Image: The Heading new
Image: The Truth
I KNOW THE TRUTH
I know the truth - give up all other truths!
No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle.
Look - it is evening, look, it is nearly night:
what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?
The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.
- Marina Tsvetayeva
Image: pearly gates
Blue Sky Thinking
Let’s do this again, ground the planes for a while
and leave the runways to the racing hare,
the evening sky to Venus and a moon
so new it’s hardly there.
Miss the deal, the meeting, the wedding in Brazil.
leave the shadowless Atlantic to the whale,
its song the only sound sounding the deep
except the ocean swaying on its stem.
Let swarms of jets at quiet airports sleep.
The sky’s not been this clean since I was born.
Nothing’s overhead but pure blue silence
and skylarks spiralling into infinite space,
a pair of red kites flaunting in the air.
No mark, no plane-trail, jet-growl anywhere.
by Gillian Clarke, National Poet of Wales
April 2010
Image: beautiful planet
Monet Refuses The Operation
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
~ Lisel Mueller
Image: Haitian democracy as backed by the US
Lament
For the earth that shivered its skin like an old horse
For the shout of the sun, of the earth as it broke its heart
For the white palace that fell into itself like snow
For the hospital, for its rows of white graves
For the cathedral that folded on emptiness
calling God’s name as it went
For its psalms of sorrow, the prayers of the living and dead
For each house crushed with its cots and cushions and cups
cooking pots pressed between pages of stone
For the small lung of air that kept someone alive
For the rescuer’s hand reaching into the void
For the slip of a life from its grip
For the smile of daylight on a woman’s face
For her daughter dead in the dark
For the baby born in the rubble
For tomorrow’s whistling workmen
with their hods of bricks
For scaffolding and walls rising from the grave
over rosaries of bones
By Gillian Clarke, National Poet of Wales
January 2010
Image: Khaki-chums-xmas-truce-1914
Today, as we lurch into more wars, backed by
army chaplains with the mark of Cain burned in their brows,
and weep over the belated recognition of our common humanity,
shown by common people during the 1914 Christmas "Truce",
here's a piece of a poem to remind us
of the poetry of Peace:
A CHRISTMAS DAY POEM FOR FAKE CHRISTIANS
(From Agnes Dei)
Near Golgotha strolls many a priest,
And in their faces there is pride
That they were flesh-marked by the Beast
By whom the gentle Christ’s denied.
The scribes on all the people shove
And bawl allegiance to the state,
But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life; they do not hate.
by Wilfred Owen
Image: Shel Silverstein
"There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends."
Interviewer's Question: "Why do you have a beard?"
Shel Silverstein: "I don't have a beard.
It's just the light; it plays funny tricks."
You can hear an unreleased track by Shel (God willing!)
at a BRILLIANT radio station called WFMU....
http://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/15974
Image: friends
You might consider "THOU SHALL NOT COMMIT MURDER"
as forever damning those who excuse murder.
John the Baptist said "You soldiers - stop fighting":
yet many soldiers take comfort in the anonymous
poem below.
The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.
'Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you ?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?'
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
'No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep....
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.
If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.
There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.
'Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell.'
Image: C J
C. J. Foster is a surrealist poet from the Rhondda
who's been writing for at least 20 years as a true poet.
Below is a taster of his "hallucinatory" imagery.
HOLY TRINITY
Nacreous the woman's skin which itches in wild colours
Pyramid of love
In the ampitheatres of light
Shine the brightest star
Star of your dying eyes
All worlds coalesce
Crash and burn
Black star twist and turn
Black the fountain in the sky
This is the hand that,
Holding back,
Holds tears also unquenched
Golden whore of lust
Burns the veins of trees that rise to the sun.
Image: Stop the War logo
A scrimmage in a Border Station --
A canter down some dark defile --
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail --
The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!
Rudyard Kipling
Image: POLITICS by Carol Ann Duffy, UK Poet Laureate
POLITICS
by Carol Ann Duffy,
Poet Laureate of the UK
How it makes of your face a stone
that aches to weep, of your heart a fist,
clenched or thumping, sweating blood, of your tongue
an iron latch with no door. How it makes of your right hand
a gauntlet, a glove-puppet of the left, of your laugh
a dry leaf blowing in the wind, of your desert island discs
hiss hiss hiss, makes of the words on your lips dice
that can throw no six. How it takes the breath
away, the piss, makes of your kiss a dropped pound coin,
makes of your promises latin, gibberish, feedback, static,
of your hair a wig, of your gait a plankwalk. How it says this –
politics – to your education education education; shouts this –
Politics! – to your health and wealth; how it roars, to your
conscience moral compass truth, POLITICS POLITICS POLITICS.
