Remember Me -Curtis D Bennett

Curtis D Bennet of Lawrence, Kansas was a military pilot and served in the marines during the vietnam war in 1968. He is also an outsstanding modern war poet. His poems are powerful , incisive, sometimes shocking, deeply thoughtful and deeply felt. Here I reprint this poem to reflect a different mode, on today Rememberance Sunday.
Today I remember the hundreds of million slaughtered by swords, bombs and guns, vaporised into shadows on broken walls, the innocent lost, the propoganda, that dishonours peoples lives, the plunder and the carnage,  histories full of lies and deceit.
Heddwch/peace,

Remember Me

I was once the pride of this country,
The healthy, the young, the strong and brave,
Then I quickly became the acceptable casualty
In my country's undeclared war
In the name of national interest,
A country where I was too young to vote!

I went because I was still too young
to know any better, though others
Cleverly refused or ran away to hide.
I never once dreamed my own government
Would ever lie to its own people,
But I was mistaken and they did for years.

I fought their war in a hell for one year
Then came home and found another hell
Awaiting from thevery people and country
who determined I go in the first place
Then their war, suddenly became mine,
And I was the converted scapegoat!

Today, I am the broken bodies and minds
Shunted off out of sight, behind heavy doors
Of VA hospitals and mental wards to die
I am in wheel chairs and braces, in hospital beds;
I walk the streets, I wander the railroad tracks,
I sleep beneath the stars.

Albert Camus (7/11/13 - 4/1/60) - His Enduring Appeal

A 100 years  after his birth, and more than half  a century after his untimely death, Albert Camus still resonates with the modern world. On 4 January, 1960, this writer, intellectiual, and absurdist philosopher skidded of the road  whilst a passenger in a car, and was killed instantly.
On all accounts  he was of  a sensitive nature, a seeker of maximum unity. An admirer of revolutionary syndicalism, anarchists, conscientious objectors, and all manner of rebels. Standing against totalitarianism in the form of Stalinism and fascism, and was never afraid to speak his truth.
Born in extreme poverty, in French ruled Algeria, to an illiterate mother who was partially deaf, who lost his father in the horror that was  World War 1, despite tremendous disadvantages by the age of 44 he was collecting the Nobel Prize for literature.
At the time his philosophical writings, which  continued the themes explored in his novels - the absurdity of the human condition and the necessity of rebelling against it, were not popular with critics, but his words and their power live on. Does the realization of the absurd reguire suicide? " No" Camus answered it requires revolt. " The struggle itself is enough to fill a man's heart."
Long have I been an admirer of this man who was not afraid to preach justice, to reconsider his stance, to take candour and reflect, to be as honest as he thought best .After all there is no authority but yourself.
With this year being  his centenary year, I am sure  there will be a renaissance of interest in this great man, this visionary of the absurdity of life,  who expressed so articulately  that human life  is rendered ultimately meaningless by the fact of death, his themes of the alienated stranger, or outsider, the rebel in revolt,  tempered by his own experience,  showing us the readers, the individuals paths where  we can truly be free.
He has undoubtedly become one of the most profoundly original thinkers of the modern age. For him the urge to revolt was one of the ' essential dimensions' of the human race, seen in man's continuous struggle against the conditions of his existence, through solidarity and our shared humanity.
It was his persistent efforts 'to illuminate the problem of the human conscience in our time' that were one of the main reasons he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1957, and I for one am very grateful to have discovered his enduring words, that  continue to flow with inspiration.

" Thus I draw from the absurd three consequences, which are my revolt, my freedom, and my passion" -  from, Albert Camus's famous celebrated essay The Myth of Sisyphus.

An earlier post with more biographical detail can be read here :-

Albert Camus - The Smoking Philosopher

http://teifidancer-teifidancer.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/albert-camus-71113-4160-smoking.html


Pictures and Quotes from Albert Camus

 

Albert Camus - The Man who made thinking cool;
music by the Velvet Underground

Camus and the Stranger ( Rare BBC documentary)

 

 

Autumn Rhythm

          
                         Jackson Pollock's Autumn Rhythm; 1950 

Crossing the Bridge of sighs,
I return home to write,
to fill in blank pages,
with vapours of love and rage,
shadows pass, intervening with time,
holding on and letting go,
in moments of silent whisper.
Winter wraps around my breath,
drifting over autumns flight,
dreams drift, vast and unbound,
releasing immaculate flames of hope.
The daily surge of passion,
undertakes its sustaining journey,
as meanings wake from cavernous sleep,
relinquishing visions of intent and faith,
into the lifeblood of growing destination,
and the kiss of tomorrow's promise.

