Jeeesus, I've missed National Poetry Day, how did I manage that? October 8th. National Poetry Day, three days late. So I'll make up for it with three instead of one.

     First, one from an old friend from the Scotia poetry nights, Hughie Healy, sadly died of throat cancer some time ago, at the time I was going through cancer treatment of my own.

UMMEE

She brought her culture and mystique

To my city street

This Asian mother and child

The exotic colours of her shalmar-kameez

Highlighted brown skin and dark eyes

Her lips moved

In prayer perhaps

To a different god than mine

The little one spoke words

I failed to comprhend

She answered

In the universal language of mothers

I'm oot withoot any money

So shut your face

You're getting nae crisps!

And one from away back in my early years. 

Knowledge.

In learned books what do we gain,

argue Heidegger with Russell, Sartre, Berlin, 

quote Descartes, Kant, Wittgenstein,

know all the answers

to a world w never live in.

So,   richer by far a labourer be

perhaps, never to read nor write

but with a glance, a smiling eye

name each tree, each bird in flight.

Who'll stand in awe at a burning sunrise,

enjoy the cool moisture of a summer shower,

wonder at life in a woodland paradise,

marvel at the changing colour in ever hour.

Glow at the warmth in a lover's embrace,

willingly give that gentle kiss,

lovingly touch a smiling face,

relish holding hands in silent bliss.

Experience magic through a child's sight,

know how to dry its tear,

when to lift it, hold it tight,

bringing comfort, chasing fear.

Desipient book worms may shake their head,

mock his untutored state, only see a fool,

his knowledge will stand him in greater stead,

he took his learning at amore erudite school.

Now one from a man I have admired for many a year, William McIlvanney.

Everyman: A Morality Play.

"Aye, zur," Everyman said, as the Lord of the Manor

raped his wife, sons and his daughters and threw him a tenner.

"Aye, zur," Everyman said, " that be bully for 'ee."

And he pulled up his smock as he bowed from the knee

With a delicate click of obedient clogs

And a tail-wagging movement he borrowed from the dogs.

"Aye, zur," Everyman said, that be bully for 'ee. 

"Appen Maister be wantin ma bollocks for tea?"

With a father from the north and a mother from the south

He let every cliché find a home in his mouth

Being taught as a man he would never be fit,

He was skilled in the role of an identikit. 

He learned his lines well until one fateful day,

Though his mouth still remembered the things he should say,

A slight twinge in one leg made him suddenly see;

"Get a grip, Human beings can't bow from the knee."

"Ach, fuck this for a play,"every man said,

Took the lord of the manner and stove in his head.

There I hope I have made amends for missing National Poetry  Day.

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

 

Let's Hear That Mighty Roar.

         One poem, a national poetry day does not make. So let's all drown in poetry, at least for the day.

THE MURMUR OF THE POOR.

Brokers, bankers, Earls and Dukes,

callous, mercenary, pirate crew

gasconading through the land

bloated, pampered, privileged few.

Striding with selfish arrogance

plundering as you go

grasping at the fruits

the common people sow.

Take heed, you swaggering fat-cats,

in our world you don't belong,

that murmur you hear is the poor

rehearsing an angry song.

The day is fast approaching

when our chorus loud you'll hear,

then all your greed and treachery

will surely cost you dear.

A price you'll pay for being blind

to the hungry at your door,

Oh, hasty the day our angry chorus

becomes a mighty roar. 

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

All Men Shall Brothers Be.

      Today, Thursday, 2nd. October, is National Poetry Day. Go read some poetry, read it out loud, read it quietly, by yourself, read it to some friends, to some one special. Or better still go write some poetry, pour your heart out about your favourite flower, you greatest hope, your worst fear, the budgie that died, the birth of your child,. The subject matter is endless, just pour you self into a few lines and feel good. You never know, it could be a very fulfilling hobby, a wonderful way to express yourself.

HEAVEN.

The heaven I seek holds no guarded gate

nor boasts no throne on high

has no host on bended knee

no king to call us nigh.

Death shall not be our road of entry

no trumpet blast to show the way,

has no frontier guards for man nor beast

nor some far off judgement day.

The heaven I seek is here and now,

where symbols of power crumble like sand;

standing upright all men shall brothers be,

no one privileged with high command.

Vibrant life shall be our only passport,

the glorious morning sun our only sign,

with a true love of man and beast,

we can have heaven in our time.

(Not meant to be sexist.)

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