A Fistful of Poetry

Farewell from my dad

2011-12-19T02:00:00.000-08:00

As many of you many know, my dad, Richard Edwin Jones (REJ) passed away, peacefully in his sleep, early last week. On his computer, we found a document labelled Farewell for you to read below:

Post Mortem

This poet is not pinin'!

'E's passed on!

This poet is no more!

He has ceased to be!

'E's expired and gone

to mock 'is maker!

'E's a stiff! Bereft of life,

'e rests in peace!

If you hadn't nailed 'im

to the page

'e'd be pushing up the daisies!

'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory!

'E's fallen off the twig!

'E's kicked the bucket,

'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil,

run down the curtain !!

THIS IS AN EX-POET!!

Please feel free to comment as my mum will be delighted to know that you have read his last poem.

Best wishes

Sally Lloyd

Out of Time

2011-12-08T07:45:00.001-08:00

Tuesday’s child,

1.14 a.m. 14th October 1947.

He was from his mother untimely

Timely ripped, overdue,

Long before her time.

Caesar’s so fashionable these days,

Quite the rage!

You can already hear the clicking

Tongue, the pointed intakes of breathe,

“Late again Jones! Take a seat at the back.”

Enter the word warrior worrier,

Bulging out of woollen suit,

His hatred of all cold so evident.

Acromegalic malcontent

With other, blacker seed

Settling in, out of sight

And soon within those tiny fists,

His chosen means to fight.

Misaligned

2011-12-06T08:09:00.001-08:00

He stands on the Cathedral steps,

Set square, every inch the image

Of Holly B movie gangster.

See how the nostrils flare.

He wears the drapes, slicked down hair,

Take care, come hither, stiletto stare,

Unfathomable eyes to all but those

Who come to know the shallows lurking there.

She stands at his side, first prize,

Picture perfect, A-list bride,

With a hint of frailty,

It should not be denied, but

Beneath the petals, razors hide.

She’s been through hell, emerged the other side.

When two such stars collide,

We know their fate,

The weaker will disintegrate.

Bunker Mentality

2011-11-28T10:03:00.000-08:00

It came to me in the queue,

Outside the school canteen,

The day the skies turned black

And we knew the Russians would attack.

That afternoon,

During Double Maths,

I made my plans,

Complete with detailed diagrams

And comprehensive lists.

Next morning,

I watched my mother disappear

Round the corner onto Richmond Road

Then started my work.

Supplies from the kitchen/diner -

Into sturdy cardboard box went:

1 bottle Tizer,

½ a loaf of white, sliced bread,

1 tub Stork Margarine,

1 tin Nestles Condensed Milk,

1 tin Tate & Lyle Golden Syrup,

1 can Heinz Baked Beans,

½ a chocolate Swiss Roll,

1 can opener,

1 set cutlery,

1 plate,

1 ½ pint glass.

Two armchairs face to face

At the end of the bed.

Supplies box slides under one.

Library box ( stock of Wizards,

Captain W.E Johns, New Testament,

Revised Standard Version ) under other.

Bed stripped. Mattress arched between

Layer two -

Eiderdown spread over the top,

Layer three -

Candlewick bedspread,

Gaps sealed with pillows,

Wireless and torches placed inside,

Lastly the big tin box

After which I crawl,

Sealing up the entrance behind.

Wireless on in time

To catch the latest bulletin,

No news.

Time to review forces.

Out of the tin emerge,

1 Centurion tank,

1 APC

1 armoured car,

1 ten ton truck,

1 captured Tiger,

2 twenty-five pounder field guns,

Followed by the troops,

In precise rows,

Followed by motley POWS,

After all, no could blame the Germans

For this one.

Stand easy men - no new developments.

Time for paperwork.

I wonder what the Great Wilson

Would make of my cosy cave?

Would he be ready for a doze

So soon? Better set all the alarms.

Before I snuggle down.

Westclox danced around

To sound the all clear.

All present and correct.

All still here.

Back to work,

Timed out at 31 minutes,

After which everything

Is in it’s place,

Well before my Mother’s

‘Have you had a nice day dear?’

Evaluation

V. Good. No chance of being spotted from the air.

What chance have the Russians got of finding this

When my own Mother doesn’t know it was there?

And in retrospect, ecologically speaking,

Well ahead of my time, for even after

The first strike, you could return in thirty years

And find no urine drenched cellars, no

Flaking graffiti covered walls, no

Twisted, tangled rusting metal.

No, not a single trace of my defences

Could have been found anywhere!

Chains

2011-11-17T09:33:00.000-08:00

Transit camps dispersed, overland to Basra,

over seas, watching for tell tale periscopes,

to Karachi. Hints of permanence, schools

needing teachers, an offer of employment

in the French Embassy. Reined in tight,

too young, too soon. On the move again,

East Africa. First sight of Fort Jesus’s lowering

face. The first link breaks, reaching the age

of majority. Instant reaction, sign on the dotted

line, no longer the child, fresh faced recruit

of the Polish Air Force, one of the girls,

there in the hangar of hanging silk,

folding, packing, stacking, preparing

for you, who floated to earth near

Pegasus Bridge, or you who drifted too far

at Arnhem, shattering continental chains.

This takes my Mother from Tehran to East Africa via Karachi and links to continuing events in Europe.

Scientific Breakthrough!

2011-11-11T09:31:00.000-08:00

I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

The gun reverses the laws of Physics!

Away from the demanding lemon tree,

Away from the grasping olive grove,

Away from the children splashing in the dust,

Water flows uphill here,

Up to the sniper’s concrete garden,

For he has magic, itchy fingers,

For he must be obeyed,

For it is written in his book,

For his eyes are blue with stars.

Wherever his gaze lingers,

He shall spy those who have strayed,

Shrivel with a single look.

Look around you. See the scars.

Short of water for your fruit and veg?

Not enough for your jacuzzi?

Forget new schemes for irrigation!

Buy yourself an brand new Uzi!

A break in my Mother's epic journey. Not only do Zionist settlers divert water away from Palestinian communities, but they have made a sport of firing at people trying to access what little water is left.

Typhus

2011-11-09T10:58:00.000-08:00

Too bright! Too bright!

Whole world screamed white,

Disconnected words swim round her head,

Scratched the bites until they bled.

This is what the angels said,

Gathered round her floating bed,

Thrashing, burning,

Can’t be still, keep turning,

Though every move means pain,

Racked with coughs, again, again.

Feel it come, sweet oblivion.

Learn to love delirium.

Six months for the world to still,

Half a year with time to kill,

Find new strength, regain the will,

Place fresh blooms upon your window sill.

‘Gone with the Wind’, a GI picture show,

How was she supposed to know

It took four hours to reach the end

And now in company with new found friends,

Clinging to the hurtling jeep,

Brought safely to the gate

Where mothers furious vigil keep

Too late to scold. It’s far too late.

The daughters they once knew have fled,

Young women marching home instead.

The photo shows mother and daughters in Tehran. This was after my mother’s recovery from typhus. Note her short hair only just grown back after she had lost it all in the course of the illness.

Deals

2011-11-08T11:59:00.000-08:00

The Tehran Conference,

Lend Lease,

Three men looking very pleased

With themselves, comfortably

Overweight, preening

For the cameras,

The Bulldog, The Bear , The Cat

Who filched the cream.

Three strokes of the pen.

The dismemberment of a continent

Begins, production lines speed up,

Convoys head north,

Corridors open up

To the south.

The camp gates are open.

Time to barter,

A good coat for the officer’s wife,

A precious tin of milk

For her baby daughter

Buy a travel warrant south

Towards the Caspian’s gleaming water.

Hour after hour, the trains roll,

Sweltering by day,

Shivering by night.

The journey takes its toll,

High fever, muscles that waste away.

Queuing on the quayside,

Barely able to stand,

Knowing the ship sails

On the next high tide

And only those who can climb

The steep gangplank

Will sail, this or any other time.

Step by step,

Limbs, head screaming,

She dragged herself,

Towards the blue sky,

Found herself on deck,

Stared around delirious, or dreaming.

Women of Poland

2011-10-23T14:39:00.000-07:00

Against all odds,

Through hawk filled skies

A pair of homing pigeons fly.

Warsaw draped in swastikas,

The cobbles echoing

To goose-stepping boots,

Camps under construction,

New industries in the making,

Mechanising death.

Life goes on.

In every city, town, village,

Birds flock to the trees,

Codenamed wagtail,

Codenamed owl,

Codenamed sparrow,

Innocent, harmless birds,

Birds with two faces -

Teacher/intelligence officer,

Housewife/arms smuggler,

Countess/nurse,

Factory hand/saboteur,

Schoolgirl/courier.

O lost little sister,

How did you spread your wings?

Who could tell, from this

Sepia-toned studio portrait?

Rigid shoulders, high,

Defiant cheekbones,

Tight lips, the set of her jaw,

Flint in her eyes,

The bitterness, every morning,

Of facing the mirror, seeing

Her own mother glaring back.

A Portrait of the Poet

2011-10-19T07:03:00.000-07:00

Portrait by Alan Perry

http://alanperry.1hwy.com/

Dust

2011-10-19T04:06:00.001-07:00

The grey jaws of Asbest open wide.

Mile after mile slave miners

Tunnel deep, before dawn breaks,

Long after dusk. Caverns echo

With the tell tale coughs, racking

Their bodies until they drop.

No one notes how many die.

Journey’s conclusion, the end of the line,

The trains disgorge direct into the mines.

A mother’s nimble fingers, and nimbleness

Of mind, a fluency in Russian, a fluency

In lying, a shortage of skilled workers,

The tumblers fall in line. A mother and

Her daughters set to work not

With picks and shovels,

But with thimble, needle, threads,

Fashioning uniforms for the Reds.

Better raw hands than raw lungs

Perishing inside.

71 years later my son played for Wales in the Chess Olympiad in Khantiy Mansisk. He was just fifty kilometres away from the place where his grandmother cheated death.

Parting

2011-10-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

Bleak beech wood backdrop,

somewhere east of Warsaw,

unscheduled stop.

The train wheezes to a standstill,

guards, bedraggled Red Army pioneers,

spill onto the trackside, cursing as youths will.

Rifle butts thump on truck walls,

doors slide open, prisoners respond

blinking to their captors’ calls.

A wall of foetid air,

the night’s stinking straw,

no one stops to stare

as the first corpse hits the ground,

not a word is spoken,

all thoughts of it are drowned,

just one more who never made it through the night,

shovelled to one side, left in plain sight,

a reminder of what can happen, or what might.

Some prisoners head for the privacy of trees.

The guards pay no heed.

There is nowhere for anyone to flee.

My grandmother warns her daughters not to stray.

Two cling tightly to her anyway.

What went through the other’s head? Who can say?

Clutching her new found friend by the hand,

she giggled and off, unstoppable, they ran,

oblivious, beyond command.

This was the moment the hawk-eyed pilot chose.

The screaming Stuka stooped, guns ablaze,

scattering a cloud of warning crows.

The guards beat the prisoners back into the train.

The Luftwaffe hero fires again and again.

The gunfire, the screaming, the unbearable pain

Of knowing too late,

as they rumble to safety

two little girls are abandoned to fate.

Back in the forest, the rascals are fine.

They both know where home is -

At the start of the line!

There’s no turning back.

The train’s out of sight.

The two girls turn west to follow the track.

In the gloom of the truck, her face turned to stone,

A mother lies cursing that one child alone,

Praying, for her own sake, that she’s dead and gone.

This is the first in a new series charting where I have come from and telling a story that is long overdue to be told. The picture, taken today, is to celebrate my 64th birthday and that I'm still here to enjoy it!

Now you've gone too far ....

2011-10-09T11:02:00.000-07:00

Listen, you can keep your offshore account,

The ‘well-earned’ bonuses you flaunt,

The upper class tarts you mount,

The media empire that you own,

Your eminence grise behind the throne,

Your god given right to rant, rave and moan,

All the judges that you’ve bought and sold,

The Swiss banks that keep you out of the cold,

The teams of surgeons paid to prevent your growing old,

Your mansions in the country, your penthouse flat,

Your Bollinger, foie gras, your rolls of fat,

Safe seat in the Commons, where you’re seldom sat.

