Monday, 15 April 2013
Poem for the Hillsborough disaster by Carol Ann Duffy
The 96 Liverpool supporters who lost their lives at Hillsborough, 24 years ago were remembered in the anniversary memorial service yesterday. A memorial was unveiled at Old Haymarket and an antique clock was installed at Liverpool Town hall and set at 15.06 the time of the tragedy.
Families will gather at Anfield later today for an annual memorial service , a minutes silence will be held, with the names of the 96 fans who died read out, and a candle lit in memory of each victim.
The truth of what people have been saying for 24 years is finally emerging with the undeniable truth now recovered and revealed , and the fight for justice is reaching a conclusion.
Here is a touching poem by Carol Ann Duffy about the Hillsborough disater.
The Cathedral bell, tolled, could never tell;
nor the Liver Birds, mute in their stone spell;
or the Mersey, though seagulls waild, cursed, overhead,
in no language for the slandered dead...
not the raw, red throat of the Kop, keening,
or the cops' words censored of meaning;
not the clock, slow handclapping the coroner's deadline,
or the memo to Thatcher, or the tabloid headline...
but fathers told of their daughters; the names of sons
on the lips of their mothers like prayers; lost ones
honoured for bitter years by orphan, cousin, wife-
not a matter of footbal, but of life.
Over this great city, light after dark;
truth, the sweet silver song of the lark.
Saturday, 13 April 2013
Samer Issawi's 'hunger speech' to Israelis
Samer Issawi
Reprinted from Youth Against Settlements,
http://hyas.ps/en/index.php/en/k2--category/settlements/item/148-hunger-speech-by-samer-issawi
Hunger Speech by Samer Issawi
Israelis:
I am Samer Issawi on hunger strike for eight consecutive months, laying in one of your hospitals called Kaplan. On my body is a medical devise connected to a surveillance room operating 24 hours a day. My heartbeats are slow and quiet and may stop at any minute, and everybody, doctors, officials and intelligence officers are waiting for my swtback and my loss of life.
I chose to write to you: intellectuals, writers, lawyers and journalist associations, and civil society activists. I invite you to visit me, to see a skeleton tied to his hospital bed, and around him three exhausted jailers. Sometimes they have their appetizing food and drinks around me.
The jailers watch my suffering, my loss of weight and my gradual melting. They often look at thei watches, asking themselves in surprise; how does this damaged body have an excess of time to live after its time?
Israelis:
I'm looking for an intellectual who is through shadowboxing, or talking to his face in mirrors. I want him to stare into my face and observe my coma, to wipe the gunpowder off his pen, and from his mind the sound of bullets, he will then see my features carved deep in his eyes, I'll see him and he'll see me, I'jj see him nervous about the questions of the future, and he'll see me, a ghost that stays with him and doesn't leave.
You may receive instructions to write a romantic story about me, and you could do that easily after removing my humanity from me, you will watch a creature with nothing but a ribcage, breathing and choking with hunger, losing consciousness oncein a while.
And, after your cold silence, Mine will be a literary or media story that you add to your curricula, and when your students grow up they will believe that the Palestinian dies of hunger in front of Gilad's Israel sword, and you would then rejoice in this funerary ritual and your cultural and moral superiority.
Israelis:
I am Samer Issawi the young "Arboush" man according to your military terms, the Jerusalemite, whom you arrested without charge, except for leaving Jerusalem to the suburbs of Jerusalem. I, whom will be tried twice for a charge without charge, because it is the military that rules in your country, and the intelligence apparatus that decides, and all other componements of Israeli society ever have to do is sit in a trench and hide in the fort that keeps what is called a purity of identity - to avoid the explosion of my suspicious bones.
I have not heard one of you interfere to stop the loud wail of death, as if everyone of you has turned into gravediggers, and everyone wears his military suit: the judge, the writer, the intellectual, the journalist, the merchant, the academic, and the poet. And I cannot believe that a whole society was turned into guards over my death and my life, or guardians over settlers whose chase after my dreams and my trees.
Israelis:
I will die satisfied. I do not accept to be deported out of my homeland. I do not accept your courts and your arbitrary rule. If you had passed over in Easter to my country and destroyed it in the names of God of an ancient time, you will not Passover to my elegant soul which has declared disobedience. It has healed and flew and celebrated all the time that you lack. Maybe then you will understand that awareness of freedom is stronger than the awareness of deatrh.
Do not listen to those generals and those dusty myths, for the defeated will not remain defeated, and the victor will not remain a victor. History isn't only measured by battles, massacres and prisons, but by peace with the Other and the self.
Israelis:
Listen to my voice, the voice of our time and yours! Liberate yourselves of the excess of greedy power! Do not remain prisoners of miliary camps and the iron doors that have shut your minds! I am not waiting for a jailer to release me, I'm waitng for you to be released from my memory.
