A poem by the great Palestinian Poet Mahmoud Darwish, to mark the 39th anniversary of Palestinian Land Day, which is marked by Palestinians by protesting and planting olive trees near the so called buffer zones of Gaza. Today commemorates the day when Israeli forces carried out a lethal and brutal military attack on unarmed Palestinians in 1976, who were peacefully protesting against Israeli apartheids land grab policies.
To our Land
To our land,
and it is the one near the word of god,
a ceiling of clouds
To our land,
and it is the one far from the adjectives of nouns,
the map of absence
To our land,
and it is the one tiny as a sesame seed,
a heavenly horizon ... and a hidden chasm
To our land
and it is the one poor as a grouses wings
holy books . . . and an identity wound
To our land,
and it is the one surrounded with torn hills,
the ambush of a new past
To our land, and it is a prize of war,
the freedom to die from longing and burning
and our land, in its bloodied night
is jewel that glimmers for the far upon the far
and illuminates whats outside it . . .
As for us , inside,
we suffocate more !
Today we say goodbye ,to Mike, legendary local keyboard maestro, jazz aficionado, potter of great delicacy. My thoughts go out to his family and friends.
Safe travelling.
Today would have been the birthday of one of my favourite beat Poets Gregory Corso,11 years after his death I still remember him, here's two poems by the great man, I thought I'd share.
I Held A Shelley Manuscript
My hands did numb to beauty
as they reached into Death and tightened!
O sovereign was my touch
upon the tan-ink's fragile page!
Quickly, my eyes move quickly,
sought for smell for dust for lace
for dry hair!
I would have taken the page
breathing in the crime!
For no evidence have I wrung from dreams-
yet what triumph is there in private credence?
Often, in some steep ancestral book,
when I find myself entangled with leopard-apples
and torched-skin mushrooms,
my cypressean skein outreaches the recorded age
and I, as though tipping a pitcher of milk,
pour secrecy upon the dying page.
Tranformation and Escape
1
I reached heaven and it was syrupy.
It was oppressively sweet.
Croaking substances stuck to my kness.
Of all substances St.Michael was stickiest.
I grabbed him and pasted him on my head.
I found God a gigantic fly paper.
I stayed out of his way.
I waled where everything smelled of burnt chocolate.
Meanwhile St.Michael was busy with his sword
hacking away at my hair.
I found Dante standing naked in a blob of honey.
Bears were liocking his thighs.
I snatched St Michael's sword
and quartered myself in a great circular adhesive.
My torso fell upon an elastic equilibrium.
As though shot from a sting
my torso whizzed at God fly paper.
My legs sank into some unimaginable sog.
My head, though weighed with the weight of St.Michael,
did not fall.
Fine strands of multi-coloured gum
suspended it there.
My spirit stooped by my snared torso.
I pulled! I yanked! Rolled it left to right!
It bruised! It softened! It ould not free!
The struggle of an Eternity!
An eternity of pulls! of yanks!
Went back to my head,
St. Micael had sucked dry my brainpan!
Skull!
My skull!
Only skull in heaven!
Went to my legs.
St Peter was polishing his sandals with my knees!
I pounced upon him!
Pummelled his face in sugar in hioney in marmalade!
Under each arm I fled with my legs!
The police of heaven were in hot pursuit!
I hid within the sop of St Francis
Gasping in the confectionary of his gentility
I wept, caressing my intimidated legs.
2
They caught me.
They took my legs away.
They sentenced me in the firmanent of an ass.
The prison of an Eternity!
An Eternity of labor! of hee-haws!
Burdened with the soiled railment of saints
I schemed escape,
Lugging ampulae its daily fill
I schemed escape.
I schemed climbing impossible mountains.
I schemed under the Virgin's whip,
I schemed the sound of celestial joy.
I schemed to the sound of earth,
the wail of infants,
the groans of men,
the thud of coffins.
I schemed escape.
God was busy switching the spheres from hand to hand.
The time had come.
I cracked my jaws.
Broke my legs.
Sagged belly-flat on plow
on pitchfork
on scythe.
My spirit leaked from the wounds.
A whole spiri pooled.
I rose from the carcass of my torment.
I stood in the brink of heaven.
And I swear that Great Territory did quake
when I fell free.