Image: workers memorial day
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were, as well as if
a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee…"
John Donne
Image: obama
National Poet of Wales Salutes Obama;
Academi has posted a special letter to Obama
containing poems by the National Poet of Wales,
Gillian Clarke, and Bardd Plant Cymru (Welsh-
language Children’s Laureate), Ifor ap Glyn.
The two poems are sent to mark the inauguration of the 44th President of the United States.
Gillian Clarke, of Talgarreg, Ceredigion, is “delighted” to be commissioned by Academi
to write a poem in honour of the occasion.
Gillian explains: “A few days after his election
I was performing in front of 2,000 schoolchildren
in Birmingham. Academi’s message that they wanted
me to write a poem for Obama came through and I
was introduced by the Chief Examiner as the
National Poet of Wales who will write a poem for Obama.
Immediately all the children stood up cheering
and hugging each other and I was astounded.
If 15 year old kids get excited about Barack Obama
winning the election, then it gives me this great
feeling of hope, a hope that we can all share in."
She continues "We’re on his side and we’ll try
to make it work. We’re all black now. And it’s
taught us all – from schoolchildren in Birmingham
to poets in Wales – that if you’re black, you
can do it; if you’re a woman, you can do it;
if you’re young, you can do it.
And if you’re Welsh, we can do it.”
Gillian Clarke’s work is read and enjoyed by
thousands around the world. Her work is studied
in schools across the UK as part of the English
Literature course and from November 2008 to
February 2009 she will have performed her work
in front of over 100,000 schoolchildren as part
of the highly successful Poetry Live! events.
In February she will read and discuss her work
with 900 English literature students in Dubai.
The post of National Poet of Wales was established
in 2005 by Academi with Arts Council of Wales Lottery funding.
Gwyneth Lewis was the first incumbent, followed by
Professor Gwyn Thomas in 2006. Gillian Clarke is
the third National Poet of Wales.
Both Gillian and Ifor ap Glyn will be visiting Washington DC
this summer to participate in Wales Smithsonian Cymru.
For more information contact Academi:
029 2047 2266 / post@academi.org
A poem by the National Poet of Wales, Gillian Clarke,
to honour the Inauguration of Barack Obama
as the 44th President of the United States of America on 20 January 2009
New Year, 2009
Venus in the arc of the young moon
is a boat in the arms of a bay,
the sky clear to infinity
but for the trailing gossamer
of a transatlantic plane.
The old year and the old era dead,
pushed burning out to sea
bearing the bones of heroes, tyrants,
ideologues, thieves and deceivers
in a smoke of burning money.
The dream is over. Glaciers will melt.
Seas will rise to swallow golden islands.
Somewhere a volcano may whelm a city,
earth shake its skin like an old horse,
a hurricane topple a town to rubble.
Yet tonight, under the cold beauty
of the moon and Venus, something like hope begins,
as if times can turn, the world change course,
as if truth can speak, good men come to power,
and words have meaning again.
Maybe black-hearted boys in love with death
won’t blow themselves and us to smithereens.
Maybe guns will fall silent, the powerful
cease slaughtering the weak, the rich
will not gorge as the poor starve.
Hope spoke the word ‘Yes’, the word ‘we’, the word ’can’,
and a thousand British teenagers at Poetry Live*
rose to their feet in a single yell of joy –
black, white, Christian, Muslim, Jew,
faithful and faithless. We are all in this together.
Ie, gallwn ni. **
Gillian Clarke, National Poet of Wales 2009
* A day of poetry readings for school students
** "Yes, we can" in Welsh
Image: obama mask
IS THIS TRUTH AND LIGHT ?
"When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier."
— Rudyard Kipling, The Young British Soldier. 1892
Image: building
In 1649
To St. Georges Hill,
A ragged band they called the Diggers
Came to show the peoples will
They defied the landlords
They defied the laws
They were the dispossessed reclaiming what was theirs
We come in peace they said
To dig and sow
We come to work the lands in common
And to make the waste ground grow
This earth divided
We will make whole
So it will be
A common treasury for all
The sin of property
We do disdain
No man has any right to buy and sell
The earth for private gain
By theft and murder
They took the land
Now everywhere the walls
Spring up at their command
They make the laws
To chain us well
The clergy dazzle us with heaven
Or they damn us into hell
We will not worship
The God they serve
The God of greed who feed the rich
While poor folk starve
We work we eat together
We need no swords
We will not bow to the masters
Or pay rent to the lords
Still we are free
Though we are poor
You Diggers all stand up for glory
Stand up now
From the men of property
The orders came
They sent the hired men and troopers
To wipe out the Diggers claim
Tear down their cottages
Destroy their corn
They were dispersed
But still the vision lingers on
You poor take courage
You rich take care
This earth was made a common treasury
For everyone to share
All things in common
All people one
We come in peace
The orders came to cut them down
Image: tHE oGRE
The Ogre does what ogres can,
Deeds quite impossible for Man,
But one prize is beyond his reach,
The Ogre cannot master Speech.
