Chorus of anger at IDF border killings.

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Chorus of anger at IDF border killings / World / Home - Morning Star

Fire in the stubble - Samuel Taylor Coleridge (21/10/1772 - 25/7/1834)

The pre-eminence of truth over falsehood, even when occasioned by that truth, is as a gentle fountain breathing from forth its air - let into the snow piled over and around it, which it turns into its own substance, and flows with greater murmur; and though it be again arrested, still it is but for a time; - it awaits only the change of the wind, to awake and roll onwards its ever increasing stream
...
  ... But falsehood is fire in the stubble; - it likewise turns all the light stuff around it into its own substance for a moment, one crackling blazing moment, - and then dies; and all its converts are scattered in the wind, without place or evidence of their existence, as view less as the wind which scatters them.

FROM:-
Table Talk
1812

But sometimes perhaps like the old romancers, things can  get re-remembered, the pursuit of truth is a chimera. Some also say that all men are born liars
When one person says something, often is the case, that you will find an opposite point of view. Today, I have arrived in pessimist harbour, I absolve myself though of any responsibility..

Hay ( Y Gelli) Reflections.

The Wye Valley

tempests hurled at night,
stars collided, with satellites.
We followed words, broken thoughts
pages half-spun, where cross-currents of
discourse floated, and barometric register floated..
Walked through jerky visual fields
mountain breeze cooled, truth was near
homespun philosophy of heartache and tear.
Where some of us wander, we wander still
belonging to no one, effective enough to be invisible,.
time overtakes us all, elapses into  moments as orison unfolds
balancing acts, hands stretched out, edged on by memory
conjurers in quick succession, weave their magic.
To Abergavenny,in search of currents, threads
a poets footprints, led us there
ghosts of elecricity, whispered in the air
drifting, transforming with raw energy
as echoe reverberated, and nothing lay naked
abstract motion ,danced drunkenly in the foreground
followed waking streams, where chaos bubbled into order
passionate nature ,ran its course
lists were meaningless as moments pursued.,
Ferociously walking, relearning iaith
we translated everything into ourselves,
there are traditions, that carry the truth of seasons
at the end of the day our tongues released
secrets shared beyond the borders.

The survival of anglo-welsh - Peter Finch

The Dylan Thomas characteristic - an observers guide

1. Appropriation of the poems of others. Parts or wholes.   No significent gains, no transformation of status or wealth. Small beer, this occasional failing.

2. Imitation of dogs in pubs.

3. Petty localized thefts of no apparent significance.

4. The inevitable and horrible desire to please. An overcoming of smiles, small voiced thank-yous. An accumulation of kindnesses for future use.

5. Misplaced coarseness.

6. Wordy, complex landscape through haze, the image and the arm the same. Some kind of absolute hold on the vague.

7. Incontinence in pubs.

8. Small success with women. Unsubstantiated claims. A fear of demons and an uncertainty over power.

10. Ultimately a walking through the land without reference to it. A being it. A living through it and in it with no need at all for names.

Reprinted from Poetry Wales
Volume 13 No. 3
1977.

Right I'm off for a bit, for some rewiring amd maintenence, off to the town of books Hay-on-Wye if truth be told. Herbal highs packed, now off searching for some inspiration. Will follow freedom and see where that gets me,will be back soon.......in about a week I guess,  my business will carry on being of no importance I hope, so I go away to travel within, avoid all oppressive thoughts - there will be nothing further to add until then, unles I find a portal somewhere on my journey.
Good health all,
remove all borders
heddwch/peace.

Gil Scott-Heron R.I.P 1/4/49 - 27/4/11

Just heard the news that Gil Scot Heron has passed away , so sad, a true legend, inspiration and hero to me.
Another light blown out in the world.

Where did the Night Go - Gil Scot Heron

Long ago the clock washed midnight away
Bringing the dawn
Oh God, I must be dreaming
Time to get up again
ASnd time to start up again
Pulling on my socks again
Should have been asleep
When I was sitting there drinking beer
And trying to start another letter to you
Don't know how many times I dreamed to write again last night
Should've been asleep when I turned the stack of records over and over
So I wouldn't be up by myself
Where did the Night go?
Should go to sleep now
And say fuck a job and money
Because I spend it all on unlined paper and can't get past
" Dear, baby, how are  you?"
Brush my teeth and shave
Look outside, sky is dark
Think it may rain
Where did the night go
Where did the night go
Where did the night go

Soon the Revolution will be shared , whether you are my friend on facebook or not, and will be available for free.

