Saturday, 30 October 2010

Sahmain greetings. ( For tomorrow)

Ah October the 31st, with or without foundation, the old superstitions linger on in many hearts and many places.
Will they, ever fade away and die completely?
I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.
Do you still cross your fingers, do you still believe in magic, touch wood, just in case! Dream today in colour, listen to the wild winds blow. Time was when children marvelled behind each fast-shut door. Nights drawing in again,time flies, listen out, take a peep over the ledge......
Scan the likely paths of green, leave behind the alleys, cast your shadows, soar to the moon and back, draw eyes a gaze with mystery.
Bobbing and a weaving, we are the branches, we are the roots, may fatigue and loneliness be overcome, tonight we sing, spin through a whirling dance.
Listen to the drum beat
as spirits awake.
Imagine tomorrow
a world full of equality
freedom and justice.
Burn bright
blessed be.

Friday, 29 October 2010

THE TIM BOBBIN INN: Machine Breakers in Council. - Sir James Phillips Kay-Shuttleworth (1804 -1877)

Just got back from the North of England, thought I'd post this little number, you can hear the rich dialect flowing through the prose. We should never forget our past. Remembering , remembering.

A BRIGHT light gleamed from the windows of the ground floor. Crossing the threshold, this light was seen to come chiefly from a large coal fire, blazing in the ample grate of the room which served as kitchen, bar, and place of reception for guests. High-backed wooden settles screened the centre of this room from the door, and occupied two sides of it. In the middle was a plain deal table, and on this glasses of beer, and of spirits and water, with some rough hunches of bread and oatcake. Overhead was a frame, the strings of which were covered with the round, flat, thin flakes of oatcake which had dried there. From the hooks in the ceiling hung hams and flitches of bacon. The settles were filled with men mostly smoking from long clay pipes; and spittoons, filled with sawdust, lay beside each on the sanded floor....
All seemed weary and worn. "Oi'n allays been agen this rowing and rioting as brings t'sodgers on us poor wavers," said Silas. "What t'farreps have we to do in feyghting wi t'red coats? Connut we creep into t'mills at neet, and smash o't' iron wavers as robs eawr childer of bread? A bit of a tenpenny nail stuck in t'reet pleck in a machine, ull break it o' to nowt, when th'ingin gets agate. Yo moit crack 'em o', when th'ingin starts i' t'morn, wi' their own steeam. What's t'use o' lettin t'sodgers get a chance at us?"
"Nay , lads , let's do nowt underhand. We'dn done a pratty day or two 's wark afore t'sodgers geet at us. There's summut righteos i'open wrath, for clemming wives and childer, but we're noan theives to cloak what we done i' t'dark... What says ta, Jonah?"
"Oim o' thy mind, Mark. There's nobbut two uses in what we'n done. If these machines can foind wark for o' onus, there mun be moor on 'em by a deal, and wen towd t'meausters at we winnt clem. But if they connut foind wark for ten times as mony machines an' steam looms as they now han, then, lads, we'n gien 'em notice to quit. They'n getten t'brass and t'edication, an' we'n nother brass nor larning, but we'n shown 'em as we'n Lancashire pluck. We're not t'lads to dee in t'ditch, 'bout kicking. But I'm noan clear which is reet --- mo steam looms, or ten times as mony iron-wavers."
"Then why smash them as tha' has helped to do?" asked Silas. "To keep t'pot boiling at whoam till t'measters han fun out t'reet gate. We mun keep t'hand loom jingling at whoam an we han nowt but oatmale, and praties, and buttermilk. t'pig, and t'garden stuff. After this smash we'st ha'wark ' bout flittin' into t'towns, and by-and-by we'st get mills all o'er t'forests."

Personally speaking, resistance is necessity.

Monday, 25 October 2010

James Broughton (10/11/13 -17/5/99 ) Excerpt from SHAMAN PSALM

Listen Brothers
The alarms are on fire
The oracles are strangled
Here the pious vultures
condemning your existence
Hear the greedy warheads
calling for your death
Quick while there's time
Take heed Take heart
Claim your innocence
Proclaim your fellowship
Reach to each other
Connect one another
and hold

Rescue your lifeline
Defy the destroyers
Defy the fat vandals
They cry for a nation
of castrated bigots
They promise a reward
of disaster and shame
Deny them Deny them
Quick while there's hope
Renovate man
Insist on your brotherhood
Inist on humanity
Love one another
and live

Extracted from:- SHAMAN PSALM,1981. Another relevant poem for our times.