Friday, 12 April 2013
Bedroom Tax Song: You Cannae Have A Spare Rom in a Pokey Cooncil Flat.
Set to the tune of the 1960's folk song "The Jeely Palce Song", by Scottish singer songwriter Adam McNaughton.
LYRICS
I'm a welfare state wean, we ive on the bottom flair
But we're not allowed to live there any mair.
They say we've got too many rooms, in our social rented flat
We've an eight by ten foot boxroom where you cannae swing a cat.
Chorus
Oh ye canna have a spare room in a pokey cooncil flat
Ian Duncan Smith and Co have put an end tae that
They say 'live in a smaller house', they say that is their plan
When the odds against you finding one are ninety-nine to one
Noo ma auties in a wheelchair, but these Tories dinna care
They say they have a deficit, she got to pay her share
£60 a month they'll take, then leave her tae her fate
Whilst gieing millionaires a tax cut, cause they say they're due a
break
Noo that Buckingham Palace looks a pretty roomy gaff
And the ludger there gets benefits at rates that make me laugh
A civil list, plus perks, worth nearly ninety million pounds
With her other dozen mansions lying empty a year round
Noon those MPs doon in Westminster must think we're dense
Wi their second home apartments, where the public pays their rent
They're even get a food allowance, two hubdred quid a week
But they're claiming we're the scroungers, is their arse up in their
cheeks?
So we've formed a Federation amd we're gonna have our say
The Bedroom Tax it has to go, and we aint gonna pay
We're gonna march to George's square to demand our civil rights
Like nae mair Tories and that Liberal shite.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Au Caberet du Ciel, Paris, 1927 - Man Ray
Can't seem to avoid a certain somebody, showering down from nearly every newspaper I look at, every tiny bit of news I see, so heres's something completely different.
The cabaret scene shown was intended for reproduction in Varietes, a Belgian publication dedicated to Surrealism. Depicted are among the leading thinkers, writers and artists who reflected the Surrealist spirit in their work.
These include, standing:
Hans Arp, JJean Caupenne, Georges Sadoul, Andre Breton, Pierre Unik, Yves Tanguy, Cora, Andre Thirion ( shown from behind, facing Cora), Rene Crevel, Suzanne Musard, and Frederic Megret (shown with cigarette).
Seated at the front of the table are Elsa Triolet, Louis Aragon, Camille Goemans and Madame Goemans.
More on a Surrealist thread coming Sunday.
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
Dier Yassin Remembered.
Today the Palestnian people mark the 65th year since Jewish militia murdered over 100 Palestinian villagers.
What happened in Deir Yassin prepared the ground for the ethnic cleansing of 70% of the Palestinian people. The same ethnic cleansing that occurred then is unfortunately going on today. In 1948 they used direct massacres, but today they use airstrikes in Gaza and shoot innocent young Palestinians in the West Bank.
For Palestinians and their supporters, the massacre is a symbol. It is remembered as the pivotal onset of the 1948 Nabka; Deir Yassin is the "other shoe that fell," sparking over 750,000 to flee from their homes out of a fear that they too would be massacred.
Early in the morning Commanders of the Irgun (headed by Menachim Begin) and the Stern Gang attacked Deir Yassin a village with aboyt 750 Palestinian residents.
The village lay outside of the area assigned by the United Nations to the 'Jewish State'. It had a peaceful reputation. A year later the settlement Kafar Shaul was founded on this site. In the 1980's the remains of Dier Yassin wwere bulldozed to make room for new settlements. The streets of these new neighbourhoods were named after members of the Irgun family.
Dier Yassin Remembered
Darkness recedes ( After Maggie)
Dark rippled,
heavy as lead,
tried to burn and sting,
crushed opposition,
taught us sadness,
that sometimes,
we need some hate,
to help us stay alive.
Memories moulded,
disturbing thoughts,
tainted many lifes,
stole dreams,
stretched understanding,
to limits unknown,
with pierced living breath,
and careful sharp precision.
A mother, daughter, yes!
who instead of flowers ,
planted seeds of agony and fear,
resiliant too, with cold calculation,
That is why yesterday, instead of tears,
many cheered in jubilation,
as this mean spirited medussa,
walked her final steps towards,
the flames of hell.
As darkness recedes,
let their be light.
Monday, 8 April 2013
The Witch is dead
Woke up earlier feeling a bit depressed, had an atos form to fill out, but then I noticed an unusual amount of people smiling in the street. What was going on I asked, haven't you heard the news Margaret Thatcher has died. What , suddenly it felt like the first time I had taken ecstacy, a rush of emotion that I had not felt for ages.