Bonfire of Austerity

I know that I'm not the only one effected by depression, but on this day November the 5th, 2013, at least I am safe in the warm environs of a West Walian library. But I really wish I could have mustered up some energy, and taken to the streets, to join other people who really have had enough, as this manufactured austerity rings and their darkness implodes, I commend people now full of indignation, burning bright with rage.
Today hundreds of anti-austerity campaigners will converge on Westminster Bridge, to express anger at the the failed government  economic policies. To protest against the Tory's continued assault on the very fabric of the state, and on the most vulnerable members of society, in particularly the poor, the ill, the unemployed and the disabled.
Parallell protests will be taking place all across Britain as part of the 'Bonfire of Austerity' which was initially set up  by the Peoples Assembly Against Austerity initiativehttp://thepeoplesassembly.org.uk/. These actions are supported by more than 25 groups including trade unions and pressure groups , and will see giant energy bills set on fire to highlight the growing living costs and falling wages which are now the sharpest in Europe.
The mainstream media will probably avoid reporting it, but the spirit of dissent lives on. People raging with defiance against a government that simply does not give a ****.
Anonymous are also getting involved with their own 'Million Mask March' campaign http://millionmaskmarch.org/locations. Am sure it will be a blast.

 Gil Scot Herons might have  said 'The Revolution will not be televised', but enough is enough the people cry, remember, remember the 5th of November.

.

Anna Kavan (10/4/01 -5/12/68) - On Truth

Recently discovered the work of Anna Kavan. Born Helen Woods, in Cannes, France. Kavan was the main character in her novel Let Me Alone.
A lifelong heroin addict she adopted the name after a spell in  asylums in Switzerland and England.
As well as being  a writer, she was also a talented painter and interior designer.
Her early writings were fairly conventional, but after changing her name, her works took on a more transformative air. Apparently she also used to daily take amphetimines whilst writing.
Her books seem to weave between a fevered imagination that finds their way into her often unclassifiable books, that are  filled with hauntingly surreal magical landscapes. They contain an otherworldly strangeness that I like a lot.
She was to become an influence on writers as diverse as Doris Lessing, J.G. Ballard, Anais Nin and Jean Rhys.
She was sadly  found dead in her London home clutching a syringe. If you have not read her previously, I strongly recommend you checking her out.

Stark Vision - detail from self-portrait by Anna Kavan

The following is an extract from her 1947 book ( a classic in my humble opinion) Sleep Has  His house.

' TRUTH, it's everything. The man who said, What is truth?  certainly touched on a big subject. The  truth of the matter is that there's far too much truth in the world. The world, from whichever you observe it, is altogether too full of truth. It isn't easy to recognise this truth in the first place, but it's impossible ever to ignore it once it's been grasped.
Every single possibility or impossibility is true somewhere to someone at some time. It's true that the earth is as round as an orange and as flat as a pankcake. It's true that the wicked island goddess Ragda is a good goddess when she takes off her mask. Black magic on top, white magic underneath. That proves that black's whit, doesn't it?
It's true that the idea odf America is a bright and shining thing in the mind. It's true that the idea of America is a crude and brutal land inhabited by adolescents and gangsters.
Defeatism's true; war's true. So's idealism and the hope of a better society. You pay your money and you take your choice. Civilisation's gone down the drain. Utopia's just round the corner.
It's true that civilization marches on: atomic energy plus universal war. The Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah; H.M.V, recording. That's a truth, although universal war. There's the truth that you go to bed with and the truth that wakes you up at three o'clock in the morning when the tigers are jumping up and down on the roof and eternity is flapping at the earth like somebody shaking a rug. the truth of loving and hating, being an extrovert and an introvert, a success and a failure, travelling all over the world, living your whole life in one place, having security, accepting all risks. Then there's the truth that you find with the dirty glasses stacked in the sink. That's a different sort of truth.
Books continue to be written in one truth and read in another. The radio announces various kinds of truth to suit every listener. Atomic warfare is true and so is the Sermon ofon the Mount. Truth is everywhere, in eveything, all the time. That's why it's true. It's true that all this is obvious and has been said often before. That truth's as true as any other truth too.'

 

Primo Levi (31/7/19 - 11/4/87) - If This is a Man

( dedicated this  new year morning to Ian Duncan Smith) 

You who live safe
In your warm houses
you who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud,
Who does not know peace,
Who fights for a scrap of bread,
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is  a woman
Without hair and without name,
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.

Meditate that this came about:
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts
At home, in the street,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children.

Or may your house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.

The Presence

Today marks Halloween, Samhain, All Hallows, All Saints or Winters Eve,The Festival of the Dead. There are several explanations for its origin, one being the Roman festival of the dead 'Parentalia', but another origin, not necessarily exclusive from the Roman one, is from the ancient Celtic old day of Samhein (sa-wain). and most of the traditions that we celebrate on Halloween have its origins in Celtic/Gaelic Culture.
Samhein, which means November in Irish, was the end of summer and the harvest season in the Celtic calender. It was the last great feast held outdoors before the cold months to come. The last night of October also marked the ancient Celts New Years Eve. Marking the end of the summer and the beginning of Winter.
The Celts  believed that on Samhein, the veil between the living and the dead was dropped for one day, and the spirits of the living could intermingle with the spirits of the dead. The spirits that could now cross into the land of the kiving were dangerous, and often played tricks both playful and malevolent on theliving. In an effort to stop those spirits from meddling with the dead and playing tricks on them, the living would dress up in costumes and  masks in order to fool the spirits into thinking that they were one of them. This is where the idea of trick and treating comes from.
It was I guess the Christian religion  that replaced the early origins with it's own traditions and celebrations  with Pope Gregory 11 moving the christian holiday of 'all hollows Eve' from May 13th to November 1st  to coincide with the feast of Samhein, to downplay the festivals pagan roots, but in many parts of the world on this night special cakes and food are prepared for the dead and remember departed loved ones.
Over the years we have ended up with the modern commercialised, corporate version that is now known as halloween. But Samhein and its energy has bever fully died out and still burns bright.
The following is a poem that I have composed to mark the occasion. Happy Samhein have a magical time.