Saturday, 23 October 2010

Richard Dadd Fairy Feller Master Stroke

HENRIK IBSEN once said "This longing to commit a madness stays with us throughout our lives.Who has not ,when standing with someone by an abyss or high up on a tower,had a sudden impulse to push the other over.And how is it that we hurt those we love although we know that remorse will follow,Our whole being is nothing but a fight against the dark forces within ourselves. Unfortunately the british visionary artist RICHARD DADD (1817 1886) succumbed to his own internal delusions and was permanently insititutionalized after killing his dad.He spent his days in the Royal Betlem hospital a k a BEDLAM,where he at least produced an outstanding body of work.So outside the perimeters some people basically go mad.A lot more actually come through,recover and survive ,not all ,though, but quite a lot.In literature and in music one finds a long tradition of writers creating writing out of the extremes of mental distress,in isolation and in groups,lets see William S burroughs,Alexander Trocchi, lets face it alot of THE BEATS ,the surrealists,Robert Calvert,Syd Barrett,T s Elliot, John Clare,Peter Reading,Sylvia Plath,NIck Drake,Ezra Pound, etc etc.All im really saying there is power in words and imaginations that can be witty,brittle,serene,remote and tortured.That can also have the continuing power to transform,inspire and challenge. Hey Ho singing to stay alive,Down at the edge of lonely street with a pink moon in their eyes..............

Thursday, 21 October 2010

The MIND Day Centre - Paul Kean ( b.1958)

I fell myself learning from the old lags
Bandura et al, imitative learning.
It's quite a skill, sitting in a chair, staring into space,
I did try reading a book, but got discussed,
when I laughed reading it
heard I was a manic depressive.
No one laughs at the MIND day centre.
Bought a few cans in, got called an alcoholic,
That's definitely against the rules,
the rules they supposedly 'Don' t Have'
In the end go to the local pub
Guy there says 'I went in there they woudn't
let me out'
So, MIND doesn't have labels
Pull the other one, saddens me,
I don't want to learn to be more mentally ill
when I say that, the professional says
'You should hear yourself'
and again uses the language of my oppression
to oppress me She even cynically uses' user rights'
To take away mine

and again we are under attack.

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Emergency Verse.

Excellent anthology out at moment collecting over a 160 poems in defence of the Welfare State and against this bloody governments imminent cuts.
It is alive and refreshing and has to be the political anthology of 2010. We are in a state of emergency, these poems can be used as a remedy or as tools of resistance when fighting back.
I believe in the power of poetry and the power of these oncoming cuts, so use these words as ammunition. Fight the Cuts.

Saturday, 16 October 2010

Robert Wyatt and Gilad Atzmon in Haaretz.

Haaretz published yesterday a massive interview with Mr Robert Wyatt and Gilad Atzmon ito coincide with their latest collaboration ' for the ghost within' . A very enlightening and most informative interview. An Israeli paper that does not censor. With the greatest of respect to the paper it allows Gilad to say what he says, and what he says is pretty uncompromising and powerful. Their new album by all accounts is quite beautiful, a mixture of Wyatt's heartfelt contemplations and Atzmons brilliant dazzling muscianship. Oh can you guess, am bit of a fan. Read the interview in full here.

Friday, 15 October 2010

John Brandi (5/11/43) -OUR GEOGRAPHY IS HEARTBEAT.

We all hold
to some territory.
The merchant
makes his salad with money.
A seamstress begins
at the fine-line stitch of time.
The astronaut remembers
the Red Sea
with the ultra-violet eye
of the bee.
The director cuts apart
geography on his human meatboard.
The poet begins
inside his mother
riding an iconclast raft
with villages and trees
igniting themselves
along the edge
of th sea.

We all begin
as mirrors, naked
with bodies once solar
begetting form.
The priest wears a robe.
The judge wears a robe.
The scholar graduates in a robe.
All remember the alphabet
All connect the swan
with a proverb or a symbol
Or regard the stars
with possibilities.
And look to the craftsman
for a sewing bobbin
or a shoelace.

We all hold
to some territory.
The evangelist eats out
on donations sent to convert
pagans. The orphan rides
a subway into black paradise, free.
The dragonfly holds 10,000
worlds in its fine topaz blink.
And the fortune-teller
looks through amber
to discover the face of
an assasin.