Pay attention, you toffee-nosed Tory twat,

I can take all kinds of crap, but not that.

Don’t dare come between us, me and my cat.

This is the extract from Theresa May's speech to the Tory Party Conference

"We all know the stories about the Human Rights Act. The violent drug dealer who cannot be sent home because his daughter – for whom he pays no maintenance – lives here. The robber who cannot be removed because he has a girlfriend. The illegal immigrant who cannot be deported because – and I am not making this up – he had a pet cat."

Nightfall

2011-10-01T05:24:00.000-07:00

Draw near my faithful friend.

Come take my jewelled words.

Their journey nears an end.

The forest throngs with silent birds.

Follow the path, across the hill.

There is no other you can take.

Climb up where the air is still,

High above the shimmering lake.

Follow the kestrel’s sun red wings.

They’ll lead you to the water’s edge.

Tread carefully as he brings

You down to cool slate ledge.

Then swing back your mighty arm.

Aim as you sense my heart begin to swell.

Aim at the centre of the calm

When that moment comes, only you can tell.

Jewels cast away no longer charm..

No need to mark their hiding place.

Now watch a skin of ice begin to form

Memories of a once familiar face.

The Ultimate Quiz

2011-09-29T07:35:00.000-07:00

The noose is tightening.

It’s stolen my voice away.

Reduced to a feeble whisper,

But with so much left to say.

So many awkward questions

And only one answer,

So don’t go away.

The answers will not change,

However much you pray.

Q1. Which modern nation state justified

its existence on the graves of six million who died?

Q2. Which modern nation state came into being

with its own deliberate policy of ethnic cleansing?

Q3. Which modern nation state constantly expands

its boundaries, either by military conquest,

or the illegal settlement of occupied lands?

Q4. Which modern nation state brings to the feast

the largest arsenal of nuclear, chemical and biological

weapons in the entire Middle East?

Q5. Which modern nation state, in its own cause,

employs extra judicial execution and kidnapping

of opponents, wherever they seek refuge,

in defiance of all international laws?

Q6. Which modern nation state

routinely imprisons tens of thousands

without charge or trial?

The world stands idle all the while.

Q7. Which modern nation state openly abuses

internationally banned weaponry

against dense civilian populations?

Who needs excuses?

Q8. The leaders of which modern nation state,

since the day of its foundation,

have all been members of violent terrorist organisation,

or personally involved in the most brutal massacres.

Where do we hear a word of condemnation?

Q9. Which modern nation state, alone, defies

the laws of Economics with

a permanent balance of trade deficit?

while we must scrabble to make ends meet,

they get money manna from a bottomless pit.

Q10. Which modern nation state, my brother,

is in defiance of more UN resolutions

than any other?

How have you scored on this one track quiz?

Do you even care what the answer is?

Do you dare to leave us all alone,

or will you join with us to tear it down.

stone by bloody stone?

Insomnia

2011-09-21T01:38:00.001-07:00

Midnight on the bare mountain,

pressing flesh into stone,

seeking shelter from the wind

that slices to the bone,

facing down my fears

until the demon’s done.

Mid-day/night in anonymous cell.

The light always bright in my eyes,

so who can tell? I count the scratches

on the bloody wall, the ones that mark

each blow that landed, each time I fell,

each time you dragged me up, the smell

of your sweat, my fear now,

waiting for your footsteps’ warning fall,

running finger tips over cuts and grazes,

feeling bruises bloom and swell.

Midnight on the king-size bed,

Plenty room to toss and burn,

Time enough and more to listen

To the slow wheel’s turn.

For all Palestinians imprisoned ( the majority without trial ) by the Zionist state.

Recycled

2011-09-13T02:49:00.000-07:00

What becomes

Of all the fragments, imagery,

Witticisms, bon mots,

Which never make it

To the final page?

Follow this path,

Down to the beach

And if you search,

You will find some,

Carelessly dropped on all sides,

Clinging to the marram,

Sliding away beneath your bare feet,

Dervishing in the distance,

Where the skeletal silhouette

Of a wrecked poem juts

Defiantly.

Later,

You will discover them gritty

Under your tongue and teeth,

In your cheese sandwich,

Filling every pocket, fold,

Shaken out of your hair,

Mocking you from the car boot.

Be warned -

Where lost ideas abound,

Most surely lowly scavengers are found.

Watch that run down poet, word prospector

Trawl the bay with shiny metaphor detector,

Desperate for the tell-tale ping,

The signal that the King’s lost ring

Lies just a trowel’s depth away.

Not the tenth easy open end, another fruitless day.

Spare us the sight of redundant Wapping hack,

Mounted proud on JCB’s bucking back,

Building a mighty heap of sand,

Ready for his slovenly hand

To fashion a mighty castle in the air,

So the gullible might gawp and stare,

Wonder what he’ll conjure next

After the battlements, cans, Castlemaine XXXX.

It is a mercy

That the wind and waves,

Not knowing who or what we are,

What we have achieved or,

What wonders we have seen,

Combine come end of day

To scour the ravaged mindscape clean.

Silence

2011-09-08T11:01:00.000-07:00

I cannot speak of it.

My mouth is stopped.

A finger pressed a button.

A bomb dropped.

White phosphorous lit up the place,

which used to be our home.

The flesh fell from my face.

My bones reduced to dust,

inseparable from stones,

blood boiled black as rust..

No cameras rushed here to record.

This grave is unremarkable.

Of what happened here, not one word

was written. No testimony was heard.

Just another day in this prison city.

Nothing extraordinary occurred.

Tomorrow, the bomber will return.

The button will be pushed again.

Someone else’s turn to burn.

They too will have no voice,

unless you choose to speak for us.

The time has come to make your choice.

The last two poems should be read as a pair. They are not mutually exclusive, but‘Silence’ is a counterweight to the understandable emotions of a 9/11 relative in ‘Denial‘. It is a human response with which we empathise. The tragedy is that in terms of public awareness, Gaza barely registers on the public psyche and ‘Silence’ sets out to put this right.

Denial

2011-09-06T02:37:00.000-07:00

I will not speak of it.

That will make it true.

My words will give form

to your hands, as your reach out

for me. I will feel your warm

breath on my skin. Your voice

will ring in my ears. Keep calm.

Take your time. I will hear you

laughing at my fear.

I could dream the months

of waiting away. Would you return

in the shape of strident knocking

on our front door, a plain,

buff envelope flopping onto the hall floor,

the hint of a footfall?

While the images spool

round and round, we watch

the impact, hear no sound,

towers crumble to the ground,

rise up once more,

then crash back down.

I will not see the uniform, his face,

Or sense his stumbling words

Numb in my ears. A body

Will not be found. That time

Will not come.

I will not speak of it.

Family Values

2011-09-02T00:56:00.000-07:00

Sing a song of speculators

Buying up all the gold,

Bright young boys of Bullingdon

Your futures we have sold.

No thoughts for our pensions,

No fears of growing old,

Insulated from real life,

Protected from the cold,

What we inherit at our birth,

We will always hold,

As we fill out the orders

And you do what you’re told.

Sing a song of currencies,

Pockets full of holes,

In the City digging,

Like demented moles

Bunkers by the dozen,

Bolt holes, far and wide.

You’re too busy paying,

Being taken for a ride.

The poor are getting poorer.

The rich are growing fat.

Please put all your savings

In the failed banker’s hat.

Quite a day today. First of all, the Postie brought me a Paul Simon CD, ‘So Beautiful or So What’, which came from Fellow writer, Beryl Henshaw. Then brother-in-law, Chris and partner Fred(erika) arrived from Edinburgh bearing poetry - ‘A Rose Loupt Out’ commemorates the Upper Clyde Shipbuilders Occupation 40 years ago, in song and poetry and beautiful illustrations; ‘Strangely Happy’ is Anna Crowe’s excellent translation of the Catalan poet Joan Margarit, wonderful, passionate. Ah bliss!

3rd September.

Dancing Doves

2011-08-31T01:45:00.001-07:00

Leaf shimmer,

bough quiver,

seed scatter,

sunlight splatter,

frenzied wing flurry,

claw and beak scurry.

A stoop away, the hawk eye

fixes and then

the slate drops from the sky.

Feathers skatted,

blood matted,

an anvil’s stone face

fused with gut and bone.

All but one have flown.

Cruel claw rules alone.

A glide away,

not far for the saved to stray,

without a backward glance,

the doves resume their dance.

Bright Stones

2011-08-27T03:30:00.001-07:00

River racing, foam flecked

down the valley, speckled

sun bursts, shivers of light,

a gurgling arm’s length,

kaleidoscopic touch away.

Out of the ecstatic chaos

a pool, still as glass, revealed

a glistening hoard of stones,

a personal treasure trove,

no one else had ever seen.

One sleeve roll later,

a freezing plunge unveiled

a handful of smooth, round

shapes glistening in my palm,

rich beyond my wildest dreams.

As if a cloud passed overhead,

their lights faded, colours paled.

They lay there dull as mud,

bloodless. Yet, in spite of it,

the vision of what had been,

could be conjured again,

would not melt away.

I felt their warmth press

against my thigh. I heard

my bright stones sing. I felt

their secret glow.

‘What pretty stones!’ my mother lied.

‘Here’s a tin to keep them in,’

she sighed, but I insisted

on the bone-white bowl

centred on my window sill,

knowing if my will

was strong enough,

the magic lingered still.

Cupped in my hand,

cold tap full on,

they flickered, coats

of lacquer failed to lustre,

licks of paint gave way

to dust and disappointment.

‘Look Dad! Look!’

I wake with a start.

another tiny hand

is reaching out.

My daughter dipping

through the mirror,

plucking out a handful

of bright stones.

‘What pretty stones!’

Words echo down the years,

but how can I explain

this sudden surge of tears.

The Juice of Joy

2011-08-23T03:13:00.000-07:00

Let’s get going, the time has come

To scatter caution to the winds,

So stamp your feet and beat the drum,

Let loose your hair, cast off your skins.

Who cares should they choose to sum,

At this late hour, the total of our sins.

Pass the golden cup from left to right.

Dance around the devil and his coins.

Dance the dervish out of sight.

Dance the fever from your loins.

Dance away the longest night.

Dance to make the last links join.

Sing until it seems your lungs must burst.

Then sing and sing again until

You’re forced to stop to slake your thirst.

Then sing again just for the thrill

Of singing with the blessed, the cursed,

Those who sing no matter what their masters will.

Fire your A.K.s in the air.

Stamp upon the monster’s face.

Drive the ogre from its lair.

Fire your rockets into space

And if your brother asks you where

We’re going - point straight ahead to Martyr’s Square.

Around your head a flowery ring,

Across your face a seamless smile,

Together to that place we’ll bring

No bitterness or bile,

For this is what it means, this spring,

Joy after joy, mile after mile.

We none of us know how it will end, but if only we could bottle some of the exhilaration!

The title of the poem was suggested in a translation of a word in southern Indian dialect by Rhagu Dixit interviewed by Mary Ann Kennedy on last week’s ‘Global Gathering’. 'The juice of joy' described the feeling that should be shared by a musician and an audience.

PS Health update. As you can see I'm still writing. Things are pretty much the same and though my lack of mobility is v. frustrating, I am comfortable otherwise and in good spirits. Kath is performing wonders to see that I am well cared for and many thanks to the constant stream of friends who come to visit. Have also discovered the benefits of Skype where you may find me under rejgoch.

Walkabout ( a treatment )

2011-08-21T08:39:00.000-07:00

Preamble

sup?

cam whlane 2morrow am spec 2 cu

FNO!

Last night’s delirious, the curious,

the furious form knots on the pavement,

in between the rubble and the smouldering

ashes. Already the suits are mingling,

smiling, sifting. Here a photo op. There

a vox pop. This one’s a resonant voice.

This is your mark and this your cue. Watch

us. We’ll show you what to do.

