Mixed Bag Of Poems.

      April 30th. last day of National Poetry Month, so I thought I might finish it off with a bang. As usual one of my own, but a couple of others I like, and a wee film about Herbert Read, anarchist poet, writer, and art critic.

     First one by Herbert Read on the fascist bombing of Spain during the Spanish civil war.

Bombing Casualties In Spain.

Dolls' faces are rosier but these are children

their eyes not glass but gleaming gristle

dark lenses in whose quicksilver glances

the sunlight quivered. These blenched lips

were warm onceand bright with blood

but blood

held in moist bleb of flesh

not split and spatter'd in tousled hair.

In these shadowy tresses

red petals did not always

thus clot and blacken to scar.

These are dead faces.

wasps' nests are not so wanly waxen

wood embers not so greyly ashen.

They are laid out in ranks

like paper lanterns that have fallen

after a night of riot

extinct in the dry morning air.

Herbert Read.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt.

Now television has allowed the proles

to have a look at the eminent,

we sans-culottes can scan with great intent

their skins for pimples, wens and blackhead-holes,

quite pleased to find they too have scars and moles

just like the more plebian element.

Such epidermal flaws on dame and gent

bring the Mob close to those with Higher Goals.

Now we're all privileged to watch a lord

waggling his eyebrows or large moustache.

You don't get worried till They start to speak

and now that none of them has ssaid a word

worth listening to. What earns them all that cash?

Why didn't The Revolution start last week?

William Neil. 

A New Dawn.

Today we live in a peace

midst a thousand pygmy wars;

a humanity bankrupt by its past

dragged wearily through darkness and despair

yearns for a day that's cast

long, warm and fair,

a dawn that sees humankind dicard

its class, its nation and prepare

to grind outworn creeds to dust,

so mankind naked is revealed,

then moving with common cause,

share

what such a dawn may yield.

John Couzin.

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The Concept Of The Other!

       Today and then tomorrow, then it is the end of National Poetry Month. What will you do with all that extra spare time!!!!

Fashion Conscious.

Pretty pretty butterfly people

fluttering in the midst of

Armani, Gucci, Versace,

aimlessly ambling arrogance.

Each,   a born again narcissus

who venerate

their own frivolous existence.

Hearts saturated in self-adulation

oblivious to a brother's cry of anguish,

wrapped in a mind that failed to grasp

the concept of the other.

Pretty pretty butterfly people

fluttering in the midst of

Armani, Gucci, Versace,

how I long to see you live

for more than one brief moment

in reality's rigorous narrative:

perhaps to see Serbia's plight,

hear the Kurds cry,

feel enough of Iraq's pain

to make you question why.

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To Say, "This Is Mine".

   Just a couple of days left in this National Poetry Month.

A Scarred Heart.

I tossed a heart at life

saw it dance in the morning sun

watched it through a field of nettles run

felt it warmed by passion's breath

heard it crack between love's teeth

was proud, as it turned its back on fear

sighed so when it near' drowned in an anguished tear,

scarred and bleeding it came back, aged like wine,

with a quiet pride I said, "This is mine".

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Ending This Infernal Night.

      Four more days left of National Poetry Month, four more poems, so here is today's.

An Unjudging Eye.

All that happens under this unminding sky

appears to be seen by an unjudging eye,

pitiless famine spread by unbridled greed

as the powerful pillage with unprincipled speed.

See war and hunger sour this lovely land

with crippled justice making a fragile stand,

pompous power sail in manner grand

selfish duplicity the helmsman's hand.

What now to the common man is due

is grasped by a wealthy swaggering few,

still compassion turns a blind eye

to let the many, in poverty die.

Observe greed and tyranny strutting bold

until perfidious men all power hold

who seal the power with stolen gold

their tale of treachery seldom told.

Blind to honety's wasted light

the rich can't see poverty's plight

nor hear youth's anguished tear;

greed has dulled their listless ear.

When will justice spread her light

putting selfish greed to flight

crushing tyranny with righteous might,

ending this infernal night.

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Grand Plans.

What legacy will we leave our grandchildren?

GRAND PLANS.

