Showing posts with label revolutionary poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label revolutionary poetry. Show all posts

Monday, 8 February 2016

Let's Roar.


 


        Today approximately 1% of the world's population hold roughly 50% of the world's wealth and their share is growing, while the other 99% have to make do with a 50% that is ever shrinking. However, the total 100% of the world's wealth is not created by that 1%, it is all created by the 99% that see their share flow steadily up towards that 1%. Unjust, insane, unsustainable and totally unnecessary.

         As an individual the situation seems impossible to change, how can you are I make a difference, how can we as individuals take on the czars of the corporate world, and hope to win? The answer is we can't, not as individuals, we have to realise that we are in a class war, and the other side is well organised and show solidarity within their class. We have to do the same, organised solidarity, our only real weapon is our solidarity with each other. We have to link up in solidarity within our work places and across our work places, come together in solidarity in our communities and across our communities, we have to link hands in solidarity across those imaginary lines drawn by power mongers on the planet's surface, called borders, whose only purpose is to divide us into opposing camps, for the benefit of that 1%.
        It is only by the combined and unified will of all our people, that we can brake the chains of this dehumanising, degrading and greed drive system, that is responsible for racism, wars, poverty, and the destruction of our planet.


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

Wednesday, 22 July 2015

Desire Armed With Anger.


Our Inheritance.

Now is the time to arm our desire with anger
time to claim our rightful inheritance.
Inheritance, buit by generations of poverty and toil,
river of wealth channelled to financial institutions, 
stolen by the power crowned few.

Treasure, fearlessly wrestled from angry seas.
Riches, arduously torn from the bowels of the Earth.
Bounty, laboriously scratched from unforgiving land.
Asstets, ours by right of life and limb.

Our toil sent a director's son to Eton.
Our poverty paid his daughter's dowry.
Our sweat created the plunderer's sea of plenty.
Our humility gave his crime legality.
Now is the time to arm our desire with anger
time to claim what's ours, with fist and fire.

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


Wednesday, 3 April 2013

Bread and Roses.

       A poem a day for the month of April. This one was taken from the article Bread and Roses on the Free Your Voice site:

          http://pilarawa.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/2009-05-15-12-19-17.jpg



As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: “Bread and roses! Bread and roses!”
As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women’s children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!
As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for — but we fight for roses, too!
As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler — ten that toil where one reposes,

Poem by James Oppenheim

ann arky's home.