We all sit down
and rise inside a dream,
asking questions
about our situation, scratching
parts of the body
at intersections, perplexed
with changing signals
& semaphores
that announce no train.
We all have
ridden a tractor or
a subway, arranged our hair
in an automobile,
or opened a briefcase
in an airplane.

Our geography
is heartbeat, and a second
hand swings through
the flesh, like a road
pretending no end
while outside the self
lives another one
of us, who conducts the world
with a spiral wand
and carries into us
the charts and maps, the earth
and particles of air that
combine to breed water,
fire, hate, love
passing storms and gates
that can be locked
or unlocked, forever
among us all.

FROM :- Heartbeat Geography, Selected and Uncollected poems, White Pine, 1995.

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Extracts from a Republican Phrase Book (of sometime in the not too distant future)

I cannot believe in the 21st century, their is still the concept of the monarchy still in operation in Britain. In this time of recession and cut backs, would someone explain how the government is able to confiscate our money and give it the royal family. What are this families uses, if any at all.
This family recently secretly lobbied to recieve even more money from government fundsset up to help people on low incomes.
Their essentially a family of thieves, hey ho. Part of our long tradition and everything.
Time perhaps for and end?

CIVIL LIST: Organised freebies on a massive scale. See also Tax dodges.

COURT CORRESPONDENT: Lackey, servile person.See also Eunuch.

CROWN: Symbol of sporting success, e.g. Heavyweight Crown,Triple Crown.

CROWN JEWELS: Booty; ill-gotten gains; stolen goods.

DUKE: John Wayne.

EMPEROR: Large penguin or butterfly.

EMPIRE: Territory of large penguin (or butterfly)

KING: Term of adulation bestowed on those who have given great pleasure, e.g. Elvis Presley; Barry John; John Charles.

MONARCH: Type of butterfly, also head of politically immature state.

MONARCHY: System of government favoured by politically immature people in which the head of state is determined by an accident of birth.( Constititutional Monarchy: A contradiction in terms.)

NOBILITY: Descendants of minor thieves and murderers.

PRINCE: Adrogynous US pop star.

PRINCE OF WALES: Popular pub name, also person without purpose.

PRINCESS: Expensive clothes horse.

QUEEN: Pop group of decadent style.

QUEENMUMGODBLESSER: Deceased, fantastic pensioner created by tabloid journalists.

ROYALTY: Descendants of major thieves and murderers. See also The Mafia and Freemasonry.

ROYAL WATCHER: Member of worthless profession. See also Disc Jockey, Estate Agent, Stockbroker.

SUBJECT: Person better described as object.

THRONE: Seat; toilet seat (vulgar), see also:
Heir to the throne:Next in line for toilet.
Heir apparent:Only person waiting outside toilet.
Heir presumptive:Person who thinks he should always be first in the queue for the toilet.
Loyalty to the throne:constipation.

Sunday, 10 October 2010

Pablo Amaringo ( 1943 -11/11/09)- Ayahuasca Vision Paintings.

Years ago Peruvian Pablo Amaring took the Shamans path. In his paintings he pictured his detailed visions which he experienced under the influence of the drug ayahasca. In his pictures we meet living spirits, of both good and bad, visitors from distant galaxies and ancient and wise guardians of esoteric knowledge. I ratherlike them, more information at bottom of page.


Thursday, 7 October 2010

West Wales Badger Cull.

Apparently updated plans for a badger cull in West Wales here where I live have been recently unveiled after previous attempts were stopped by the Court of Appeal. This is part of a programme to eradicate TB from cattle. Back in July a cull proposed was considered unlawful. So what tell me has changed?

The Rural Affairs Minister Elin Jones was reported to say " I will state again that the cost of this disease in the last 10 years, when nearly 100,000 cattle have been slaughtered in Wales, is more than £120 million. This is taxpayers money the Assembly Government has paid out in compensation. Most experts agree that badgers play an important role in the transmission of bovine TB and that badgers play an important role in the transmission of bovine TB and that we will not eradicate TB if we do not tackle the disease in both widlife and cattle."

M'mmm most experts Elin Jones do not appear to support this opinion. Also clear majority of people around here think that the cull is wrong on both moral and scientific grounds. It seems like its the case of blaming the badger at all costs but let us not question the probable blame in the first place - the diary industry. Lets face it if we didn't farm cows , there would be no T.B in the first place, the badger just seems like a convenient form of wildlife to scapegoat for the N.F.U ( National Farming Union ) and its allies.For Elin Jones an alternative option of a vaccination programme is simply not an option, despite large petitions and protests against the cull she does not seem to want to listen.