R.I.P Gil Scot Heron

Earlier post here https://teifidancer-teifidancer.blogspot.co.uk/2010/02/gil-scott-heron-ladies-and-gentlemen.html

Ned Thomas - The Welsh Extremist ( free P.D.F) / Supermarket ( a poem).

When this 'little red ' book of the Welsh ' Seventies first appeared it was widely and favourably recieved.
A tremendous book with so much range, I  remember a battered copy someone gave me back in the 1980's, now long replaced with 1991 re-issue, still rather battered at the edges, but that's what a well thumbed book looks like. This classic of Welsh polemics is is now available free as a P.D.F from Cymdeithas y Iaith's homepage ( The Welsh Language Society) . Still essential and valid.
Niall Griffiiths a writer I admire, said of it " Non fiction, and frightening, not because of its promotion of militancy,heck no, but because of its revelations and clear analysis concerning the insiduous and evil hegemonic takeover of whole countries, and their ways of life. It still speaks on behalf off all oppressed nations and the individual creative effort threatened by the barren swamp of enforced uniformity.As vital now as it was in the 70's, and as important as Franz Fanon's, The Wretched of the Earth. Endorsed by Raymond Williams, and he knew a thing or two.
 A grasp of contemporary theories that were well ahead of their time, a book inevitably tied up with my nations language, a place of roads ,so to speak where for many the issue of identity and language are inseparable.  But Mr Thomas ( who went on to found  'Planet', by the way, one of Wales's leading cultural and literary magazines) in his clarity, manages to pass on his  strong message, realising Welsh themes abut setting them free into an internationalist socialist context. Perhaps it is time that our collective consiousness are reawakened,and radicalised the energy is there, the flame still burns,..
Link here

http://archif.cymdeithas.org/dadlwytho/ned-thomas-the-welsh-extremist.pdf

and interesting piece here as well

http://ytwll.com/?s=Ned+Thomas

He was also a fine poet too.

Supermarket - a poem by Ned Thomas

Sometimes I think I would like a spell in prison
In a humane country, for a political offence;
Somewhere where the library service is efficient
Or Scandinavia, where the wives come in at weekends.

But better still in nineteenth-century Russia
To be exiled from the capital with friends,
And between the talk and drink to write the scriptures
Of our blinding human future without end.

To live rough and die fighting is also an ideal
(Guevara testifies) not yet out of date,
Like the soft cities to the high sierra, our trivial
Existence to the life we contemplate,

And the peasant ways are comely whatever you say
About hardship and early death. Ripe apples are stored
For the winter, no visiting stranger pays
For his wine, and the year goes round as before.

Choosing identities in a mad supermarket
(O packaged metaphor, bring me to a decision)
Good poets go home and wryly dig the garden.
Sometimes I think I shouyld like a spell in prison.

FROM :-
Poetry Wales
Volume 5 Winter 1969

dog dream - Patti Smith

have you seen
dylan's dog
it got wings
it can fly
if you speak
of it to him
its the only
time dylan
can't look you in the eye

have you held
dylan's snake
it rattles like a toy
it sleeps in the grass
it coils in his hand
it hums and it strikes out
when dylan cries out
when dylan cries out

have you pressed
to your face
dylan's bird
dylan's bird
it lies on dylan's hip
it lies on dylan's hip
trembles inside of him
it drops upon the ground
it rolls with dylan round
it's the only one
who comes
when dylan comes

have you seen
dylan's dog
it got wings
it can fly
when it lands
like a clown
he's the only
thing allowed
to look dylan in the eye

FROM:-
Early Work 1970-1978
Patti Smith
W.W. Norton, New York 1995.

So happy 70th Birthday Bob Dylan
I doubt we ever get to the end of the story,
to believe in it, is often enough.
Don't ask me what it means I have no idea,
sometimes we learn , sometimes we don't,
the spirit of songs touched, through  the ages.
he never really gave an answer on China,
did he? Still as elusive as ever,
 practiced hard his techniques,
hey don't we all copy, imitate
I like it when he goes walking with raw poetry.
sometimes I can listen for hours, sometimes!
Long may his nasal twang call,
in the middle of nowhere,
rolling around like tumbleweeds,
solitary, sceptical, wise?
leading us
somewhere outside of our selves?

" May you have a strong foundation
when the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young."