In this world where we serve oblivion
with a blind pride and sure conviction
creating plans to land a man on Mars
grandiose schemes to conquer the stars
eyes on horizons ever further afield
believing, to us the universe will yield.
Yet here on Earth we fail to see
a chaotic world of human debris,
our magnificent results thus far
a planet dying from a human scar,
oblivious that our plans sublime
are mere litter scattered in space and time.

 

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The Lonely Wynd.

       As the national poetry month draws to a close, time for more personal thoughts.

The Lonely Wynd.

At the bed, death's waiting room,

the family muster,

with empty words wrapped in thoughts of death,

gaily chatter.

Outside, hungry birds feed, sing and fly,

their chirpy songs seems to call her death a lie,

but summer's sun

reaching through the window pane

sadly smiles,

knowing they'll never meet again.

I wonder,

in coma wrapped, what were your thoughts.

Pleasure,

looking back at what used to be?

Pride,

at how, to this life happiness you brought?

Perhaps it was a welcome rest from pain

a just pause in your long struggle,

alas too late, this emigma with me remains.

So rest, in your rest, peace be your gain,

for you dear mother, an end to trouble,

as love's boundless force could not break

death's firm grasp upon your heart,

passionless devouring cancer,

unmoved by prayer on our part,

took your hand along that lonely wynd,

death took time

fused the moment on our mind.

In the midst of family

alone dear mother you had to die.

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What If The Angels Don't Come?

Food for thought-----

 What If The Angels Don't Come.

Large appealing eyes framed in a heart shaped head

precariously perched on fleshless body,

sitting in parched desert amidst the dead

viewed with the sound of newsreel melody:

send some food, pray the dought will end

but,    what if the angels don't come?

Demented parent in poverty's claw

torn by desperation and despair,

every nerve exposed and raw

trapped in depressio's iron snare;

we pray her fortunes turn around

but,    what if the angels don't come?

Well trained soldiers stand on hot sand

heads bowed, automatic weapons firm in hand;

now aware of horrors of the battle field

reverent prays the receive God's shield

but,    what if the angels don't come?

Another war over,

to anguish torn families bodies come home,

father, mother, sister, brother,

painfully weeping from the marrow of their bone,

we offer prayers for families of the dead

but,    what if the angels don't come?

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Let's Roar.

There is no need to stand alone----

Let's Roar.

The problem's too big

the perpetrators unknown

you can't beat the system

all on your own.

So it's easy to withdraw

find your own little cage

turn a blind eye to the suffering

stifle your rage,

but the greed goes on

the poverty's still there,

you can't just leave it

for your children to bear.

Others feel as you do

eager to put things right

but locked in isolation

it's a hopeless fight,

so don't sit in silence

behind a closed door,

your voice can help raise

a whisper to a roar.

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

Buried Treasure.

As life glides on, what do we really value?

Buried Treasure.

Rich,     man I'm rich.

this life, this treasure chest of mine,

crammed full.

Those moments of ecstasy with forgotten names,

burning loves that broke the rules,

quiet meetings that burst into flames,

short lived loves

sealed with brittle vows.

Passions that sparked and flashed

bring warmth,    even now.

Ruby red anguish that shaped my heart

diamond friendships this world can't part,

a son that changed this world to gold

adding pride to my treasure chest.

A daughter brought radiance beyond compare,

of precious gems,    they gave the best.

These jewels, these precious stones

this bounty beyond belief

all mine,

outshine a prince's throne.

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The Poet Has Words Of Love To Tell.

Sometime we need to stop, clean our glasses and see where we really are.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Where are you youth?
I remember you well,
You showed me visions of a new world
Where poverty died a sudden death,
Peace reigned so long
We’d forgotten where the last soldier fell.
People loved and people laughed,
People danced to the troubadour’s song,
People listened when the poet spoke
For he had words of love to tell.
Nature triumphed over barren lands
Its bounty shared by all,
Grasping greed withered and died
Caring and sharing sounded his death knell.
Where are you youth?
We seem to have lost our way.
Our planet is pillaged and plundered
and left to rot and bleed.
As loud beats war’s barbaric drum beat.
There’s ethnic cleansing and corporate greed
The “I, me, egotism and guile”
Today’s dominant creed.
Now more than ever, dear youth,
Your transcendent vision, your brave tomorrow
Is our tragic world’s compelling need.

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

Walk With The Poets.

Never a believer in "what must be must be".

 

WALK WITH THE POETS.