About a subjugated plain,
Among its desperate and slain,
The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
While drivel gushes from his lips.
- W.H. Auden
Image: river of love follows Darwish' coffin
A river of some 10,000 people bearing the body
of poet Mahmoud Darwish arrives at the Cultural
Palace just outside the West Bank city of Ramallah.
Another 3,000 people gather at the Cultural Palace.
More join them, marching from the presidential
compound in central Ramallah.
Darwish is buried on a hillside overlooking the city.
As the coffin is lowered to the ground, a small regiment
of Palestinian security officers has to restrain
a crowd struggling to look at the grave.
Mahmoud Darwish, the renowned Palestinian poet,
died after open heart surgery at the
Memorial Hermann medical centre in Texas.
Siham Daoud, a fellow poet and friend of the 67-year-old,
says he asked not to be resuscitated if the surgery
did not succeed.
She says Darwish travelled to the US ten days before
his death for the surgery, and underwent two operations
for heart problems before the final surgery.
Best known for his work describing the Palestinian
struggle for independence, the experience of exile
and of factional infighting, Darwish was a vocal critic
of Israeli policy and the occupation of Palestinian lands.
Many of his poems are also songs - most notably
Rita, Birds of Galilee and I yearn for My Mother's Bread,
- and are anthems for at least two generations of Arabs.
"He felt the pulse of Palestinians in beautiful poetry.
He was a mirror of Palestinian society," Ali Qleibo,
a Palestinian anthropologist and lecturer in cultural studies
at Al Quds University in Jerusalem says.
Last year, Darwish recited a poem damning the
deadly infighting between rival Palestinian groups
Hamas and Fatah, describing it as
"a public attempt at suicide in the streets".
* * *
I COME FROM THERE
I come from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother,
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood,
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up,
To make a single word: Homeland...."
by Mahmoud Darwish
* * *
mahmouddarwish.com
* * *
He was born in the village of Barweh in Galilee,
a village razed during the establishment of Israel in 1948.
He joined the Israeli Communist Party after high school
and began writing poems for leftist newspapers.
He was put under house arrest and imprisoned for
his political activities, after which he worked
as editor of Ittihad newspaper before leaving to
study in the USSR in 1971.
Originally a member of the Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO),
Darwish resigned in 1993 in protest over the interim peace accords
that Yasser Arafat, the late Palestinian leader, signed with Israel.
As a journalist, he worked for al-Ahram newspaper in Cairo
and later became director of the Palestinian Research Centre.
In 2000, Yossi Sarid, Israel's education minister,
suggested including some of Darwish's poems in
the Israeli high school curriculum.
But Ehud Barak, the Israeli prime minister overruled him,
saying Israel was not ready yet for his ideas in the school system.
In 2001, he won the Lannan prize for cultural freedom.
Leaves of Olives was published in 1964
when Darwish was 22-years old.
Since then more than 20 volumes
of his works of poetry have been published.
Image:
The following was sent as a gift,
so I pass it on ...
"This is what you shall do:
Love the earth and sun and the animals,
despise riches, give alms to every one that asks,
stand up for the stupid and crazy,
devote your income and labor to others,
hate tyrants, argue not concerning God,
have patience and indulgence toward the people,
take off your hat to nothing known or unknown
or to any man or number of men,
go freely with powerful uneducated persons
and with the young and with the mothers of families,
read these leaves in the open air
every season of every year of your life,
re-examine all you have been told at school
or church or in any book,
dismiss whatever insults your own soul;
and your very flesh shall be a great poem
and have the richest fluency not only in its words
but in the silent lines of its lips and face
and between the lashes of your eyes
and in every motion and joint of your body"
From the Preface to "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
Image: may your fields
Those ancient blessings
are poetry, pure as a prayer...
May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm against your face,
May the rain fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May the spirits hold you in the palms of their hands.
Image: PLANE BUILDER
~Two Kinds of People~*
There are two kinds of people, I say not in jest,
Just two kinds of people, no more and no less.
Not the good and the bad, for it's well understood,
that the good have some bad, and the bad have some good.
Nor the happy and sad, for the seasons of life,
turn stress into peace, and peace into strife.
No, the two kinds of people to which I refer,
are the people who build - and the people who tear.
And sadly enough - anyplace, anywhere,
there is only one builder to fifty who tear.
So the question I have and the challenge I give...
From this moment on, which way will you live?
*Adapted from Ella Wheeler Wilcox's,
"Which Are You?"