Across the road, on the other side

of the great divide, the nutters

and protestors safely penned.

Action

He’s left the bullet-proof car behind today,

that is to say, it’s trailing in the rear,

well out of camera shot.

Around him a phalanx of TV cameras

and security men mark his progress

along a pre-planned route.

At appointed points the testudo halts

allowing him to emerge for the benefit

of the lenses, wearing his grave face.

Here to glad hand he who wants to slash benefits,

withdraw social housing, introduce

national service and compulsory de-lousing.

Here to hold the quivering fingers

of the ruined pawn shop owner,

pledge he’ll help rebuild the place.

He’s a natural. Such a good listener.

Nods in all the right spaces. Looks

the camera straight in the lie.

Finish with the fireman, a hero,

a sacrificial offering, whose story

guarantees a tearful eye.

Aftermath

Job done. Whisked away. En route

To the next location.

A grey-haired biddie asks,‘What’s going on?’

She’d blinked, missed all the fun.

‘It was the PM, come to show support.’

‘I’m not the only one who’s too late then.’

This is a well-thumbed script. For PM you can substitute

Mayor, Home Secretary, Leader of the Opposition or any

number of candidates. Am I being cynical? Watch the

news. Apply the script. Judge for yourselves.

Father of the Nation

2011-08-17T12:01:00.000-07:00

No frenzied lashing out, demand

For vengeance, pointing finger,

No tearing apart, rushing to

Judgement. No smart sound bite.

Instead, a firm, steadying hand,

A warm embrace draws us all

Together. A song from the heart.

In place of blindness, sight.

A soft voice, in command,

Soaring way above the storm,

Swaddles us in the eye of his calm,

Glorious sunrise after darkest night.

He is the breathing of the land,

The pulse within. He is the cool breeze

to come. He is no one. He is everyone.

He is the light.

Hallelujah! We have a real Poet Laureate. If you haven't read Carol Ann Duffy's piece on Birmingham, look it up.

A poem for REJ - Simon Eilbeck

2011-07-28T06:01:00.000-07:00

Wastwater Lake: the water smooth

The hills inverted in its glass

Eyes scan the shore, seeking perfection

Settling for not bad - a stone

Flat, almost round, rough around an edge or two

Good enough.

Squinting into the sun, knees bent

Hand level with the water line

The stone pulled back like a drawn arrow

A breath, then release

The pebble flies in silence

Kisses he water and - yes! - on it goes

The glass ripples, hills distort

The pebble skips the water again

Ripples undulate and expand

The sky trembles in the lake’s image

The stone skips on

The ripples radiate and begin to collide

Rhythms syncopate and multiply

The water dances

A smile eases its way across a face

A laugh escapes - “Good enough!”

The water calms, the hills and sky return

Brighter, more vivid than before.

Thanks to Simon - a single memory of a moment many years ago, now brought to life just when I need it.

Invisible Man

2011-07-27T01:54:00.000-07:00

He wants to wear a uniform.

Make him stand naked in the dock.

He wants the world to know his face.

Fix an iron mask in its place.

He wants you to remember his name.

Give him a number instead.

He wants the spotlight of celebrity.

Pin him with the searchlight of infamy.

He wants the oxygen of publicity.

Give him the Zyklon B of anonymity.

He wants to explain what he did.

Give him four blank walls to talk to.

He wishes to be considered unique.

Solitary then, one cell, one freak.

And should he tire one day and beg a lethal drink,

Offer him water and even more time to think.

For him no gruesome martyr’s shrine,

Ashes cast among the ignorant swine.

You cannot debate with a man carrying a semi-automatic.

Fundamentalism

2011-07-24T01:11:00.000-07:00

Which element of the Christ myth

inspired him to stride out firing

from the hip? The parable

of the sower spreading cartridge cases

instead of seed, planting an island of corpses

in place of the stony field? The example

of the Good Samaritan who finds it

justifiable to put the victim of thieves

to death, rather than tend his wounds?

The guest at the wedding feast who amused

himself transforming wine into blood?

Blessed are the gunmen!

It is easier for the meek to inherit

the Kingdom of Heaven with a squeeze

of a trigger? Love thy neighbour

with a single shot to the head? Suffer

little children ….?

Downing Street - Heathcote Williams

2011-07-20T10:43:00.000-07:00

‘So now we are going over to Downing Street,’

Says a TV front man, ‘for their reaction.’

Though no one, in fact, goes anywhere at all.

The TV audience remains just where it is.

A Number Ten spokesperson then reads a prepared statement

Upon which the commentariat duly comments.

A fanfare of false hopes plays out, only to fade upon the wind,

For the building itself has betrayal in its fabric.

Sir George Downing, Oliver Cromwell’s spy, changed sides

At the first indication of Charles II’s restoration

Then proceeded to track down his old colleagues, the regicides,

And had them all arrested and taken to the Tower.

For having had his former friends hanged, drawn and quartered

Downing was rewarded with some lush acres in Whitehall

Upon which he erected several rows of gimcrack buildings,

Which the cunning Downing would rent out at high prices.

***

History’s CCTV cameras swivel away from the past to the present

Catching each new PM saying, on entering Downing Street,

‘I’m grateful to the British public for the trust it’s placed in me’

Only to exit as treacherous failures with burgeoning pockets.

News from Limerick

2011-07-18T12:27:00.000-07:00

A red-head who runs a red top

Ought to know just when to stop

Smearing and lying,

Intrusive prying,

Phone hacking and bribing of cops.

Enter bold Knacker of the Yard,

But he didn’t search very hard,

Claimed when he got there,

News Corps’ cupboard was bare,

So the IPCC marked his card.

A grasping old fart from Down Under

Spent a lifetime amassing much plunder.

When answers were wanted

He let rip or ranted,

And followed up with a ripe chunder.

The PM, a public school fop

Despaired as his ratings went flop,

Where’s all the glory

The news is all gory

And this champagne just tastes like pop. Oh dear!

On your wedding

2011-07-17T01:42:00.001-07:00

When the seed is planted, no one knows,

For sure, if good will come of it, but

Still we fuss and tend in hope and then

The miracle takes root again. We see,

That out of love, love surely grows.

The ground may seem rough. The snows

And the frost may come, yet somewhere,

Below the surface, a secret comes to life,

Though fires rage above, it thrives,

That love from whence all love flows.

Though, all around, a gathering of crows

Bodes ill, through their raucous voices

We still hear the softer one. Above them all,

The dove soars high which bears the seed, so

That out of love, love surely grows.

A very happy posting!

News Corpse

2011-07-14T01:40:00.000-07:00

He first saw them coming,

way into the distance,

a party of men, a cart, a horse

on the shoulder of the hill,

walking the old corpse road.

He felt a strange foreboding.

So much so, that he insisted

there and then the doctors should

remove his right arm, so

there could be no chance

of the infection spreading.

The party on the corpse road kept coming.

His legal team drew up a covenant

with God willingly surrendering

his most cherished dreams,

in order to save his own neck.

And still they advanced.

In desperation, one by one, he gave up

his closest associates, his friends,

his own dear son.

And still they came.

He could almost make out their faces now

and the proud, black horse

and the cart with the coffin.

Steadily drawing closer.

He caught a glimpse

of his own reflection, sagging

flesh, a rictus grin splitting

his face, no light in the eyes.

And closer.

Finally, even his own paid household

went out with false messages, the death,

the whole world knew, was in the next

village. They had been misinformed.

They stopped outside his door.

He heard the black horse snort

impatient. He heard the wheels

of the cart creaking. He heard

footsteps on the cobbles.

Coming inside.

He would have been proud

of the coffin crafted from the finest wood,

its gleaming handles, the brass plate engraved ….

Rupert Murdoch, once thought of

as the most powerful man on earth,

now, like all men, food for

a democracy of worms.

This poem started with the title, News Corp mutating into ‘News Corpse’. Then I dredged up, from my own memory, walking a corpse road in Cumbria. I then flipped back to images of Murdoch in the back of a limo with that fixed smile on his face as it all went down the pan for him, a pathetic old man clinging desperately on to power. It occurred to me as the poem took shape, that some readers would start by thinking that I was writing about someone else and that the last stanza would be a bit of a twist. The question then was, should I inflict my macabre sense of humour on you?

PS. I’m doing fine. In fact, every news bulletin, seems to lift me no end at the moment. Can’t think why.

Birth of a Nation

2011-07-10T04:25:00.001-07:00

A new country has been born. Ra!

New lines have been drawn in the sand. Ra!

A brave new flag has been designed. Ra!

Already the generals have aligned their forces. Ra!

Streams of foreign dignitaries jet in. Ra!

The choreography of ceremonials begin. Ra!

The brass bands make their play. Ra!

Politicians line up to have their say. Ra!

Fireworks rip up the sky. Ra!

Polite applause, away the visitors all fly. Ra!

A new tented city has grown.

Long queues stretch into the dust.

Sticklike figures shuffle through the ooze

Of open sewers. At the end of the line

A handful of maize, a cupful of water

To gratefully toast the new day in.

Almost lost in cacophony, a thin scream

Emerges. A young mother gives birth.

Two men with shovels prepare

The cradle where soon her stillborn son

Will be swaddled in Mother Earth.

Headline News

2011-07-08T02:16:00.000-07:00

NAUGHTY NEWSHOUND NICKED!

EYES DOWN EXIT EDITORS!

WAPPING W--KERS WHOPPED!

SO LONG SADDO SCRIBBLERS

OUT! OUT! OUT!

FECKING OUTFOXED!

TARRA TAT RATS!

HAMMER HOUSE OF HACKERS!

END OF AN EARA!

WE WOZ WUMBLED!

OZ WIZARDS OFFED!

ROTTEN WRITERS RAPPED!

LOONY LEFTY DIES LARFING!

DOLE INVADERS DOOM!

We at the NOTW say

When a ship splits at the seams

The men ( and woman ) on the bridge

Must carry the can.

Rebecca Wade’s hands were on the wheel

When the crew ran amok

And the ship struck a rock.

She must be first to walk the plank.

Hey! James Murdoch

When your star editor shows

She couldn’t manage a chip shop,

You don’t promote her.

James, you’re fired!

Mega boss, Murdoch, you’re only as good

As the men ( and woman ) you choose

To steer your ship for you.

Take over BSkyB?

You must be ‘avin a larf!

Rupert - it’s time

To go walkabout, mate.

PS Don’t think we’ve forgotten

The rest of you journos.

We’re coming for your jobs!

Regevelations

2011-07-06T22:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve just come down from the mountain,

where I went to commune on my own.

What I learnt when I climbed to the summit

is here on these tablets of stone.

You know of the old ten commandments,

the rules on how not to sin,

well forget whatever they told you,

stick the old rules straight in the bin.

Start with the fact that you’re chosen.

No one else got the slightest look in,

so logic dictates, when deciding their fates,

it is always you who should win.

Ignore all the guff on false witness,

the truth is not worth one fig.

Goebbels hit on the right idea -

if you’re going to lie - lie big.

And once you start lying, keep lying.

Convince the whole world you are right.

You’ll soon have them all believing

it’s day when it’s actually night.

It’s not wrong to covet your neighbour’s ass,

nor the ass of your neighbour’s young wife.

Take what you want, whenever you want,

if need be, at the point of a knife.

Take his home. Take his land. Take his water.

There’s nothing to stop you I say.

According to this proclamation,

what’s his is yours anyway.

Once you’re armed to the teeth, you’re almighty.

There’s no one can resist your plan.

Just remember to pose as a victim.

Try hard to look humble, if you can.

The question of killing is simple.

It’s fine in multiples of ten.

Then, should they choose to resist you,

then decimate again and again.

The laws made by all other nations

Are hereby declared null and void.

Lessons learnt over thousands of years

Consumed in the flames and destroyed.

I am the archest of all angels.

I speak with the voice of a god.

Let the world’s press bow down before me.

Now, write what I say when I nod.

Amen.

Five come down to Devon View Ho.