The Presence

There was a sprinke of magic  in the air,
drifting on a pitch black night,
as the wind hummed and cried,
bending and twisting,
its shadows and shapes.

We heard a knock,
rattling on the door,
we  slipped outside,
into the dark,
but no one was there,
just a cigarette,
smouldering on fallen autumn leaves.

A gust rose up,
a lost soul perhaps?
looking for shelter,
then we heard a primeaval roar,
its siren releasing,
an enticing whistle,
that connected us,
to the evenings presence,
peculiar figments,
poking at logic.

But we'd had enough of trickery,
it was getting to late to fathom,
we kissed goodnight,
sailed upstairs,
to the other side of the moon,
where we concealed our mysteries,
buried our illusion,
beyond the dance of spirits,
whirling through the cosmos.

Stop the gas and electricity rip-off

With news that energy companies have claimed  they should not face a windfall tax because  their £3.74 billion in profits are not " particularly big"  leaves me mightily pissed off to say the least. I at least have the comfort of libraries,( for now!) but  with soaring energy prices expected to kill at least 200 pensioners per day over Winter, this greed simply has to stop.
The tories  are sleeping comfortably as we freeze, we need to stop their coziness with corporate juggernauts and tax these companies now. Enough is enough.
The recent hikes in customer bills really has to stop,  hopefully todays  Energy and Climate Change Committee  will achieve something, but I am deeply sceptical.
Anyway here is a link to the big sixes recent profits, executive pay and bonuses.

http://www.leftfootforward.org/2013/10/bonuses-and-executive-pay-at-the-big-six-energy-firms/

Our current high energy prices are one of the most scandulous things goin on in this country at the moment, and has to be stopped, as people are left shivering, stuck between eating and keeping warm. It is also unbelievable that our utilities are no longer publicly owned.
We are being ripped off, it's  as simple as that the energy companies and this government deserverdly need to be demonised. We must keep up the pressure.
I urge people to sign the following petition.

Stop the gas and electricity rip-off

http://www.38degrees.org.uk/page/s/big-six-energy-petition#petition

 

Transitory ( a poem for Lou Reed 2/3/42 - 27/10/13 R.I.P)

White light, white heat
And another voice flys,
Yesterday the wind twisted
And velvet dreams
Scattered over New York streets.

Volatile tonque defused
A bright intensity,
Blurred into time
The universe shifted
Its pale blue eyes.

The black angel's 

Death song sang.

Goodnight ladies

Waiting for its man.
The satellite of love,

Hanging 'round
Walking on the wild side.

There's a bit of magic in everything
And then some loss to even things out,
After drinking alchemy at 80 mph
Another poet sleeps, does  not compromise,
Slipping slowly away, falling into our memory
To lanquidly whisper, over all tomorrow's parties,
Painting crooked lines from drifting clouds

Laden with chords of rebel attitude.

                                                                                                                                           

Dylan Thomas (27/10/14 -9/11/53) - Poem in October /

Today, the late great Dylan Thomas would have turned 99. I have always been a great  admirer of his life and his unfailing commitment  to his craft, that continue to inspire. Today I thought I'd celebrate his birth, with  one  of his fine poems. Raise a glass and enjoy. We will be hearing a lot more about him next year, what with it being the centenary of this legends birth.

Poem in October

 It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbours wood
     And the mussel pooled and the heron
               Priested shore
          the morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
        Myself to set foot
             That second
  In the still sleeping town and set forth

 My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
    Above the farms and the white horses
                And I rose
       in rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
      Over the border
          And the gates
  Of the town closed as the town awoke.


 A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
   Blackbirds and the sun of October
            Summery
       On the hill's shoulder,
Here we found climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where i wandered and listened
      To the rain wringing
           Wind blow cold
  In the wood faraway under me.

  Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea the wet church the size of a snail
    With its horns through mist and the castle
              Brown as owls
        But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
         There could I marvel
              My birthday
 Away but the weather turned around.

It  turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
     Streamed agan a wonder of summer
              With apples
         Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
          Through the parables
              Of sun light
  And the legends of the green chapels


  And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
     These were the woods the river and the sea
               Where a boy
        In the listerning
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
       And the mystery
            Sang alive
   Still in the water and singingbirds.

   And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
    Joy of the long dead child sang burning
               in the sun
        It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there in the summer moon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
          O may my hear's truth
              Still be sung
  On this high hill in a year's turning.

1945