The badger is a solitary, much loved often mischievious creature that has been with us and inhabited these islands for at least a quarter of a million years, entrenched inour folklore. So the people that Elin Jones chooses to represent are bloody angry, feelings are running high. Soon perhaps the Assembly Government will again allow masked contractors from DEFRA to invade peoples property and land in order to implement this flawed policy. It will be expensive and probably a complete waste of time, I am sure local opposition will make sure contractors and officials will be unable to get on to the land in the areas targeted. So I say power to the people and of course to the badgers too, if you can raise your voice against this scheme, do it while you can.

Badger -John Clare

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears - they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry.
And the old hare wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.

He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled wher'er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone's a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray'
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through - the drunkard swears and reels

The frightened woman takes the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.

Hopefully the above poem shows what a stong resiliant creature the badger is , that defends itself to the bitter very end.

Long live the daerfochyn.

Sunday, 3 October 2010

The Welsh Not.

In Wales, Welsh school children were punished for speaking their own language in the belief that the English Language would solve all their educational problems. They tried to kill its language and damned nearly succeeded, because in the nineteenth century their was a superficial belief that English was superior, and that English was the only language which should be used throughout the British Empire.
A report of 1847 which became known as the Treachery of the Blue Books written by English barristers who did not speak any Welsh between them castigated Welsh culture in general, and ., referred to the Welsh language as a drawback and that the moral condition of Welsh people would only improve with the introduction of English. The ' Welsh not ' consisted of a small piece of wood or slate inscribed with the letters 'W.N ', which was hung barbarically around the neck of any child caught speaking Welsh. At the end of the day , the child wearing the 'Welsh Not ' would be punished by the schoolteacher. It was a form of cultural genocide and it was only at the beginning of the 20th century that this draconian measure and attitude to Welsh slowly began to change.
I am glad to write ,however that after 2,500 years the Welsh language one of Europe's oldest is still here and going strong.

SIR OWEN M. EDWARDS (1858-1920)

on 'The Welsh Not'

'Word soon went around that a new boy, and a native one at that, had come to school. The eyes of several cruel children were upon me - I knew about them all, most were loud-mouthed children from the village - they are still the same. The teacher had told me, quietly, not to speak a word of Welsh; but those evil boys were doing everything they could do to make me shout and , at last, they succeeded. I lost my temper, and began to speak my mind to the traitorous cur who devised how to annoy me. As soon as I spoke my strong Welsh, everyone laughed, and some string with a heavy wooden token attached to it was put about my neck. I had no idea what it was; I had seen a similar token about a dog' neck to prevent it from running after sheep. Had this token been placed about my neck to prevent me from going home? Midday, the hour of release, came at last. The schoolmistress came there with a cane in her hand. She asked some question, and every servile child pointed his finger at me. Something like a smile came over her face when she saw the token about my neck. She recited to me some long riddle, of which I could not understand a word, she showed me the cane, but she did not touch me. The token was removed and I later understood that it had been placed about my neck because I had spoken Welsh.
That token was placed about my neck hundreds of times after that. This is how it was done: when anyone heard a child speaking a word of Welsh, he was to tell the teacher; and it was to remain about his neck until the person wearing it heard someone else speaking Welsh, then it would be put about his neck, poor soul . At the end of the school-day the one wearing it was to receive a blow with a cane across his hand. Every day the token, as if by its own volition, it found its way from every corner of the school to my neck. This is a comfort to me to this day: I never once attempted to have peace from that token by transferring it to someone else.'

' The Bells of Memory ( Clych Atgof, 1906)
in ' The Dragon's Pen ' by Bobi Jones and Gwyn Thomas.

Friday, 1 October 2010

Bertolt Brecht (translated by John Willett) - The Burning of the Books.

When the Regime commanded that books with harmful
Should be publicly burned and on all sides
Oxen were forced to drag cartloads of books
To the bonfires, a banished
Writer, one of the best, scanning the list of the
Burned, was shocked to find that his
Books had been passed over. He rushed to his desk
On wings of wrath, and wrote a letter to those in power
Burn me! he wrote with flying pen, burn me! Haven't
my books
Always reported the truth? And here you are
Treating me like a liar! I command you:
Burn me!

From:- Poems 1913 -1956 by Bertolt Brecht, Methuen, London.