2011-07-05T00:44:00.000-07:00

Four battered wheelchairs standing in a row,

all facing westward, nowhere to go,

four bent figures, “Poor old so and sos,”

a carer whispers in your ear, “They were famous once you know.”

Sir Julian, tired diplomat, sucking on his thumb,

picking at his nose, scratching his bum,

eyes staring out to sea, mind half numb,

wondering to himself, “When will the others come?”

Medals tinkling gently, mad Major Dick

beats at the world with a walking stick,

beard and cardie thick with streams of sick,

curses and roars, gives the world another kick,

Gentle, loving, sweet sister Anne

searches in her mind for an old, copper pan.

She’ll fill it with ripe berries, as soon as she can

remember mother’s recipe for confused fruit jam.

Mistress George, still fire in one eye,

glares at her reflection asks what, when, why

am I sitting here and who the fuck am I?

Rages at the setting sun and the vanishing sky.

Do you remember as a child the overwhelming thrill,

watching them drive a caravan to the top of the hill.

They could go where they wanted, do what they willed.

Look at them now. It’s in there somewhere still.

Timmy died happy, mad as a hatter,

chasing rabbits in a field, didn’t see sheep scatter,

never felt the shotgun pellets mercifully shatter

the last of our heroes into darkest matter.

Borderlands

2011-06-28T01:51:00.000-07:00

When they cut the electricity, the

doctor came to us. It’s time for you to

leave. He should have taken his own advice.

That’s him hanging there, a message for all

of us to see, standing here, across an

imaginary line, watching our homes

from this hilltop. I can see my own house,

there next to the tank and the APCs,

a barracks now, where an officer stands,

his field glasses gloating, fixed on me.

From my side of the line, I can thumb my

nose at the world, turn somersaults in the

sand, observe the soldiers begin to pull

out, the tanks plough down olive groves, the first

tongues of flame at the windows of my home.

It’s a curious kind of freedom. The

officer perched on the last APC,

gives a triumphant, derisive wave which

leaves me wondering. Which one of us is

really free, and which one chokes like a slave?

The quacks have spoken. An operation would kill me, so I just have to see this out. No time scale possible, but I don't think it will be long. Quite calm. Comfortable. Surrounded by a barricade of family, comrades and dear friends. I will squeeze every last drop while I can.

Dying’s Annoying - Heathcote Williams

2011-06-26T04:52:00.000-07:00

Dying’s annoying.

You’re enjoying the party

Then you have to leave.

You can ignore it

But death can be insistent.

Here are some options:

‘Do not go gentle

Into that good night’. Meaning?

Shout on your death-bed?

They’d tranquillize you.

…Try to sublimate your fear

Of death by killing?

Soldiers enjoy this

But it’s counterproductive

To keep cloning death.

Here’s an old stand-by:

‘I believe God will solve it

I won’t really die.’

Well, some grief-stricken

Wishful thinking on gravestones

Isn’t really proof.

Alternatively,

Your last hope of life is to

Apply to this club:

The 120 club.

No need to change your life-style

In any fashion.

All its rules are lax.

No one minds if you die

At 117.

As soon as you join

Just say: “I’m not going to die”

Adding, “So far, so good”.

But, should you cave in,

Get up and hide your body

So no one finds it.

Here's one from Heathcote which made me chortle. On the more serious side the next convoy to Gaza is setting off and I will follow it's progress as if I was on it, which, in spirit I will be.

Brian Haw

2011-06-24T03:46:00.000-07:00

He did not die. He is not dead.

The words written on his banners

Ring round and round our heads.

Iraq, Libya, Afghanistan,

Raise your voices whenever you can,

Two million strong, or just one man.

Bloody minded, awkward cuss,

Patron saint of making fuss,

He stood for the best in us.

Bombs and children do not mix.

Landmines maim. Napalm sticks.

Dealing in arms just makes you sick.

He dragged our conscience to the Square.

Against all odds, he kept it there,

Fluttering bravely in the cold night air.

All hacks agreed, the camp an eyesore.

He kept adding more and more

Reasons for resisting war.

The antithesis of liar,

Bedraggled nemesis of Bliar,

Not for sale, nor for hire!

Occupation? General strike?

His is what democracy looks like.

Brian Haw, people’s mike.

Through wind and rain,

Through storms of pain,

He stood strong, again and again.

Though tyrants rule and streets run red,

We will follow where he has lead.

He did not die. He is not dead.

Living on the very edge is doing wonders for my creative imagination!

Cat Walk

2011-06-22T06:53:00.000-07:00

First, tap-tapping down the aisle

Comes Miss Uzi, efficiency and style,

The perfect little black number, neat,

Suitable for all occasions.

See how she has them

Falling at her feet.

So sleek, so svelte,

The shapely Stealth,

All clean lines, made to blend

And yet, when she has come and gone,

Her impact is impossible to forget,

The shape of things to come.

If you like your models brash

And in your face, here’s Cobra.

What she lacks in grace

She shows in power, sweeping in

Below your expectations, no frills,

No subtlety from the start.

Thump, thump goes another heart.

Retro is chic. Anatoly’s design

Has a special spot in any collection,

A by-word for economy,

Your off-the-peg, over the shoulder selection,

Mass produced, the working girl’s choice.

No need for a designer label

When it comes to dress code

AK47 stands the test of time.

Behind the scenes, after the show,

Uniformed workers bustle to and fro,

Sweeping away redundant trash.

Somewhere, safely out of sight,

Grey accountants add up all the cash.

Homecoming

2011-06-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

Dawn cracked wide the curtains.
Down slated silver rain.
Like that first October,
Snaking into Swansea on the last train.

Past Margam’s sea of fire,
Valleys piled higher and higher
With yellow copper spoil
And molten black slag,

Mumbles, winking in the dark,
Constitution Hill, Paradise Park,
The bay disguised by shimmering foil,
Morris Castle, lowering from the crag.

This is where the Mumbles Road was blocked,
St. Helen’s, where the ‘Boks were stopped.
In Singleton, Wales once played Palestine.
Here formed the last NUM picket line.

From their embrace there is no escaping.
This was the crucible from which knowledge poured,
Who to love and what to despise,
How to extract even one solid nugget of truth
From the endless, polluted stream of lies.
This was the place for forging and shaping.

No further news from the battle front.

An Embarrassment of Dragons

2011-06-17T03:42:00.000-07:00

Scales like leathern bricks
The mighty dragon sits
Amidst the debris where she thinks
Of times long gone
And times to come.

Red slit eyes take in the ridge,
The shattered banks, the burning bridge,
A steeple leaning at an insane angle,
The smouldering matchwood tangle,
Where even now black ants swarm,
Delirious, oblivious of the storm
Of her stinking, fiery breath.

Slowly a horned tail lifts.
The immoveable weight shifts.
Scorched earth trembles.
Streams of ants assemble
In the shadow of this awesome one.
Which way to turn? Which way to run?
The scaley swishes from side to side,
Instruments of instant insecticide.

In the next grey green valley,
Another citadel of ants continues to insist
The rumours of impending doom
are quite ridiculous, for dragons
Simply do not exist.
Life goes on. New towers rise.
No one has time to watch the skies
For the beating of mythical wings
And wonder why an approaching dragon sings.

In my addled youth,
I fancied myself a dragon slayer,
Set about the known world with a will,
Armed with my own words and an ancient prayer,
Searching high and low for dragons to kill.
Now, any dolt knows the simple truth,
Before the fall comes bloated pride,
So I never foresaw the one that did for me,
The dragon growing silently inside.

Dear friends and comrades - the time has come for goodbyes. If you want to meet for a final hug and smile, you'd better make it quick!

Guy Fawkes' Lantern - Heathcote Williams

2011-05-18T05:14:00.000-07:00

Guy Fawkes’ lantern
Is a surreptitious
Point of pilgrimage
For anonymous
Armies of anarchists who
Visit the glass case
Where it is preserved
In the Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford.

‘What if?’ they wonder,
‘What if Guy Fawkes had done it?
‘Had done the business –
‘For what’s changed?’ they ask,
‘Kings and Parliaments spend tax
‘On wars no one wants.
‘There’s still a Monarch,
‘Most of whose Parliament
‘Is unelected.

‘Twenty-six Bishops
‘From the national religion
‘Sit there as of right –
‘Their Invisible
‘Sky Wizard favoring them
‘Over other cults,
‘And eight hundred Lords
‘Outnumber them all, making
‘Voting meaningless.’

Boisterous voices
Then frighten the life out of
Japanese tourists:
‘Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow.’

A 3rd poem from Heathcote Williams, as promised. This is also a new improved version.

On opening Pandora's Ballot Box

2011-05-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

That wiped the smug smile off your face.
Gone self-satisfaction and in its place,
each time the facade starts to slip,
we see clear evidence of your curling lip.

Having scrambled to the summit, surveyed all the land,
chaos, confusion was hardly your plan,
promises written in smoke spanned the skies
then dispersed to lay bare the expanse of your lies.

Exposed as a fall guy, a frail man of straw,
doomed to oblivion, wielding power no more,
wrapped in an old blanket in a darkened, dank room,
reviewing old videos in the gathering gloom.

Fresh faced, bright eyed, this season's New Look,
less than a year was all that it took
for the make up to fade and reveal faded glory.
No more dashing Young Liberal, same old cynical Tory.

Never has a betrayed electorate wielded vengeance more swiftly and decisively!

The Death of Osama bin Laden: Snuff Films at the White House - Heathcote Williams

2011-05-09T04:24:00.000-07:00

“Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then be not too eager to deal out death in the name of justice, fearing for your own safety. Even the wise cannot see all ends.”

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord Of the Rings, Book Four, Chapter One

The US President
And his Secretary of State
Are watching snuff films.

US Navy Seals
Line up their chosen victims
Then kill them, one by one.

On a Seal’s helmet,
There’s a hidden camera
So that images

Of those they’re killing
Are fed back by satellite
To a viewing room

Inside the White House
Where the US Navy Seals’
Performance is judged

By the President.
Sheikh Osama bin Laden
Topples. Blood squirting.

The great and the good
Watch intently. Savoring
This death-orgasm –

This buzz the powerful
Get when causing death, claiming
That they’re still human.

When the audience
Has had its fun, the body
Is dropped into the sea.

Rhythmical cheering
Strikes up. ‘USA! USA!’
‘God loves the USA!’

‘The greatest country
‘In the history of the world!’
‘High fives all around.’

The US Emperor,
The first black President,
Who’s ironically

Invaded Africa:
Libya, Somalia, Sudan,
As well as Asia

Can’t stop himself there:

Just as all schoolboys enjoy

Pulling wings off flies,

A lens is focused

To watch trophy death-throes

Of an enemy.

As in ancient Rome,

Where crowds bayed for blood and death,

There’s ecstatic applause.

The rule of law’s absent:

No one’s captured. Or tried.

The victim’s unarmed.

‘Let’s watch someone die!’

The White House equips itself

For a voyeur’s crime –

‘Kill all his women!’

‘Wave to the White House, baby,

‘We’re filming your last breath!’

‘Hate our freedoms, huh?

‘Hate our Right to Happiness? –

‘We’ll jerk off while you croak.’

A box of Kleenex

Appears. Each takes a tissue

To wipe away tears.

They miss Osama,

For now they will have to think

Of more enemies –

Invaluable to

The war economy

Of the USA.

Thank you Heathcote!

The Eyes of Gaza - Heathcote Williams

2011-04-18T03:47:00.000-07:00

Ariel Sharon’s

Body’s been in a coma

Lasting for five years.

Hell’s gates are narrow.

Until he can fit through them,

He must wait his turn.

Here are some haiku

For an old war criminal

With no IQ left.

If they’re read loudly,

At a million decibels,

He may register

The hatred that all

Killers attract – however

Right they think they’ve been.

The sonic blast could

Open hell so his huge corpse

May squeeze through at last.

The Palestinians

Killed by Ariel Sharon

In the Sabra camp

And in Shatila,

While he floodlit their dwellings,

Could watch him shoved in.