Some people would say that I should not be rejoicing in her death, nothing compares to the sadness that many people have felt that she was ever alive.
I deplore the way the mainstream media is treating the life and legacy of Margaret Thatcher. To many people in this country, Thatcher was one of the most divisive figures to have emerged. She created misery and suffering for millions, while selling of that which belonged to the people.I rememner the strikes, the growing dividee between the haves and have nots, I remember her plans to take apart the weldare state, destroy the NHS. Her legacy being carried on by the Con Dems vicious cruel policies. Her legacy continues in nasty economic policies, that have made the rich richer and the poor poorer, with the slashing in this present time of essential services and the continuing dismantling of the welfare state. Her legacy forever rotten to the core, friends of dictators etc etc.
Across the country there will be many people dancing and celebrating her demise. I have already drunk a toast. Mourn her I will not
http://www.facebook.com/groups/TheWitchisDeadParty/
Maggie Thatcher may be dead but the rest of her Nasty Party and corrupt Government are very much alive. Please sign this, on behalf of those people who have been hardest hit by their deliberate destructive policies.
http://wowpetition.com/
These songs and this post is dedicated to all those who were blighted by her,and those who stood up against her in angry defiance.
Pete Wylie - The day that Thatcher dies
John McCullough - I will dance on your grave Mrs Thatcher
earlier post
Margaret Thatcher may be dead but the rest of her Nasty Party very much alive.
Sunday, 7 April 2013
Times's Police
I used to believe,
that libraries gave us power,
knowledge for free,
allowed us to share,
create and shape.
Across Britain, in sanctuaries harbour,
their trying to restrict access to internet,
to a daily fix of one hour,
some of us already hooked,
are feeling the sensation of withdrawal.
Not a lot of time, to gather thought,
for the unemployed to seek work,
to gather thought, dissect issues,
ease conscience, play silly games,
share urgent breath to the world.
Yesterday, I watched people
feverishly typing, as though
it was the last thing they would do,
some had the look of panic,
the pang of despair.
I went into the streets,with pockets full,
of restless ideas and conviction,
others carried papers, left unfilled,
took home thoughts stuffed with delicate emotion.
The power of communication,
needs patience, no rushed urgency,
allows us time, to pause for air,
freedom a universal language,
a form of magic,
floats through every living tongue.
Wires connect, whether we like it or not,
one of the better things to have emerged,
from globalisation.
When speech gets cut, urgency grows wild,
in the desert without water, shards of purpose,
do not simply die.
Hope flys without wings, holding all together.
Answers please by e.mail,
I'll try to reply soon,
in the heights of passion,
and wild lofty abandon.
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Make Conservatives History
In a London nursing home, an old priest lay dying.
For years he had faithfully served the people of the nation's capital.
No motioned for his nurse to come near. Yes, Father? said the nurse.
I would really like to see David Cameron and Nick Clegg before I die, whispered the priest.
I'll see what I can do, Father, replied the nurse.
The nurse sent the requst to No 10 and waited for a response.
Soon the word arrived, David and Nick would be delighted to visit the priest.
As they went to the hospital, David commented to Nick, I don't know why the old priest wants to see us, but it certainly will help our images.
Nick agreed that it was the right thing to do at this time.
When they arrived at the priest's room, the priest took David's hand in his right hand, and the Nick's hand in his left.
There was silence and a look of serenity on the old priest's face.
The old priest slowly said: I have always tried to pattern my life after our Lord and Saviour,
Jesus Christ.
Amen, said David, Amen. said Nick.
The old priest continued, Jesus died between two lying bastards, and I would like to do the same....
Tuesday, 2 April 2013
OK Duncan Smith, here is your £53
OK Duncan Smith, here is your £53
I've deducted
£15 for your electricity and gas. You are on a pre-payment card and it costs
more
£3 towards your TV License
£3 towards tour travel costs to sign once a fortnight
£14 as you are now a social housing tenant you have two bedrooms. Don't give me that nonsence about your wife being unwell
£2 Council Tax contribution as you live in England
That leaves you £16 a week to live on, barely enough for a daily pint of milk
and a copy of that vile newspaper that published you this morning.
OK, let's forget the milk and the paper. I'm going to take another £5 for
phone charges as the DWP are on a premim rate number and £5 off
towards that crisis loan you took out to pay to get your boiler repaired.
That's £6 a week to survive on.
Think you can still do it? Try doing it every bastard week.
No 'just saying, no 'best wishes' and Seren is too fucking cross to comment.
You can rot in hell
(with thanks to Don Atreides)
Petition
Ian Duncan Smith to live on £53 a week
https://www.change.org/petitions/iain-duncan-smith-iain-duncan-smith-to-live-on-53-a-week
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