Image: a dog frozen to a tree
Here's a great example of the affection
and gentle humour of the Rhondda ...
born of extreme hardship.
THE WINTER OF '63
by Rep Davies
I REMEMBER THE WINTER OF '63
I SAW A DOG FROZEN - TO A TREE.
THERE WERE NO CARS UPON THE ROAD,
EVERYTHING.. JUST STOPPED. AND FROZE.
NO SCHOOL FOR US KIDS
NO WORK FOR OUR DAD
IT WAS LIKE THE HOLIDAY..
WE NEVER HAD.
BUT WHEN FOOD GOT SHORT
AND THE PUBS RAN DRY
AND WE WERE FINDING
IT HARD TO GET BY..
DAI SAID TO WILL
AS HE LOOKED TO THE SKY
THE ONLY WAY OUT
OF THE RHONDDA'S.. TO FLY !
SO THEY BUILT A ROCKET
IN DAI'S COUNCIL FLAT
IT WAS POWERED BY COAL
- WE HAD PLENTY OF THAT
THE STEAM FILLED THE WINDOWS
AND CAME OUT THE CHIMNEY
AS THEY TESTED THE BURNERS
FOR THEIR HISTORIC JOURNEY
A CROWD GATHERED 'ROUND
BOTH TO CHEER AND TO SHOUT
AS THEY KNOCKED DOWN THE HOUSE
TO GET THE BLOODY THING OUT
THEY PROMISED TO RETURN
WITH FOOD AND SUPPLIES
AND THE WHOLE STREET CAME OUT
... TO SAY THEIR "GOODBYES"
THEY PLANNED TO SPLASH DOWN
IN CARDIFF BAY
BUT AS THEY TOOK OFF
SOME PART WENT ASTRAY
BECAUSE THE ROCKET CHANGED COURSE
AND HEADED FOR CYMMER
AND THAT PLACE IS DESOLATE -
EVEN IN SUMMER !
WELL.. WILL AND DAI WERE NEVER SEEN AGAIN,
BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS LIVE ON IN OUR HEARTS
AND WE'LL REMEMBER THE WINTER OF '63...
WHEN THEY GAVE US ...A BLOODY GOOD LAUGH !
Image:
WITH YOUR HEART ON FIRE.
Whether your destiny is glory or disgrace,
Purify yourself of hatred and love of self.
Polish your mirror; and that sublime Beauty
From the regions of mystery
Will flame out in your heart
As it did for the saints and prophets.
Then, with your heart on fire with that Splendor,
The secret of the Beloved will no longer be hidden.
by Rami, Sufi mystic.
* * *
The War Around Us
About war much has been written.
More must yet be said by those who saw them die,
so that the dead may rest, and sight be gained,
to see war for what it was, and is:
War is not fighting, though fighting's what we see,
nor is it death, for death is but it's end.
It is the rancor of disunited hearts, the death of love,
the end of hope:
The war around us echoes in our hearts, and grants it life.
Once, mortals dared to tame this ancient beast,
and yet it thrives,
Each age must fight this force again, or pay it's price!
Wolfgang P. May, Cpt. Armor,
Advisory Team Leader, Republic of Vietnam
*********
Here's a poem to stir the blood!
About our Wales
.... and written by a Hungarian!!!
The Bards of Wales
Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed,
"For I will see if Wales," said he,
"Accepts my rule indeed.
"Are stream and mountain fair to see?
Are meadow grasses good?
Do corn-lands bear a crop more rare
Since wash'd with rebel's blood?
"And are the wretched people there,
Whose insolence I broke
As happy as the oxen are
Beneath the driver's yoke?
"In truth this Wales, Sire, is a gem,
The fairest in your crown:
The stream and field rich harvest yield,
And fair are dale and down.
"And all the wretched people there
Are calm as man could crave;
Their hovels stand throughout the land
As silent as the grave."
Edward the king, the English King
Bestrides his tawny steed;
A silence deep his subjects keep
And Wales is mute indeed.
The castle named Montgomery
Ends that day's journeying;
The castle's lord, Montgomery,
Must entertain the king.
Then game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
A hundred hurrying servants bear
To please the appetite.
With all of worth the isle brings forth
In dainty drink and food,
And all the wines of foreign vines
Beyond the distant flood.
"You lords, you lords, will none consent
His glass with mine to ring?
What? Each one fails, you dogs of Wales,
To toast the English king?
"Though game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
Your hand supplies, your mood defies
My person with a slight.
"You rascal lords, you dogs of Wales,
Will none for Edward cheer?
To serve my needs and chant my deeds
Then let a bard appear!"
The nobles gaze in fierce amaze,
Their cheeks grow deadly pale;
Not fear but rage their looks engage,
They blanch but do not quail.