Two thousand could watch,

With those killed in Quibiya –

Forty-eight mowed down

By Sharon’s death squads –

They could peer from a distance

To see his trapped soul,

Squirming and heaving,

Snarled up in tubes. Then others,

Who lived in Gaza

And had their houses

Knocked down by him, burying

Them alive, could watch.

His ‘Operation

Peace In Galilee’ would kill

Eighteen thousand more.

They too might be drawn

To study their tormentor’s

Final solution:

He breathes without help,

But otherwise it’s clear that

There is no one there.

There has to be a price

When you’ve turned someone into

No-one so often.

Like the wall he built

To divide a Semitic

People – he’s cut off.

Like the olive trees

On others’ land he uprooted,

He is now barren –

He can’t produce fruit.

After years without listening,

He no longer speaks.

He ordered triggers

To be pulled in targeted

Assassinations

In the Gaza Strip.

Now he’s unable to move

A single digit.

Having caged people

In Gaza’s ghetto, he lies

In a living tomb.

Opened my e mails this morning and was delighted to find that Heathcote Williams had sent me the above and even more delighted when he agreed to allow it as a guest post!

Memorial

2011-04-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

Scarecrows crowd my dreams,
Not in ones and twos, but
In long, shambling, shuffling queues,
Moving to the rhythm of a distant drum,
Clad in red, white and blue they come,
Heads held high, arms out wide,
Scattering the black flocks on every side.

I watch them disappear into the night
And long after they have passed from sight,
I hear their voices, thunder, roar
Until the sullen silence reigns once more.
I scan the horizon, the summit of the hill,
Knowing they must return and when they will,
The good and worthy come line the sorry streets,
Scattering dead flowers at their feet.

Just read ‘Grey Souls’ by Phillipe Claudel. Beautifully written with powerful descriptions of troops leaving for and returning from the trenches. Such images resonate throughout our lifetime.

Summerhouse

2011-04-10T11:24:00.000-07:00

I’m lying in the company of goldfinches.
Soon, they’ll build a nest in my hair.
For now, their laughter enfolds me,
Filling the valley’s pure air
With colour and movement
I’d almost forgotten was there.
Tomorrow, when these same skies are daubed grey
And cold winds penetrate everywhere,
I’ll rise to the memory of birdsong
And pick out a rainbow to wear.

Spectating

2011-03-22T08:36:00.000-07:00

Fire engines racing into smoke,
twisted metal concealing
invisible hands which reach out
from the powerless station.
Survivors pick through heaps
of matchwood houses,
human debris spreads out
in a chilled sports hall,
hand in hand
a tear stained nation waits.

Change channel.

Tracer lights up the desert sky again.
Something dark cruises
through the thickening air.
A white flash marks the spot
where the earth shakes and burns.
Come the dawn
roads are choked,
skeletal tanks, refugees
heading for the borders.

Change channel.

Consulting room,
x-ray on screen,
still, small voice explaining
the shadow of a man
who has been.

Change channel.

Static, all that remains
of that first blinding light.
One by one the stars wink out
preparing for an endless night.

The Hand of God

2011-03-16T08:22:00.000-07:00

MINAMISANRIKU
MINAMISANRIK
MINAMISANRI
MINAMISANR
MINAMISAN
MINAMISA
MINAMIS
MINAMI
MINAM
MINA
MIN
MI
M

Our world is upside down.
The sea towers above the earth.

By whose will did the seas rise up like this,
then seize the land by its throat?

Who chose tens of thousands to drown
and the one poor soul left to float?

All around the globe millions pray,
but what are millions of prayers worth?

Father of the Nation

2011-02-27T06:06:00.000-08:00

Measure him by what he left behind.

In order to save this village from the reds
it was necessary first
to burn the villagers in their beds.

Measure his stature in blood.

In order to level the playing field
it was necessary first
to level the entire city.

Measure his words in the dull thud
of distant guns.

In order to preserve democracy
it was necessary first
to stamp out all opposition.

Measure his deeds in skulls.

In order to save our nation
it was necessary first
to destroy our country.

Measure his greatness in graves.

Flying Kites in Gaza

2011-02-16T08:05:00.000-08:00

A bemused would be poet wandering

Through the surreal Jardin de Paris,

Wondering at the words he sent

Spiralling into the blue,

Remembered then the whistling

Of bullets through the air,

The crackle of the gunshots,

Remembered taking pot shots

At rabbits in a Hampshire field.

But these were not aiming

At fleeing animals, these

Picked out ragged boys at random,

As they prospected for stone,

Balancing between life and death

On the edge of their known world.

Theirs were not whoops of triumph or joy,

But shrieks of panic and despair

And seeping through the rags,

It was non-fictional blood

That matted their hair.

This is no place for dreamers.

There is no poetry here,

Lost amongst the petrified,

In an infinite landscape of fear.

This flows from the words of Michael Morpurgo in his fine Richard Dimbleby Lecture for the BBC last night. No matter how bleak things are, we must cling to the hope that walls can crumble and tyrants fall.

The Last Pharaoh

2011-01-30T04:40:00.000-08:00

He dyes his hair.
He paints his face.
He hides behind a screen,
Curled up in a sumptuous lair.
He takes every care
His weakness cannot be seen.

But, when he commands the tide to turn,
He wonders at his impotence,
As the sea laps round his feet,
The citadel begins to burn
And common people spurn
His rule on every dancing street.

His time to leave is here,
Head bowed, in disgrace.
His fingers drum in futile rage.
He feels, at last, the helpless fear,
As the tear gas starts to clear
And he foresees the bars of his own cage.

Two down. Which dog dies next?

The Art of the Double Act

2011-01-25T04:55:00.000-08:00

A peerless pair
of brazen buggers,
bosom buddies of bent bankers
and multi-national muggers.

We didn't think of it first.
It was a classical crime.
Janus was a god and he
Faced both ways at the same time.

Now gone is the old routine.
Much smarter is our all soft touch
( Hard cop, soft cop is so has-been )
Rakes in bonuses, twice as much.

Know when to be serious.
Know when to smile.
Keep the sharp knives unseen,
concealed by consumate style.

Tell the truth and tell it big.
Even if you look real hard,
can you tell the difference
between one man and the other pig?

Fun ranging from a quotation from Catullus ( poem 57 ) to Orwell's own prophetic vision. Hundreds of years pass and we still have to put up with the same shit.

The Streets of Tunis

2011-01-24T14:59:00.000-08:00

Their love of their country is like fever,
For which no doctors know a certain cure.
The love of a people, once unleashed,
A force at one time perfect, fierce and pure,
Rooting out the torturer, tyrant, thief,
Once tasted, freedom leaves you wanting more.
It cannot burn out, can never be spent,
Rising for the climax, final overture.

So, to the window. Draw the curtains wide.
Fold back the shutters. Let the streets inside.
Above the crackle of distant gunfire,
Once silent voices spin ever higher.
Look up. See what catches every eye.
The scented clouds of jasmine fill the sky.

No sense in being pessimistic all the time!

Urban Mythology

2011-01-15T06:56:00.000-08:00

It can’t be true.
In the City of Angels,
in the Land of the Free,
the poor are gathering dead birds
from the street,
desperate for anything to eat.
Beneath the hoarding
with a double-decker big whopper
and bucket of fries,
they’re roasting pigeons
on open fires.

No one asks why
so many feathered friends
tumble from the sky,
or how come,
in the midst of riches
there are those that starve
and die in roadside ditches.

The movers and shakers
are distracted, feathering
their own nests, or
taking aim at one another,
regardless of who gets caught
in friendly fire.

What about you?
When you read the stories
did your jaw, like mine, just drop?
Stop. Convince me.
It really can’t be true!

Human Rights Examiner January 19th 2011
www.examiner.com/human-rights-in-national/fallen-dead-birds-eaten-by-america-s-homeless

A Game of Chance

2011-01-03T05:47:00.000-08:00

Ice cubes clink into the last cut glass.
Another magnum drains dry.
Pass the cards to your right.
This hand will last into the memory of this night.

Here is a prince of coins,
hollow-eyed, fingering the salt
he’s spilled across the baize,
heat spreading from his loins.

Here lies a queen of cups
humming ‘Abide with me’,
so much red mist in her eyes,
where it ends, she cannot see.

Here sits a king drowning his sorrows,
head buried in his hands,
the vessel founders in his bottle,
comes to rest on wailing sands.

Here’s a self-made man wielding words
sharper than any mythic sword,
cutting truth, saving rotten wood,
blinded by the brilliance of his own blade.

Observe our house of cards slip
into a sea of silent screams.
This is the stuff of unspoken dreams
on this unsinkable ship.

This is the poem that fills the gap for September 11th 2010. Haven't heard anything, so I guess Gillian Clarke didn't think much of it!

We are Invisible

2010-12-21T08:46:00.000-08:00

This year the Old Man seemed so frail.
His eyes grew dim, his skin was pale.
His once smart tunic, smudged and torn,
the scarlet cloth, threadbare and worn.
His shoulders sagged as if the burden was too much.
He seemed to shrink from any human touch.
He did not hear the bells' tinkling any more
drowned out by the F16's triumphant roar.
Carefully, he picked his way along the broken street,
discarded toys crumbling beneath his feet.
Journey's end, the ones he sought, could not be far,
following the relentless phosphorous star?

Now he has gone, I search the place
and though the air's still heavy with his shame,
of his presence there is no trace,
only a tear-stained note, or was it only dew?
'Oh children of Gaza, I came.
but in this place, I could not find you.'

This poem was inspired by the Xmas card sent out by Medical Aid for Palestinians. The image was painted by Fatima, in the Bourj al Barajneh refugee camp in Lebanon, whose own life must be hard enough without thinking of her brothers and sisters in Gaza. The translation of the Arabic reads, "Oh children of Gaza, I came and didn't find you."

There's a hole in my Firewall!

2010-12-03T10:32:00.000-08:00

Once there was a Wikileak struck all dumb,
Two-faced politicians, now on the run,
Caught with their pants down, having too much fun.
No decent citizen would’ve kept mum.

Red faces, burnt fingers, exposure to The Sun?
Fat chance of those hacks getting off their bums,
No profit in this, they can all do sums,
Two-faced politicians now on the run.

Kick-backs and expenses, still smoking gun
Unplanned , not what you promised on the stump,
Swore you’d make a statesman, not Forest Gump
Caught with your pants down, having too much fun.

No decent citizen could’ve kept mum.
What did you expect, treating all like scum.
Too late feeling sorry now, looking glum,
Once there is a Wikileak, no use playing dumb.

Break the culture of secrecy! Stop the undercover warmongers!

Haunted

2010-12-01T14:18:00.000-08:00

Listen to the olive groves whispering
in the dusk, more insistent
with each shaking of the ground,
strong voices not to be drowned,
not to be broken, even as each bough
is splintered, veiled in dust.

Harvesters of hate, you must
learn how the wind gathers up their words,
against your will, under your noses,
sets them free to cross check-points,
searching round each angle of the wall,
whistling through each crack
impossible to hold back.

Here we sit before the fire,
plates full, glasses raised.
The curtains are drawn tight
The conversation intelligent, polite,
but nothing can displace
the windows’ stubborn rattle,
well-travelled winds arriving,
infiltrating unsought for words,
unbidden stories of trees at battle.

Another one set off by a CD, this time '...for the ghosts within' Robert Wyatt, Gilad Atzmon and Ros Stephen. I find constant inspiration in the poetry and music of others. The photograph shows a Palestinian olive grove set ablaze by Zionist settlers.

The Tide has Turned

2010-11-27T09:08:00.000-08:00

Tyrants fear the sea,
watch its silent swell with dread,
scan the horizon for the smallest sails,
boats laden only, it is said, with hope.

Tyrants fear the sky, cannot cope
with thoughts of birds’ free flight,
keep their eyes wide open,
long into a blacked out night,
knowing that come the dawn,
wings will stretch out for the light.

Tyrants fear the land.
The toe-curling sand is not theirs
to hold. The deepest roots mature,
hidden from sight of their towers,
safe from the assassin’s blade,
nurtured by our own blood,
an infinite future of flowers.