My head has had enough of you,

you doomsday sooth-sayers, and

rationalists, that trap us in the world that is.

Go weave your tales of “can't be done”

to the dead, and those of no imagination.

I want to walk with the utopian,

the dreamer and the poet,

laugh with the child and sing with the wind.

Run with the deer, not with “the market trend”

Enough of, “this is the way it has to be”,

a world of poverty, wars and inequality.

Now, I'll create the world I want to see,

A world of sharing, peace and liberty.

I want the children to plan tomorrow,

the adult help them get there,

trees and flowers our treasured possessions,

with birds and animals their keepers.

Who wants a world that chains us to mortgage,

binds us to a labouring day, just to eat bread?

Who wants to spend their life, feeding fat-cats

while their own children go hungry?

No, this is not the world that has to be,

in our foolishness and misplaced trust,

this is a world that has slithered over us,

poisoning our mind, putrefying our spirit.

Let's call on the poet, let's welcome the dreamer,

let's take council with the utopian,

They'll help us create a better world for all.

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

A Smuggler To The Last.

A poem a day for a month, it's a nice thought.

Youthful Traveller.

Now,

firm in winter's bosom clasped

gazing back along a path

a path I never can retrace

wondering,  when summer's blaze

cooled to autumn's seductive charm,

when autumn ran to winter's chill?

I saw no signpost mark the borders

no checkpoint with the list

bidding me declare.

So the sea of life I duly sailed

a smuggler to the last,

contraband I carry in my heart,

the joy of spring

mid winter's icy blast.

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The Mystery Of Life.

     Poetry, that place between conversation and song, a world of magic, mysticism, reality, hope and fears, loves, hates and desires, a secret world that can be made public, a public world that can become a secret.

My Foolish Heart.

Rich, gold encrusted autumn

most precious of the seasons,

though death hangs as a mist

on yon not far off horizon;

within my heart still burns,

unashamed and unabated,

that fire of eternal spring

the mystery of life created.

 

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Remember Iraq?

     As April, National Poetry Month glides along, I again through my tuppence worth in.

Remember Iraq?

Mammon, God of the New World Order

has spoken:

Any nation who blasphemies 

against the scriptures

of the Holy Free Market economy

shall find its people scorched by fires

that rain out of the western skies

and the people shall suffer perdition

through all eternity.

All the world shall see

Mammon's hi-tec retribution.

          

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

A Vicious Faith.

Another day, another poem.

A Vicious Faith.

Pecuniary priests, the canons of faith dictate;

from pulpits of financial cathedrals proclaim

humanity must accept its fate

pawns in a free market game.

Its laws immutable,

its march inevitable,

a system with a purpose of its own,

human freedom expendable,

the mighty dollar on the throne.

Human need sacrificed to greed

all power to the market place,

you who make the people bleed

the scriptures of profit embrace;

your system breeds voracity

showers gold on a worthless few,

to the common-man aridity

the beauty of life all askew.

Raise loud your ritual chants

as all freedom you try to sever,

to your system our poverty yields,    But tyrants,

be warned,   our hearts,-----------never.

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Belonging.

    Continuing with my belated start to National Poetry Month, something short.

Belonging.

A gentle kiss that bears a promise

confirmed in the philtrf smile,

soft fingers like a breath on flesh

lingering, just a while.

Sweet words that caress

loving hands that speak,

these tell my wandering heart

here is the harbour I seek.

A closeness that needs no voice

a peace that stills the storm

this special human magic, can

an arduous world transform.

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

Past Conventions.

     Dearie me, here we are on the 9th of April and I had forgotten it was National Poetry Month. So I'll just throw this one in to get things started.

A Cage Of Past Conventions.

Life is passion ever surging,

we must grasp the moment

changing apathy to hope

dreams to life;

set freedom freely flowing,

fiercely remaining

a river of desire.

Seek freedom from the reverence of the past,

freedom from nation, name and caste,

let freedom drench the eager heart

changing our life to a living art.

Yet,   foolishly we seek false assurances

locked in a cage of past conventions;

bidding our heart take the safest stance,

afraid to dance a forbidden dance.

Afraid of beauty, remembering pain,

shackling tomorrow to yesterday's chain,

sowing seeds of regret;

living lives in rigid schemes

labouring to forget,

only freedom can free our dreams.

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