A jar of cider and my pipe,
In summer, under shady tree;
A book by one that made his mind
Live by its sweet simplicity:
Then must I laugh at kings who sit
In richest chambers, signing scrolls;
And princes cheered in public ways,
And stared at by a thousand fools.
Let me be free to wear my dreams,
Like weeds in some mad maiden's hair,
When she believes the earth has not
Another maid so rich and fair;
And proudly smiles on rich and poor,
The queen of all fair women then:
So I, dressed in my idle dreams,
Will think myself the king of men.
(The Sluggard by William H Davies)
Wanderers and workers sinners and saints,
From here they all look human.
We that are set in stone know their greatness,
We mere words recognise their possibilities.
We can see that they are all romantics,
Freedom fighters and intellectuals.
These streets are full of heroes.
(Heroes by Benjamin Zephaniah)
The Tiger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
love a bit of copy n' paste genius.
from my great friend Paul Jenkins,
If...
If you can blame the Pole for your misfortunes
And scapegoat other peoples too
If you believe the lies of right wing papers
And loathe the French for everything they do;
If you can hate and not be tired by hating,
Or spreading lies about, and deal in lies,
Or live in fear, the fear you’ve generated
By distorting what you see before your eyes.
If you cant sleep – for you’ve made bad dreams your master
If you can’t think – because you’ve closed your tiny brain
If you can meet – with Hatred and Disaster
And cheer those twins of terror just the same;
If you can bear to hear the lies you’ve spoken
Echoed in the mutterings of your peers
Or watch as your country’s finally broken
By the madmen who’ll profit from your fears.
If you can say the Bangladeshi midwife
Is the cause of all this island’s woes
And turn your back on statistics about hate crimes
And claim to still love England’s rose,
If you dream of European referendums
And cursed when Farah raised the Union Jack
If back is where the buggers you would send them
And your mood is only ever coloured black.
If you can talk of protest without irony
Or think that Nigel has the common touch
If you feel the filth that strangles Blighty
Is Bulgarian, Romanian and Dutch
If your voice is filled with unforgiving hatred
And your prejudice a battle not yet won
Then put your X against the party of the racist
And what’s more – you’ll always be a f_____ c____
UKipling
(I'm not into the religious/spiritual side of this but there are moments I love, just that joyous exclamation of struggling to put a great feeling in your heart onto paper- sort of Prufrockish, and this and so much more, it is impossible to say just what I mean! Some day I will get the closing 3 lines in my skin)
Rumi- Put This Design In Your Carpet.
Spiritual experience is a modest woman
who looks lovingly at only one man.
It’s a great river where ducks
live happily, and crows drown.
The visible bowl of form contains food
that is both nourishing and a source of heartburn.
There is an unseen presence we honor
that gives the gifts.
You’re water. We’re the millstone.
You’re wind. We’re dust blown up into shapes.
You’re spirit. We’re the opening and closing
of our hands. You’re the clarity.
We’re this language that tries to say it.
You’re joy. We’re all the different kinds of laughing.
Any movement or sound is a profession of faith,
as the millstone grinding is explaining how it believes
in the river! No metaphor can say this,
but I can’t stop pointing to the beauty.
Every moment and place says,
“Put this design in your carpet!”
Like the shepherd in Book II,
who wanted to pick the lice off God’s robe,
and stitch up God’s shoes, I want to be
in such a passionate adoration
that my tent gets pitched against the sky!
Let the beloved come
and sit like a guard dog
in front of the tent.
When the ocean surges,
don’t let me just hear it.
Let it splash inside my chest!
But that's a bit too positive so let's have something claustrophobic and horror-struck. I always post this in these things, it amazes me.
Dare not to sleep!
By Arnulf Øverland
Translated from Norwegian by Lars-Toralf Storstrand
I was awakened one morning, by the quaintest of dreams
‘twas like a voice, spoken to me
It sounded afar - like an underground stream,
I rose and said: Why do you call me?
Dare not to slumber! Dare not to sleep!
Dare not believe, it was merely a dream!
Yore I was judged.
The gallows were built in the court this evening,
They’ll come for me — 5’ in the morning
This dungeon is teeming,
And barracks stand dungeon by dungeon
we lie here, awaiting, in cold cells of stone,
We lie here, we rot, in these murky holes.
We know not ourselves, what does lie ahead
Who will be the next one they'll reach for.
We moan and we shriek: But do you take heed?
Is there none among you who’ll hearken?
No one can see us,
None know what befalls us.
Yet more:
None will believe - what the day will bring us!
And then You defy: This dare not be true!
That men can be utterly evil.
There has to be some one with merits pure
Oh, brother, you still have a great deal to learn
They said: You will give your life, if commanded
We’ve given it now, for naught it was handed
The world has forgotten, we’ve all been deceived
Dare not to sleep in this hour - this eve.
You oughtn’t go to your business hence,
Or think: What’s your loss – or what is your gain?
You oughtn’t attribute your fields and your kine,
Nor say you’ve enough - with all that is thine.
You oughn’t abide, sitting calm in your home
Saying: Dismal it is, poor they are, and alone
You cannot permit it! You dare not, at all.
Accepting that outrage on all else may fall!
I cry with the final gasps of my breath:
You dare not repose, nor stand and forget
Pardon them not - they know what they do!
They breathe on hate-glows, and evil pursue,
They fancy to slay, they revel with cries,
Their desire is to gloat, when our world is at fire!
In blood they are yearning to drown one and all!
Don’t you believe it? You’ve heard the call!
You know how infants will soldiers remain,
While dashing through streets, fields, chanting ‘bout pain
Aroused by their mothers‘ assurance of glory
They’ll shelter their land - and they’ll never worry
You know the fatality of the lies,
that glory and faith and honor abides
You discern the dauntless dreams of a child,
A saber, a banner, he’ll flaunt them so wild,
And then they’ll leave home for a rainfall of steel,
‘Till last they hang ragged on barbed wire will,
Decaying for Hitler's Aryan call,
That is what a man’s for - after all…
I couldn’t imagine – too late now it is
My sentence is just: The verdict's no miss
I believed in prosperity, dreamt about peace
In labor and fellowship; love’s fragrant kiss
Yet those who don’t die on the battlefield,
Their heads for the axeman, will certainly yield
I cry in the gloom - if only you’d knew
There is but one thing - befitting to do
Defend yourself, while your hands are still yearning,
Protect your offspring - Europe is burning.
***
I shook from the chill. To dress, up I rose
Without stars were shining, so far, yet so close
‘twere simply a brilliant ray in the east,
Admonishing warning from the dream that just ceased
The day that soared up from earths furthermost strand
Augmenting with blood — and with firebrand
It grew with terror - like a breath that was lost
It seemed like the starlight - was slain by the frost.
I weighed: Something is imminent - and it’s dire
Our era is over — Europe’s on fire!
A little haiku I put together about ever working again in the catering industry again:
nope nope nope nope nope
nope nope nope nope nope nope nope
nope nope nope nope nope
i wrote this back in 2001 (during my drinking days 😉
the devil wears dark shades
from route 66
he walked
a man alone
unknown
tumbleweed moves out of his way
the desert plays misty with the halo's in his eyes
black leather jacket
worn by time
sits at the bar
bottle of jack
light's a marlboro
knuckle crack
where you headin
where you from
no answer
a wry smile breaks his lips
radio song
2 more bodies found today
that makes 23
what's the world coming to mister
he will never know!
30/03/2001 01:54 am
bwahahah! 😉