The idea for this poem was suggested by 'The Tide has Changed' Gilad Atzmon and the Orient House Ensemble's latest CD, so thanks to Gilad, Tali, Frank, Yaron and Bill. Those of you who are interested in such things may have noticed a surge in interest in this blog ( averaging 50+ hits a day ) which is not bad for an obscure poet from Wales ( it doesn't bear comparison with Gilad's 7000+ hits a day that he gets for his writing ) so thanks to all my readers. Keep spreading the word. I've got a lot of catching up to do!!!

The Wasteland

2010-11-21T05:56:00.000-08:00

You heard it here first -
The South Sea Gherkin’s burst!
Blackberries jam up the Underground
And everywhere you hear the sound
Or nervous, corporate farting,
Squeaking rats departing.
There’s a warrant out for the Cocaine Kid.
They’re desperate to know where he hid
The loot. His cousin, Cam the Sham, wears
A mournful, honest face, swears
We’re all in it together. It’s only fair
That each and every one of us should share
The pain. His Old Lady’s tucked her skirts tight in.
Her charity is wearing awfully thin,
But you can tell she really cares
For all the struggling millionaires,
Gathered round the Cabinet table,
Doing the level best that they are able
To line the pockets of their kith and kin,
Without be found guilty of that capital sin,
Being caught with one’s fingers in the till.
Rob the blind! Do what you will.
Loot and ravage with impunity.
The next lot of thieves are sure to grant immunity.

Promises, promises

2010-11-15T06:24:00.000-08:00

Promise to set the world on fire.
Promise to add jazz and blues to the pyre.
Promise more Chernobyls.
Promise free suicide pills.
Promise more education for the rich.
Promise the homeless a ditch.
Promise to reward all tax evaders.
Promise to welcome US invaders.
Promise to kill off the sick and old.
Promise to leave the unemployed in the cold.
Promise to worship all arms dealers.
Promise to exile helpers and healers.
Promise to fund more law and order.
Promise to build bigger walls at the border.
Promise better bonuses for bankers.
Promise free passage for all toxic tankers.
Promise fewer trains in every station.
Promise panic and consternation.

Do all of this and you’ll have my vote
Without reservation, or precautionary note,
Because I know I can rely on you.
I’m quite certain exactly what you’ll do.
As surely as night changes into day,
You’ll do the opposite of all that you say.

Oxfam sent me the following message:
‘This month the UK Climate Change Minister, Chris Huhne will go the UN Climate Conference in Cancun. He will have and incredibly important part to play there.

We’ve been wondering “how we should wish him good luck?” And we want your suggestions for ways to grab his attention just before he goes.

Dear Oxfam, I hope the above will be of some assistance…

Good riddance to Phil Woolas

2010-11-12T03:40:00.000-08:00

Politics, they explain, is a contact sport,
so gouge and stamp without a thought.
All's fair in electioneering or war.
All that counts is the final score
and should you win, you get to write
the history, avoiding everything that might
embarrass, or cast doubt
on the part you played throughout.

Unfortunate that racist defamation,
though, for a while, it served to keep you at your station,
when the lies fluttered home to roost,
you found your own neck in the noose.
It was you who ruined your own reputation.
The lies you printed were your own creation.
If politics is a contact sport,
then you've been K.O'd. as you ought.

The honour for landing the first blow has to go to Joanna Lumley and it obviously scrambled Woolas's head, because he thought he was standing for the BNP in the last election. Harriet Harman was quite right to dump him. There should be no place for anyone like him in the Labour Party and as for those who are 'rallying' to support their 'friend', they'd be better off joining him on the dole where they can all spend some time litter picking ( gathering up spent election leaflets for a start! )

Last Supper

2010-11-11T06:05:00.000-08:00

Oh how I wish the sun could shine
upon this war scarred face of mine.
Instead, all day, I wait in line
attendant on the bullets' whine.
The sky's expression, always grim,
confesses as the light grows dim.
There's blood, not wine, around the rim.
The cup is empty now. The hymn
dies on my lips. The bitter cloud
flays raw my skin and as allowed
the flesh of all my comrades, cowed
where once they marched erect and proud.

When they carry us from the 'plane,
draped in the flag, to hide the pain,
ask if our youths were spent in vain.
Keep on asking. Again! Again!

Completed at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

Behind the Masks

2010-11-08T03:32:00.000-08:00

All Hallow's Eve
is for those who can believe
in ghosts and ghouls
and celebrate the simple fools
in motley, going from home to home.
Here's one in the guise of a louring giant,
his partner a vicious shambling gnome.

Have a bag of toxic sweets
left over from last year's treats.
or perhaps a tube of super glue,
the one a reward for honest virtue,
the other justice for a miser.

Behind the witch-gnome's visor
the vicar's crabbie wife
chortles at her new and secret life,
whilst grinning like a demented goon
the vicar himself can only just refrain
from howling at the moon.

Blood Money

2010-11-08T03:25:00.000-08:00

Unusually a preamble to the poem. Our writing group was set the task of telling the story of a five pound note as it passed from
one person to the next and this is what popped into my head ....

Clean, unlaundered, quite pristine
straight from the jaws of the cash machine,
folded safely into the recesses of my purse,
money may be a sin, but want of it is worse.

The plumber wanted cash in hand,
finished the work three weeks later than planned.
Won't find a cheaper job, he promised with a wink.
By Friday I stood cursing the same old blocked up sink.

One of many, in a brown envelope, safely out of sight,
tucked in the planning officer's back pocket, snug and tight.
He felt it with every buttock clench,
the next day, sat in judgement, on the magistrates' bench

She took the money up front with a smile,
tucked it provocatively into her bra while
he started to remove his shoes and socks
and she made ready her chains and locks.

In an evidence bag smeared with dark stains
and in one corner a splinter of her brains.
She could not understand her pimp would never agree
that there are any circumstances when love is truly free.

Stick it where The Sun can't shine!

2010-11-01T06:09:00.000-07:00

Rape, murder, torture
celebrated with outrageous pun,
hallmark of the tabloid,
zenith of The Sun.

Foreigners, scroungers, wasters
each and every one,
unless they are Australian and
owners of The Sun.

Raghead, Chink, Spic,
Frog, Mick, Ivan, Hun
all fair game when you name and shame
on the front page of The Sun.

Sadism, perversion, depravity,
all bodice ripping fun
doing wonders for the circulation
of the ever probing Sun.

A hamster and a minister
in flagrante with a nun
sure fire banner headline
in tomorrow's Super Sun.

WMD, poison gas
nuclear warheads by the megaton,
we found them all hidden
behind page 3 of The Sun.

Fear, hate, greed,
when all is said on done,
these are the needs that drive us on,
by commandment of The Sun.

No scrap of human decency,
morals have I none,
perfect qualifications
for editor of The Sun.

A world groaning with refugees
who cares? WE WON
THE WAR ON TERROR! claim
shareholders of The Sun.

You'll never find the truth
in the webs that we have spun
pointless even searching
through the columns of The Sun.

Don't ask....

2010-10-31T04:45:00.000-07:00

following the latest bomb scares
according to
reliable Western intelligence resources
( how many oxymorons
can you fit into one line of poetry? )
there are between four hundred
and five hundred Al Quaida operatives
working out of the Yemen
which begs several questions

one, if you can count them
then you must know
who they are and if
you know who they are
you might be expected
to do something
to stop them sending
explosives round the globe?

two, if they are so damned clever
blending in seamlessly with
the local population
that no one knows
who the hell they are.
then how the fuck
can you count them?

three, is it remotely possible
that this 'organisation'
is the product of feverish minds
now that the red ogres
have morphed into venture capitalists
and populate the hospitality suites
of all the chic London clubs
both lap dancing, and soccer,
leaving us in need of new horrors
lurking under our beds?

four, don't we need
something to take our minds off
bankers bonuses, off shore holdings,
speculation, hedge funds managers,
Swiss bank accounts, media monopolists,
the number of millionaires in the Cabinet?

It's all so obvious.
It all makes sense
doesn't it?

I have given up listening to or watching the 'news' before I smash up all the radios and tvs in the house!

Audit

2010-10-06T05:49:00.000-07:00

Nurses swarm through the ward
saving their stings for the feckless drones,
the ones with clipboards and pens,
quick to point and then make copious notes.
For us, trapped in beds and chairs,
carers have nothing but honey,
soft words to see us through the endless day.

Is it too much to expect
that the Minister of Health,
( or whatever fancy title
the new all joined-up government
sees fit to conjure up),
should understand that hospitals
run on compassion and selfless dedication,
whilst the counting of paper clips,
paper cups, beans and chips,
the correct alignment of a med chart
have as much relevance
as the Minister’s last fart?

Just spent week in Morriston Hospital having my lung drained of 5.825 litres of fluid, the presence of which might explain why I was having trouble breathing. There are too many people to thank for my care. Every stay in hospital leaves me wondering how the staff cope and keep smiling and keep going. Thanks too to all of you who kept my spirits up with your texts and visits. Back in harness now as you can see!

Mind Games

2010-09-22T03:59:00.000-07:00

2713 miles away
You’ve played e4
And in the same instant
I watch it on screen,
My stomach churning
The same way it did
21 years ago,
When you showed me
How you saved a lost game
With a double rook sacrifice.

You’d played
in the next room then
And I could not watch,
Just sat there trying
To fill my mind
With any old nonsense,
Waiting for your face
To appear at the glass.

There was a time,
Before you learnt
To take the piss,
When I could always tell
The result before you spoke.
You just couldn’t stop
Beaming, but now
That I can follow you
Move by move,
I still can’t fathom
What’s going on.

Richard is playing for Wales in the Chess Olympiad in Khanty Mansisk.

The Pope's Rhino

2010-09-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

"Since God has given us the Papacy, let us enjoy it." Leo X

Blue-eyed, blonde haired
choirboys gather
trembling beneath
Benedict’s golden banner.
Little girls squeal
to see such fun
as the priests feel
their way in a daze
through the faithful,
hearts overflowing with praise.

Today I heard the story how
From Gujerat to Portugal,
Ganda the rhino
survived three months at sea,
being gifted by the great Sultan,
then toyed with by a bored king
until he turned his horned back
on mortal combat
with the monarch’s pet jumbo.
So, clad in green velvet,
garlanded with flowers,
shackled to the deck,
amidst silver plate
and aromatic spices,
intended as a gift for Leo X,
he took to sea for the last time.

The Pope has an elephant in the room.
It goes by the name of Hando.
All that he lacks now
Is an armour-plated rhino.
This omission in the Great Plan
Will never, never, never do, oh no!

A divine wind
whipped up a storm
before La Spezia
and though Ganda could swim
the chains round his feet
ensured no salvation for him.
Then came the bad news they could not staunch -
Rotting carcass recovered on the beach near Villefranche.

Now the Church is in crisis
The warning bell rings
Too many have heard
What the chorister sings
There’s something amiss
In the great scheme of things.

Meanwhile, while you are waiting I am sure you would appreciate a good dose of aggressive secularism!

BLANK SPACE

2010-09-11T09:18:00.000-07:00

The poem's written, but you're going to have to wait, because it's going off to a competition. This is where it will appear once the deadline has passed. The clue to the subject is in the picture. Nothing like suspense is there?

EDL Stormtrooper

2010-08-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

He’s a little man,
but when he’s hidden in a crowd,
he feels ten feet tall,
powerful and proud.

He’d never take you on
one to one in a fight,
but if he’s part of a gang,
watch your back, right?

He’s part of a column,
though he can’t add 8 and 8.
his life is consumed
by loathing and hate.

He’s a work-shy little shit,
but if he can put the blame
on anyone else
that makes sense, doesn’t it?

He’s a tool in the hands
of would be dictators,
blunt instrument once used
disposable, deniable later.

They did not pass in Bradford. Not enough people understand that fascists have to be confronted physically, before they can do any damage. It will be too late to defend beleaguered communities if they are given a free hand to run riot. Wherever they are active, the incidence of racist crime multiplies like nowhere else.