All voices cease in soundless peace,
All breathe in silent pain;
Then at the door a harper hoar
Comes in with grave disdain:
"Lo, here I stand, at your command,
To chant your deeds, O king!"
And weapons clash and hauberks crash
Responsive to his string.
"Harsh weapons clash and hauberks crash,
And sunset sees us bleed,
The crow and wolf our dead engulf -
This, Edward, is your deed!
"A thousand lie beneath the sky,
They rot beneath the sun,
And we who live shall not forgive
This deed your hand hath done!"
"Now let him perish! I must have"
(The monarch's voice is hard)
"Your softest songs, and not your wrongs!"
In steps a boyish bard:
"The breeze is soft at eve, that oft
From Milford Havens moans;
It whispers maidens' stifled cries,
It breathes of widows' groans.
"You maidens, bear no captive babes!
You mothers, rear them not!"
The fierce king nods. The lad is seiz'd
And hurried from the spot.
Unbidden then, among the men,
There comes a dauntless third
With speech of fire he tunes his lyre,
And bitter is his word:
"Our bravest died to slake your pride -
Proud Edward, hear my lays!
No Welsh bards live who e'er will give
Your name a song of praise.
"Our harps with dead men's memories weep.
Welsh bards to you will sing
One changeless verse - our blackest curse
To blast your soul, O king!"
"No more! Enough!" - cries out the king.
In rage his orders break:
"Seek through these vales all bards of Wales
And burn them at the stake!"
His men ride forth to south and north,
They ride to west and east.
Thus ends in grim Montgomery
The celebrated feast.
Edward the king, the English king
Spurs on his tawny steed;
Across the skies red flames arise
As if Wales burned indeed.
In martyrship, with song on lip,
Five hundred Welsh bards died;
Not one was mov'd to say he lov'd
The tyrant in his pride.
"'Ods blood! What songs this night resound
Upon our London streets?
The mayor shall feel my irate heel
If aught that sound repeats!
Each voice is hush'd; through silent lanes
To silent homes they creep.
"Now dies the hound that makes a sound;
The sick king cannot sleep."
"Ha! Bring me fife and drum and horn,
And let the trumpet blare!
In ceaseless hum their curses come -
I see their dead eyes glare..."
But high above all drum and fife
and trumpets' shrill debate,
Five hundred martyr'd voices chant
Their hymn of deathless hate.
(Transl. by Watson Kirkconnel)
Although doubted by scholars, it is strongly held
in the oral tradition that King Edward I of England
had five hundred bards executed
after his conquest of Wales in 1277,
lest they incite the Welsh youth to rebellion
by reminding them in their songs
of their nation's glorious past.
Janos Arany wrote this poem
when the Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph
first visited Hungary after he defeated it
in its 1848-49 War of Independence.
Originally he was asked to write a poem
to praise the Emperor.
******************************
Here's a poem I only recently discovered:
(and WHAT a Beauty!)
Six men trapped by happenstance
In dark and bitter cold;
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story’s told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first man held his back,
For of the faces ’round the fire,
He noticed one was black.
The next man looked across the way,
Saw one not of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The third man, dressed in tattered clothes,
Then gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be given up
To warm the idle rich?
The rich man sat back thinking of
The wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned
From going to the poor.
The black man’s face bespoke revenge,
While fire passed from sight.
Saw only in his stick of wood,
A way to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group,
Did nothing but for gain.
"Give only unto those who gave"
Was how he played the game.
The logs held firm in death-stilled hands
Was proof of human sin.
They died not from the cold without
But from the cold within.
Written by James Patrick Kinney.
******************************
THERE WAS A YOUNG MAN FROM DUNDEE
WHO WAS STUNG ON THE EAR BY A WASP
WHEN ASKED DOES IT HURT
HE SAID "NO, NOT A BIT -
IT CAN DO IT AGAIN, IF IT LIKES".
