Showing posts with label the future. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the future. Show all posts

Monday 23 March 2015

A Poem Is Not Enough.

      If only to write a poem would be enough. A note from The Invisible Committee:
We would have liked to be brief. To forgo genealogies, etymologies, quotations.
That a poem, a song, would suffice.
We wished it would be enough to write “revolution” on a wall for the street to catch fire.
But it was necessary to untangle the skein of the present, and in places to settle accounts with ancient falsehoods.
It was necessary to try and digest seven years of historical convulsions. And decipher a world in which confusion has blossomed on a tree of misunderstanding.  
We’ve taken the time to write with the hope that others would take the time to read.
Writing is a vanity, unless it’s for the friend. Including the friend one doesn’t know yet.
In the coming years, we’ll be wherever the fires are lit.
During the periods of respite, we’re not that hard to find.
We’ll continue the effort of clarification we’ve begun here.
There will be dates and places where we can mass our forces against logical targets.
There will be dates and places for meeting up and debating.
We don’t know if the insurrection will have the look of a heroic assault, or if it will be a planetary fit of crying, a sudden expression of feeling after decades of anesthesia, misery, and stupidity.
Nothing guarantees that the fascist option won’t be preferred to revolution.
We’ll do what there is to be done.
Thinking, attacking, building – such is our fabulous agenda.
This text is the beginning of a plan.

See you soon,

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

Thursday 25 April 2013

The Warmth Of a Dream.


    We live in a cruel system and today's poem asks the question, Who knows the past of a stranger, who knows the future of a friend.

The Warmth Of a Dream.

He lay in a dark doorway, dreamed of home,
night frost locked his joints
morning rain chilled the marrow of his bone.
In the dream there was a sister,
a pram in a garden, a crowd of youngsters
who called him mister, a time of little pain.
Are these youngster the same young men, who
now laugh at him, throw beer cans,
piss on him as he lies drunk in some dark lane?
When was that first step down this slippery slope,
when was the first step to no forgiveness.
No will to rise to beg for food,
numbness kills the pain.
The dream brings a warmth that feels good,
dark fog shades out consciousness,
an ambulance carries off a body washed in rain.

ann arky's home.