Pina Bausch

2010-08-29T09:45:00.000-07:00

A blank white canvass blossoms into vibrant rainforest the forest bursts into life birds become men trees fashion themselves into limbs their roots burrow deep inside where dark rhythms pulse the heart of the Amazon drumming in my head soothed by butterfly wing washed clean by torrents drenched in the passion of dance.

Later I found myself
wandering the streets
of the manic city,
oblivious, floating,
in a trance.

This came to me during and after watching a performance of ‘Água’ by the Tanztheater, Wuppertal. I am not a fan of modern dance. I had never even heard of Pina Bausch, but as far as my few days at the Edinburgh Festival were concerned this was the WOW! Moment and words are simply not enough.

An American poet at the Bookfest

2010-08-28T09:45:00.000-07:00

Onto centre stage he leapt.
Behind bright yellow specs he kept
His eyes hidden from intrusive evening Edinburgh sun.
I’m American. I’ve come
To share some thoughts with you,
My feeling of homesickness, the soft dew
Glistening on Connecticut,
My mother’s constant angst, but
But then to lighten the serious tone.
I’ll deal with masturbation - all my own.

It’s over now, so why look back.
We won that war didn’t we.
I’ve already forgotten all I learned about Iraq.
The war on terror I understand.
We’ve go to stand strong, but
Where the fuck’s Afghanistan?
Don’t ask me. That’s a place I will not go,
A book kept closed, along with rendition and Guantanamo.

Here in my champagne bubble’s the place I like best.
For all the rest, I couldn’t care less.
The sound of my voice, the feel of your thigh,
Life’s so simple, no need to ask why.

Apologies to all the good American poets! It was just my like to find this one!

White Space

2010-08-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

Two steps forward,
drive the blade home.
Two steps back,
gape at the wounds.
Turn away from
the gurgling sound,
time oozing away,
just like in the video,
just like the arcade game.
This is how
I prove myself.
This is how
I make my name.
This is how
I demonstrate
my own superiority.

Law?
You're having a laugh.
Coppers?
Two a penny.
Neighbours?
It's them or us.
Justice?
He ain't getting any!

From Wikipedia
Stephen Lawrence was murdered in 1993. On 14 February 1997, the Daily Mail newspaper labelled all five of those believed to have attacked and killed Lawrence "murderers", challenging them to sue the newspaper for libel if they were wrong. The headline read "Murderers: The Mail accuses these men of killing. If we are wrong, let them sue us." Underneath this headline appeared pictures of Gary Dobson, Neil Acourt, Jamie Acourt, Luke Knight, and David Norris. In 2002, two men accused in the Lawrence case, David Norris and Neil Acourt, were convicted and jailed for a racist attack on a plainclothes black police officer.
In July 2010, Gary Dobson was jailed for five years for dealing in drugs.
No one has been convicted of Stephen Lawrence's murder. The suspected killers, all but one now possessing additional police records, are at large and detailed on the Mail website.

This grim poem was the product of a sleepless night, probably because I would have to admit to the Daily Mail doing something good!

Seascapes

2010-08-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

This is Malindi,
the mystery of salt on my tongue,
toes curling in the surf,
scanning the horizon
for sharks.

This is Suez,
perched on a life-raft,
the better to absorb
the rising perfume of fresh leather,
chaos of colour and sound
from feluccas clustered all around.

This is Genova,
sleek destroyers anchored
idle now, but restless.
Mother, not nine years
out of Stalin's camps,
still thin and wary,
teetering on the edge of exile,
keeps me wrapped up warm
against the cold to come.

This is Biscay,
sneaking on deck
for a last game of quoits,
rolling with the grey swell,
ice in my eyes.

This is Tilbury,
the disappointment of dry land,
made softer by the first feeling
of snow on my unsuspecting cheek.

This is Blackpool,
chip wrappers hurtling
round the Pleasure Beach,
overloaded, braying donkeys,
gritty ice cream,
broken lights tinkling,
as I ride the Rockets
on my own.

This is the green Bay,
banner bright St. Helen's,
blousy Mumbles,
close by Aberfan Way.

This is the Haven,
two pairs of footprints
traced in sand and coal dust.

This is the road to Treshnish,
suspended in glass,
rafts of puffin everywhere,
Great Black Backs balanced
on thin air.

This the riding of the Wyrm,
heads haloed by the setting sun,
spray sheets wound
ever more tightly round.

This is the liner Mavi Marmara,
pressing against the tide,
decks slick with blood,
sharks circling.
My life is at the flood.
I hear the call of the sea again,
a rhythmic pulsing deep inside.

Open Mike

2010-08-11T07:02:00.000-07:00

I
Poetry abhors a vacuum,
so wise old poets say.
Who gives a fig for wisdom?
I'll do it my way.
Sit still and listen
as my consciousness just flows.
Half an hour later,
as emerging from a dream,
ask yourself the question,
what did it all mean?

II
Anything you can say
I can shout louder,
louder than anything
you throw my way.
See how I thunder.
See how I curse.
My words make no sense, but
they do not lack force.

III
Pretty, prissy poesie
tripping down the line,
all one with Nature.
Such harmony of mind
and body and spirit
is so very rare to find
in one so impossibly young,
so talented, so blind.

IV
Wild eyes, wild hair,
wild words flying everywhere,
wild gestures, wild stares -
it means I'm quite emotional,
it declares my passionate side,
it shows I really cares.

V
I am the rebel poet,
with a pint glass in my hand.
Cursed be all convention!
Conformity be damned!

I am the rebel poet.
My metre's in my fist.
Death to the Establishment!
It's my arse they should kiss!

I am the rebel poet.
I'm the one to watch.
I see you heading for the bar.
Make mine a double scotch.

I enjoy open mike nights, but if you can't take the piss out of yourselves .....
The last line of the fourth stanza is not a misprint just a subtlety that anyone from Swonzee might recognise! Picked up the image on the internet. Not sure whose it is and I hope they don't mind me using it. It fits so well.

The Song of the Whistleblowers

2010-08-10T06:52:00.000-07:00

Look, he shouted, stop him now!
That banker's a thief!
That got him labelled a red,
whose protests were beyond belief.

Look, he pointed, it's obvious,
that copper's both violent and bent.
Since he spoke those words, his life
in a cell in Broadmoor's been spent.

Look, he swore, waving a fist in the air,
this judge just toes the government line.
That earned him an extra long sentence
on top of a crippling great fine.

Look, he reported, the records reveal
the Minister's drowning in graft.
They opened up the mines again,
dropped his body straight down a shaft.

Look, he begged, any fool can see
the Bishop's spouting lies.
They burned him at the stake
after plucking out both of his eyes.

Look, he explained, can't you read,
the press baron's a conman, a liar,
so the media ripped his tongue out,
then destroyed all his words on a fire.

Look, he warned, the writing's on the wall.
America's careering out of control.
They sent him to Guantanamo
to rot in their darkest hole.

Look, he wrote, in his big black book,
this poet's too scared to speak
and was condemned out of hand
as a crackpot, an illiterate freak.

Look, he laughed, can't you see
the Emperor's body is bare.
Now, if you search all public records,
you'll not find a trace of him - anywhere.

Well done Wikileaks!

13 Ways of Looking at a Cruise Missile

2010-08-01T14:39:00.000-07:00

The germ of an idea,

intelligent destruction,

blue print in some mind’s eye.

ii
Fruition, intricate,
delicate circuitry,
the act of creation.

iii
See how metals bends
to my will.
See how I shape the wind.

iv
Maps, contoured
cityscapes,
food for the insatiable.

v
A glint in the eye,
red button, cross hairs,
precise timing.

vi
Slipping out of the Stealth's belly,
erupting like a fountain
out of sea-shadow.

vii
Silenced sky,
blacked out city,
The lightshow begins.

viii
Video screen. Your target?
That impersonal concrete block.
Track the missile all the way to snow.

ix
The trembling air,
the collapsing walls,
the suffocating tomb.

x
Crater, black hole,
here it fused
with flesh and bone.

xi
Surgical strike
objective attained,
box ticked.

xii
BUNKER BUSTER'S
SMART STRIKE,
SHOCK AND AWE.

xiii
A hand growing
out of the rubble.
The last breath spiralling
out of reach.

The starting point for this poem was Wallace Stevens' '13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird', a great piece of work which has been parodied in many different contexts, but I suspect, none so harsh as this.

Affairs of State

2010-07-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

His Eminence is in conference
with the entire legal team,
discovering new laws
to circumvent the old laws,
legislation so full of flaws
that any respected public servant, quite unplanned
could experience the workings of criminal justice first hand.

His Eminence’s agenda is full today.
The financial wizards and bankers are in,
their objective to discover an original way,
a new place to salt away the loot,
just in case of that rainy day,
a secluded island in the Caribbean,
an Eagle‘s Nest, an Alpine scene,
which would you choose?

His Eminence has been delayed.
A stretch limo full of whores
posing as ministerial candidates has strayed
from the confines of the palazzo
and their images have been displayed
illegally for the whole world to see.
Are there no depths to which the Internet will sink?

His Eminence’s schedule is on hold.
The make-up girl became quite hysterical,
her blood froze when someone told
her she had just one hour to ready his face
for the daily piece to camera interview.
The studio air turned literally blue.
The lighting was far too hot she felt.
Who would take the blame should the wax all melt?

His Eminence cannot be disturbed.
He is completing a birthday list
for a bright young thing,
sweet sixteen, so rarely kissed,
a future laid before him,
for her, an opportunity not be missed,
a brief taste of power over an aged fool,
small sacrifice for missing school.

His Eminence is resting now.
If only you could see his angelic side,
note how while he sleeps his mind is occupied,
how even now he cannot keep
his wandering fingers still,
like a pastor worried for all his sheep,
or counting banknotes in his sleep.

Just passed 10,000 hits thanks to surge in Northern Italy, so this comes by way of thanks!
A quick response from Italy gave me this link. I'm sure you'd like to meet the Italian Minister for Equal Opportunities. Satire becomes life! Found a more interesting pic!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvteGj8EaD0

Wasteland

2010-07-08T09:30:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see a dripping tap,
I fear for the future.
Whenever I fear, I see
a future of dripping taps.
Whenever I see the future,
I fear a dripping tap.

The fear is in the last drop,
the shrivelled crops,
the burning field,
the sea of sand's relentless creeping,
the birdless sky,
the buried city,
the undiscovered artefact,
the mystery of not being,
the price for not fearing,
the price for not seeing,
the price for not turning back.

This is for Stephen Derwent Partington. He'll know why!

Leave it to the diplomats....

2010-07-07T04:13:00.000-07:00

In the White House, rules a black man,
his ideals, his principles fading
faster than a spray on tan.

Beyond the Great Wall, the Central Committe decrees
more electricity, more technology, more shopping malls
to keep the masses on their knees.

In Moscow, the Mafia lays down the law,
pisses in our faces and as the vodka flows
pisses even more.

In Number 10, the Bullingdon Club meets,
to allocate severe cuts, divvy up the spoils,
throw more people on the streets.

In Tel Aviv, the Irgun rules,
carves up Palestine
under the noses of those other fools.

All America Demands Justice ....

2010-06-15T08:17:00.000-07:00

The president is as angry as angry can be.
Pollution is spreading all over the sea.
It's not due to Exxon, it's down to BP.
He's calling for justice and full reparation.
He's spreading his message across the whole nation.

But wait, there's a memory stirring in me.
There's something familiar in those letters, you see,
A name with a B and also a P,
The name of a place that reminds me of hell,
Thirty six years dead and I can still smell
Those bodies all burning inside,
The thousands of victims of Union Carbide.
You'll know now, for sure, what those letters spell,
B - H - O - P - A - L.

I can take you back, it's all still there,
Ruined factory, poisoned earth, venomous air,
Black, black water in every well
And now you can go back home and tell
Of deformed limbs on every street,
Of the blind and the mad who you had to meet.
Yes, tell all the guilty, who got off scot free,
Safe in their mansions, where no one can see,
The compensation per person was just 30p.