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
A CHANGE HAS COME
I WAS BORN LIKE MY NEIGHBOURS
IN THE CLEFT OF A MOUNTAIN SONG
WHERE A SULPHUR WIND WHISPERS
OF A TIME WHEN THOSE WHO LOVE WERE STRONG
WHEN THE HEART OF THE FACH AND THE FAWR
STILL BEAT TO FREEDOM'S DRUM
IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING
BUT A CHANGE HAS COME
LIKE ORPHANS WE HAVE WANDERED
STRIPPED OF DIGNITY AND PEACE
WHILE OUR LEADERS SHUFFLED CORRIDORS
AND DINED ON LIES AND GREASE
IN THE 'STUTE THEY TALKED TO SOCIALISTS
THEN BUILT ANOTHER SLUM
IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING
BUT A CHANGE HAS SURELY COME
LET THOSE WHO WANTED WARRIORS
BURIED ON PENRHYS
AND CHAPELS TURNED TO BINGO HALLS
WITH HEAVEN ON A LEASE
LISTEN TO THE HOWLING ROAR
OF THOSE THEY THOUGHT WERE DUMB
IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING
NOW A CHANGE HAS COME
TOO LONG WE ENDURED
SEPARATE AS GLASS
MOUTHING SLOGANS TO CHANGE
A WORLD UNSOUND:
LETTING ENEMIES
THROUGH BROKEN GATES PASS
LEAVING SCARS ON OUR HEADLANDS
AND VALLEYS DROWNED
NOW THE RED KITE SOARS AGAIN
WELSH OAKS ROOT WHERE WELSH OAKS BELONG
NOW SWEET RHONDDA FLOWS CLEAR AGAIN
NOW DREAMERS START TO RIGHT EACH WRONG.
IF WE CAN SING TO THE HARP STRUNG AIR
PLUCKING A FLAME FROM THE MINERS' SOUL
IF WE GIVE ALL A BETTER SHARE...NOT SOME....
THEN IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING
BUT A CHANGE, THANK GOD,
HAS COME.
Poet
***********************************************
Hans Blix:
"The noble art of losing face
Will someday save the human race."
**********************************************
FUZZY WUZZY WAS A BEAR
FUZZY WUZZY HAD NO HAIR
SO... FUZZY WUZZY WASN'T FUZZY
WUZ 'EE !?!
FOLLOW THAT !
STUNNED, AREN'T YOU ?!
* * *
A FIG FOR THOSE BY LAW PROTECTED
LIBERTY'S A GLORIOUS FEAST;
COURTS FOR COWARDS WERE ERECTED,
CHURCHES BUILT TO PLEASE THE PRIEST.
Robert Burns. (1759-1796)
* * *
Image: Peace culture.
* * *
A Simple Soldier
He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast
And he sat around the Legion telling stories of the past,
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done
In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, everyone.
And 'tho sometimes to his neighbours, his tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer, for old Bob has passed away
And the world's a little poorer, for a soldier died today.
No he won't be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary very quiet sort of life,
He held a job and raised a family, quietly going on his way;
And the world won't note his passing; 'tho a soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great,
Papers tell of their life stories from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
Some jerk who breaks his promise and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow who in times of war and strife
Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?
The politican's stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the services he gives,
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal, and perhaps a pension small.
It's so easy to forget them, for it was so long ago
That our Bob's and Jim's and Jonny's went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out with his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a soldier who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin, and country, and would fight until the end?
He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honour while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in the paper that might say:
OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY
I'd like to know who wrote this.....
if you know, please drop us a line at:
rayjoseph05@AOL.com
Thank you,
* * *
The Brits: their Ersatz Outrage.
(A "blog" poem, by Anonymous.)
so who first bombed civilians?
it’s there in white & black:
not the wicked Germans but
the British in Iraq.
not only rebel towns, but ones
who didn’t pay their taxes
they bombed. who were these pioneers?
Britishers, not Nazis;
nothing like a load of bombs
to make the meek feel meeker!
the Germans copied that approach
years later at Gernika...
(turn on the full Churchillian blast -
the greatest Brit inscribes:)
“about using poison gas against
uncivilisèd tribes,
“I frankly cannot understand,
my dear old Colonel Gossage,
why you should feel so squeamish!” (“what?
who? me sir? not a sausage!”)
lies for King & Country
“it was never about oil -
white man’s civilising burden,
missionary toil!
“those promises to Arabs,
that guarantee to Kurds?
quoth Hamlet to Polonius
words words words...
“some manageable emirates -
partition off Kuwait;
& those bits beside the ocean
no more than six or eight.
“let’s put a King in Baghdad -
we’ve got this Faisal fellow;
his brother’s in Trans-Jordan,
we put him there: Abdullah.
“they’d better vote him in to show
a democratic bent -
say popular approval runs
at ninety-six percent.”
that was how they ran things back
in 1933.
something somewhat similar
went on in Germany.
but this was done by our chaps
& New Labour is the heir -
who better to defend it than
the ethical Mr Blair.
************************************************
HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
by Samual Walter Foss
************************************************
The Lord is my rock,
and my fortress,
and my deliverer; my God, my
strength, in whom I will trust;
my buckler,
and the horn of my salvation,
and my high tower....
In my distress I called
upon the Lord,
and cried unto my God:
he heard my voice
out of his temple,
and my cry came before him,
even into his ears....
He brought me forth also
into a large place;
he delivered me,
because he delighted in me....
For thou wilt light my candle:
the Lord my God
will enlighten my darkness.