Of course BP should pay for what it has done, but let's not be selective. What goes for BP goes for everybody else and certainly for American companies who dodge behind the protection of an all powerful state. Governments too should be called to account for giving the multi-nationals free rein to plunder and spoil.

The Ballad of 13

2010-06-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

Bogside, Sunday, red mist calling,
Stumble onto cobbled street,
Bleary, angry, no more falling,
Steady now on swollen feet.

Paras sweating, faces twitching,
Huddled, cursing, in the dark,
Trigger fingers raw and itching,
Barrack rage about to arc.

Placards, banners, clatter, voices,
Heaving surges. Just can’t wait.
Comes the moment for the choices.
Pick the stone. Select your fate.

Batons beating riot black shields,
Visors lowered, hidden eyes,
Tear gas flooding concrete fields,
Enclosing us where feeling dies.

Useless chanting, fractured hymns,
Bloody, bloody, bloody faces,
Bloody broken, bloody limbs,
Desecrated, once safe places.

Cold intention through the gun sight.
Old man dangling, feckless lout,
A bullet’s distance through the night.
Ready! Snuff his lights right out!

Father Daly, ducking, waving,
Bullets screaming round his head,
What’s the point, you ask, in saving
Bodies, when our souls have fled?

Neatly labelled, features flat,
Thirteen corpses stacked like lumber.
No need tell a Derry man that
Thirteen’s an unlucky number.

I don't want you to get the idea that the US and Israeli governments hold the monopoly in state terror. The Brits have been doing it for a long time. 25 years on, no one has been brought to book for these 13 murders.
This was first posted in 2006. I knew, of course, that 14 died as a result of the Paras' action. Tomorrow the Saville Enquiry reports. Will it be any better than the Widgery Whitewash? I notice too, that so many of my Irish brothers and sisters are deeply involved in the movement for a Free Palestine and still prepared to risk their lives for justice.

Wounded in Action

2010-06-13T03:12:00.000-07:00

Don't look away,
as you pass me by.
Look me in the face.
Look me right in the eye.

I watched you wave your flag.
I saw you cheer and scream.
I've seen it ever since,
in every waking dream.

Straight after the explosion,
when a bright sky turned black
and I could not move one finger,
or raise my shattered back.

I saw you line that street,
with your well-intentioned friends,
but where are they all hiding
as I battle to make ends?

Not looking for your pity.
Don't waste your charity.
Now that I'm beached and wrecked,
just treat me with respect.

Don't turn away,
as you pass me by,
Look straight at what's left of my body.
Answer the question - why?

The picture shows Gelli Aur and an open day to raise funds to turn it into a facility to treat wounded and traumatised soldiers in Wales. Wales, per head, contributes more recruits to the army than any other part of the UK, yet there are no such facilities in our country. Governments of every colour are all too ready to send our young men into war, but they are not prepared to look after them when they return having paid the price for the folly of others. It is a crime that these boys have to depend on charity in their own land and how ironic is it that those of us, who opposed the wars in the first place, are the first to put our hands in our pockets to put this right?

Rachel Corrie Returns

2010-05-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

If you once thought
that when you crushed her bones
and stopped her mouth with sand and stone
murder would bring silence,
then think again.

If you once counted
on distance in time and space
to wear away the memory and in its place
leave blank acceptance,
then think again.

If you once believed
that your great lie could hold
back the tide until by virtue of its growing old
it could be taken for the truth,
then think again.

See how proudly she breasts
a merciful sea,
defiant of your tanks and jets and mines,
laden with the best in all of us,
full of love for Palestine.

Watch the convoy on the Internet. You won't get any coverage in the media!
How wrong I was when I first posted this poem. Even in my wildest nightmares I never imagined they could do this. And now, even after the murder, the MV Rachel Corrie sails on to Gaza on her own. I cannot believe the courage of these people. Here at home we must re-double our efforts to break the siege.

Not a poem - a rallying call!

2010-04-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

Please pass this video on to all your friends and contacts and to whatever you can to support Free Gaza.

For My Sister

2010-04-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

Lift up your head.
Like the first snowdrop
nosing into the light,
feel the sun upon your face.

Lift up your eyes.
We are all around you,
all as one,
reaching for the skies.

Lift up your heart.
Life is beating strongly.
Your perfect love
sustains us all.

The Classroom

2010-04-08T03:02:00.000-07:00

On a concrete canvas,
the people's artist has stencilled a tear
and that same patch of blue sky
that Oscar Wilde could see from his cell.

My teacher is observing me closely,
high up in his one-eyed tower.
I feel his cross hairs tickle,
focus on the back of my neck.

The same drill is repeated,
day after invisible day.
Choose your stone carefully.
Learn to keep your head down.

Slow learners line the streets
to give blood, shrouded
out of proper respect
for your own sensibility.

In Retrospect

2010-03-23T06:01:00.000-07:00

High walls do not keep
a terror out, but
lock the terror in.
Bright citadels live in fear
of outsiders and were built
by those who have everything
to lose and nothing to give.

In those cities were too many old men
poring over books, plaiting
words into their own shapes,
far too many young men
pouring blood from scripts,
swords placed in their hands.

The path homeward was narrow
as you started out,
but then, as you progressed, grew wide
and though you began on your own,
you soon found others at your side.

Together now,
we can look back down
at those awesome structures,
which once seemed to us
impenetrable, so tall,
and see, at last,
where small cracks are forming,
and know those grey slabs
will fall.

Myrddin's Daughter (for Catrin Finch )

2010-03-14T05:53:00.000-07:00

She can conjure sunlight anywhere,
light a rainbow in your hair,
pluck wind sound from the sullen air,
soothe a wildcat in his lair.

She suspends us in her glass
where safe in her mysterious clasp,
as breezes toying in long grass,
in seconds hours fly and pass.

She can make the night sky throng
with voices summoned by her song,
oh how they make us yearn and long
for the places we belong.

She can strum the strings of Bogota.
She can raise Tryweryn's star
and though we listen from afar,
she reminds us who we are.

After hearing Catrin Finch perform with the Colombian group, Cimmaron, in the Taliesin Theatre, Swansea, Friday March 12th 2010.An unforgettable night. Myrddin is Welsh for Merlin and an alternative Welsh title is Merch Myrddin.

High Definition Tsunami

2010-03-13T05:06:00.000-08:00

Flickering
mango, amber, nut brown,
men thrashing around
dark water swells,
ice white water crashing down
scouring once ground.

Green faces, violet lips,
mangled cars, beached ships,
khaki men and guns,
white, clip-boarded, ant men,
yellow earth movers crawling
through once towns.

Silver tongued men,
smart, fawn words,
bronze faced ones
glide past dead men,
zebra-striped, sleep walking men,
red eyed, silenced once again.

Next year in Al-Quds

2010-03-08T01:55:00.000-08:00

Though we ourselves lack food,

we treat our guests as all men should,

sprinkle crimson petals at their feet,

singing

next year in Al-Quds.

We raise our young

to distinguish evil from good,

that all the stars are ours,

singing

next year in Al-Quds.

Reliving

lost childhoods,

grey men laughing,

singing

next year in Al-Quds.

Dancing

where winding walls once stood,

young men rising,

singing

next year in Al-Quds.

Fleeing

hawk dark woods,

doves winging,

singing

next year in Al-Quds.

School Photograph

2010-03-05T06:13:00.001-08:00

Familiar faces
every one
frozen awkwardly
in that moment.

Head leaning
to one side,
inquiring,
I didn't really want to know,
eyes closed,
I didn't care to see,
teeth bared,
I was too timid,
whisps of hair intruding,
I was careless.
a careless pose,
I was ignorant,
contrived arrogance,
I thought I knew.
blissful ignorance.

Familiar memories,
in all their eyes,
through every one.

She promised to meet me
at the end of the road.
An opportunity lost.
I didn't care
to please her.
An ambition achieved.
He swrore
he would forgive me.
A hatred nurtured.
She asked me
if I was responsible.
A moment of fear.
He was balmed.
Uncontrolled laughter.
The other one
was rewarded.
Unashamed sadness.

Familar feelings
recalled
at inconvenient moments.

She left a note
explaining.
This is no time for self reproach.
I destroyed
the evidence.
Everybody does that kind of thing.
He was watching
through my open door.
The past must be buried.They all knew
the truth
in the end.
Exorcism.
Somebody
will have to pay
for the damage.
Think of the future!

This photograph
has been ripped to pieces
many times,
yet patiently
reconstructed
and neatly sellotaped
each
and every time.

This old, new poem actually dates back to 1966 and my first
year in Swansea. I was lucky enough to have one to one
tutorials with Vernon Watkins and he encouraged me to
play around with line structure.

Still they cannot silence him ( Dennis Brutus 1924 - 2009 )

2010-02-28T14:07:00.000-08:00

Never knew the man,
Just another exile named,
Whose solitary flame kept burning
So still they could not silence him.

Heard that story,
How, held prisoner once,
He seized his only chance.
A guard looked sly, the other way,
Then turned and fired one shot.
He lay dead still,
But no mere bullet in the back
Could silence him.

Shielded by bullet-proof plate glass,
Anglo American office workers paused
To stare at his body, lake of blood,
Couldn’t care less cops hanging about
Waiting for a “blacks only” ambulance
To cart the day’s refuse out of sight,
Then back to work, business as usual,
But still indifference
Could not silence him.

Rest cure on Robben Island.
In the neighbouring cell smouldered
Another name, branded
Mandela on all our minds.
Together, they could not silence them.

Swansea, Saturday on the Mumbles Road,
At the gates of St. Helen’s,
Or even trampling the sacred turf,
A mighty rucking
Of police, ‘sports fans’, vigilantes,
Beneath the freshly daubed walls,
His words, BAN THE BOKS
Echoing round the world
So surely could they not silence him.

Offered his name in gold
He shunned such place in history
And never would his name
Be chiselled in the same stone as our oppressors,
Nor will apartheid
Rear up in different lands
Without that voice being heard again.
From Sharpeville to Jenin,
From Soweto to Jibaliyah,
We will rise up and they will hear
And understand that never will they silence us.

My friend, Dave Jardine, e mailed me from Djakarta
with Dennis Brutus’s obituary from The Guardian
and reminded me how he and a group of students
from Swansea travelled to Cardiff in 1969 to hear Dennis
Brutus speak. That group became the core of those
who organised the demonstration against the
Springboks rugby team’s match against Swansea.
The match was disrupted by a pitch invasion lasting
some 20 minutes. The extreme violence used
against protestors was shown on TV all around the
world. Outside the ground it was no better with a
2 hour battle to defend against constant police attacks.
It was the beginning of the end of apartheid sport in
Britain.

Brueghel's 'Landscape with the fall of Icarus'

2010-02-03T04:35:00.000-08:00

On the high hill,
the lone man follows the plough
and makes his mark where he will.

In the field below,
the shepherd observes his flock,
knowing where each lamb will go.

Across the green bay,
the galleon unfurls canvas,
makes ready for the sail away.

Above them all,
the watcher waits to choose
which one will stand and which one fall.

Not what you might think at first. This about the act of imagination.

Witness 69

2010-01-31T04:37:00.001-08:00

Self-composed, cocksure,
as inquisitors doze
throughout the inquisition.
Their eyes glaze over.
His black needle points
pin them to his page,
delivered matter of factually,
unfaltering, dispassionate text.
Heard it all before,
of course, the ill concealed smirk,
the half stifled sneer,
unintentional illuminators.

How many lies can balance
on the head of one pin?
An infinity of falsehood
so it seems.
How many lives lost
in spin?
Not enough to make him sweat,
not enough for even one regret.

How many more millions have been wasted on Chilcott and still the criminals are not put on trial?

A Fistful of Poetry ( the book )

2010-01-30T05:34:00.000-08:00

As you will see the advert for the book has now moved to the sidebar and the poetry service will be resumed shortly. In the meantime may I remind readers that proceeds from the sales of the book go to medical aid for Palestinians. Haiti, however terrible, was an act of nature. What is being visited upon Palestinians is an act of man which too many of us still seem to be willing to overlook.