Can ANYONE tell me
from where THIS poetry.... has come?
************************************************
INVICTUS (Invincible)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul.
by William Ernest Henley.
(First published in 1875).
At 12 yrs old, Henley became a victim of T.B. of the bone.
Despite this, in 1867 he passed the
Oxford local exam. as a senior student:
but a hospital was to be Henley's university.
His diseased foot, treated by crude methods,
had to be amputated directly below the knee.
Worse yet, physicians announced the only way
to save his life was to amputate the other foot.
Henley fought this with all his spirit.
He came out with his foot and his life.
He was discharged in 1875, and was able to lead
an active life for nearly 30 years,
despite his disability.
With an artificial foot, he suffered
horribly from his disease
before it killed him at 54.
"Invictus" was written from a hospital bed.
**************************************************
Renowned Iraqi poet Abdul Zahra Zaki,
mounting the wreckage of what was
once the Al-Shabanda cafe:
"There is nothing here,
there is nothing but burning words."
*********************************
The war to end all wars, eh?
People who cannot learn from their mistakes....
are doomed to repeat them.
Here's another poet who teaches how
the "superior" British Establishment...
learns nothing about God, Peace,
or (their own) insanity.
"THEY"
By Siegfried Sassoon.
The Bishop tells us: "When the boys come back
They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
In a just cause: they lead the last attack
On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
New right to breed an honourable race.
They have challenged Death and dared him face to face."
"We're none of us the same!" the boys reply.
"For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
And Bert's gone syphilitic; you'll not find
A chap who's served that hasn't found some change."
And the Bishop said: "The ways of God are strange!"
**************************************************
"A Prison Evening"
Each star a rung,
night comes down the spiral
staircase of the evening.
The breeze passes by so very close
as if someone just happened to speak of love.
In the courtyard,
the trees are absorbed refugees
embroidering maps of return on the sky.
On the roof,
the moon -- lovingly, generously --
is turning the stars
into a dust of sheen.
From every corner, dark-green shadows, in ripples, come towards me.
At any moment they may break over me,
like the waves of pain each time I remember this separation from my lover.
This thought keeps consoling me:
though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon, so today,
nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed,
no poison or torture make me bitter,
if just one evening in prison
can be so strangely sweet,
if just one moment anywhere on this earth.
Written by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911-1984)
**************************************************
"We are all in the same boat
In a stormy sea,
And we owe each other
A terrible loyalty."
G.K. Chesterton
**************************************************
Identity Card
Record !
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?
Record !
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks...
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself
at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?
Record !
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew.
My father..
descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house
is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title !
Record !
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards
of my ancestors
And the land
which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!
Therefore !
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger !
Written by Mahmoud Darwish.... of course !
* * *
Rhondda Records is proud to bring
a Rhondda poet to your notice.
A gentleman who exemplifies real Rhondda qualities
and gives a sense of "Hiraeth"
impossible to counterfeit.
"A Nation of Amens"
In a place called Rhondda,
Many years ago,
On any given Sunday
You could hear the voices
Ringing out long
In a place you would love to go.
Church or Chapel
It didn't matter,
It was the custom, you know
Appropriate for this Land of Song.
It would be the same
In every Welsh village
So many years ago.
But today it's different,
So many reasons not to go.
They could not read staff notation back then,
Oh! No.
So Mr. John Curwen
Developed Tonic Solfa.
An easier, simpler musical notation that
Opened up a new world
Of choral singing,
In the Valleys
So many years ago.
Choral singing,
Born in vestries
Of chapels and churches
Gave birth to Cymanfa Ganu
And then,
Warrior clans of song,
Battling it out
At Eisteddfodau,
Singing gloriously all day long.
Soaring arches of the old Churches
Inspired soaring music long ago.
Matched with soaring voices,
A simple Amen at the end
Of,
"Llef",
Or
"Tydi a Rhoddaist",
Would not the wondrous voices lend.
For choral singing
Is in the blood of the Welsh.
Interpretation, the Welsh way,
Created a gradual ascendancy
Until the climactic finish;
A-a-a-men,
A-a-a-men
A-a-a-men!
Rang true,
In a place called Rhondda,
Many years ago.
Natural harmony,
God's gift
To Welsh men;
Made them warriors of song.
The women sing well too, mind you,
But with the Sopranos'
Forever above them,
The harmony could not blend.
"Rhondda male voice choirs
Such as:
Image:
Treorchy Male Choir 1883/1946,
Image:
Pendyrus Male Voice Choir 1924,
Image:
Côr Meibion Morlais 1928,
Image:
Côr Meíbion Cwm Rhondda 1999,
And smaller Rhondda choirs
Were made to last.
And in the Rhondda of today,
They maintain the great tradition
Of the past.
The spirit of William Williams
Anglican Minister and composer
Of hymns in years long ago,
Would rejoice,
Hearing in Heaven
Welsh choristers
Conducted by Caradog,
Singing in full voice.
Sing on boys!
Let your voices soar.
Let not the material world
Destroy the timing of the oar.
Pull together, men of song,
Yet may you explore
The wondrous world of music
Created by men of yore. "
By Denis Scott
Denis's newest poem is a bit off the beaten track,
as it relates to the present,
not the past.
He could not resist the humour
of a baby boy
being a vampire.
Van Helsing, perhaps,
but not Count Dracula.
It is true.
You are cordially invited to explore the
website of the gentleman above;-
BY PRESSING THE LINK BELOW
Welsh Poetry - a place called Rhondda.
* * *
"A Part of America Died"
Somebody killed a policeman today,
and a part of America died.
A piece of our country he swore to protect,
will be buried with him at his side.
The suspect that shot him will stand up in court,
with counsel demanding his rights.
While a young widowed mother must work for her kids,
and spend many long, lonely nights.
The beat that he walked was a battle field too,
just as if he'd gone off to war.
Though the flag of our nation won't fly at half mast,
to his name they will add a gold star.
Yes, somebody killed a policeman today,
in your town or mine.
While we slept in comfort behind our locked doors,
a cop put his life on the line.
Now his ghost walks a beat on a dark city street,
and he stands at each new rookie's side.
He answered the call, of himself gave his all,
and a part of America died.
Author Unknown
The above poem was sent in by a reader:-
many thanks for sending it in.
So many on our "liberal" left
ignore the fact that most police...
are the sons and daughters of our people.
Our working people.
************************************************
If you know your poem is better than the above...
it still might be rubbish.
After all, most poetry is downright offensive
OR boring twisted egotistical irrelevence.
Why, then, you may ask, do we bother with a poetry page at all?
Because the spokespeople for "our" Government are liars;
"our" press are fawning, cheap and corrupt,
and love of money drives ALL the TV and films we watch.
The ONLY people who decide all policy on our care,
are unions and management:
and then, simply as an administrative "problem".
Instead of our society daring to promote new ways
to create caring inquisitive children,
fulfilled, mature working adults,
and contented happy older citizens,
we see more family break ups,
a deterioration in employment opportunities,
a rise in the number of people indebted,
mentally distressed, or in prison, and,
right at the end, when we're knackered,
most of us will die, not in our own beds
with our loved one by our side; but alone,
in a general hospital, gasping for breath.
The ONLY voice which can now speak
of our dreams and aspirations is the poet...
... AND THE POET MUST SPEAK ! ! ! !
+ + +
"I Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Night".
I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,
Alive as you and me.
Says I "But Joe, you're ten years dead"
"I never died" said he,
"I never died" said he.
"In Salt Lake, Joe," says I to him,
him standing by my bed,
"They framed you on a murder charge,"
Says Joe, "But I ain't dead,"
Says Joe, "But I ain't dead."
"The Copper Bosses killed you Joe,
they shot you Joe" says I.
"Takes more than guns to kill a man"
Says Joe "I didn't die"
Says Joe "I didn't die"
And standing there as big as life
and smiling with his eyes.
Says Joe "What they can never kill
went on to organize,
went on to organize"
From San Diego up to Maine,
in every mine and mill,
where working-men defend their rights,
it's there you find Joe Hill,
it's there you find Joe Hill!
I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,
alive as you and me.
Says I "But Joe, you're ten years dead"
"I never died" said he,
"I never died" said he.
by Alfred Hayes.
+ + +
My will is easy to decide
For there is nothing to divide
My kin don't need to fuss and moan
"Moss does not cling to a rolling stone."
My body? - Oh. - If I could choose
I would to ashes it reduce
And let the merry breezes blow
My dust to where some flowers grow
Perhaps some fading flower then
Would come to life and bloom again
This is my Last and final Will
Good Luck to All of you
Joe Hill
by Joe Hill
( Yes - THAT one ! )
Image: the world waves
Open your heart — within you dwell all the religions,
All the prophets — your heart
Is the universal temple...
Why do you search for God in vain
Within the skeletons of dead scriptures,
When he smilingly resides in your immortal heart?
I'm not lying to you, my friend.
Before this heart, all nobility surrenders.
by Kazi Nazrul Islam.
Image: American flag is a skull of death
When people too gutless to fight for Peace
talk about the word "Victory", over Muslims,
it reminds me of this old old English poem...
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
T'was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what t'was all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
With fire and sword the country 'round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
They said it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be,
After a famous victory.
Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why, t'was a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."
by Robert Southey
Image: walsingham
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep."
Robert Frost
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