Nigel Farage, tosses of allegations of racism, again and again, like it was a bad joke, having lost a fourth candidate, he releases again , his sickly smile and again ignores the ugly truth.
It is completely unacceptable, however he likes to see it, his most enthusiastic supporter is the Leader of the Neo-Nazi Organisation; Britain First, who goes by the name of Paul Golding.
A far right racist, that detests ordinary people, the working class, anybody that was not born here, who wants to see a right wing government elected that will hurt and damage people, mainly the disadvantaged and the poor.
His organisation are a vile paramilitary styled far right nationalist group, who have been responsible for vigilante actions against mosques, Golding himself a thug who has been convicted of harrassment, his band of nazis responsible for stirring up racial hatred, whose origins lie in the extreme wings of the Ulster Loyalism.
Beneath their publicity stunts and the hoodwinking of many on facebook and other forms of social media, the ugly face of fascism lurks.
The similarity with UKIP is strong, an organisation full of racists and extremists, here lies a dark murky world. Britain First are often seen as the self-appointed defence force of UKIP. They like UKIP are endlessly saying their views are misinterpreted, under threat of censorship, however they have a policy of purging their pages of any critical contact and banning dissenting voices from ever coming back.
Combined with a history of intimidation, behold, these new footsoldiers of Farage's fascist state. It is a simple case of UKIP at the ballot box and Britain First on the streets. They are simply peas of the same pod. However much Mr Farage likes to present his organisation, and tries to distance himself from their support and association, their ideological opinions are markedly similar, both trading in the language of hatred, fear and division.
People like these have no place on our society, as they seek to harm others, they must be stopped in their tracks, you can try at the ballot box, but better still on the streets.
No Pasaran/ They shall not pass.
As I grow older I percieve
Life has its tail in its mouth
and other poets other painters
are no longer any kind of competition
Its the sky that's the challenge
the sky that still needs deciphering
even as astronomers strain to hear it
with their huge electric ears
the sky that whispers to us constantly
the final secrets of the universe
the sky that breathes in and out
as if it were the inside of a mouth
of the cosmos
the sky that is the land's edge also
and the sea's edge also
the sky with its many voices and no god
the sky that engulfs a sea of sound
and echoes it back to us
as in a wave against a seawall
Whole poems whole dictionaries
rolled up in a thunderclap
And every sunset an action painting
and every cloud a book of shadows
through which wildly fly
the vowels of birds about to cry
And the sky is clear to the fisherman
even if overcast
He sees it for what it is :
a mirror of the sea
about to fall on him
in his wood boat on the dark horizon
We have to think of him as the poet
forever face to face with old reality
where no birds fly before a storm
And he knows what's coming down
before the dawn
and he's his own best lookout
listening for the sound of the universe
and singing out his sightings
of the land of the living.
SPIRIT OF THE CRUSADES
Stoney Wales
with its slate-grey roofs
in slate-grey Cardiff
and its greystone houses on greystone terraces
and its great high statue of
"The Spirit of the Crusades"
in the Wales National Museum
portraying a medieval knight
in grey metal armor and helmet
with visor down
on a great grey steed
with four grey foot soldiers
in close march abouthim
(two at the head of the horse
two behind)
wearing World War One helmets
and carrying World War One rifles
with fixed bayonets
And the Crusades are over
but they are still marching
over the grey sea-locked land
in a dead march
straight through the twentieth century
In tribute to recently departed Daevid Allen of Soft Machine and Gong, and friend of William Burroughs, UK and video artist Cynack created a psychedelic realisation of "Occupy", the video covers 13.8 billion years of capitalism.
Visual artist Anna Teresa Fernandez, powerfully repaints the Mexican/US border, highlighting not just the ugliness of the fence, but the ugliness of the policies and attitudes that helped to build and create this montrosity in the first place. She confronted the fence by putting on her black dress and painting the sky blue. Unfortunately this ugly wall is still here, as are others like the ones to be seen in Palestine and the West Bank.This border stretches for 1.969 miles, a symbol of oppression, a dividing line between cultures, a physical expression of the contempt for the poor, legislators have. It does not seem to solve problems but adds to the tension and racism and discrimination, but does not hinder peoples need for survival. Despite it, many still have a furious desire to cross it, with migrants not only facing dangers posed by an unforgiving desert, but also abuse at the hands of US Border guards, risking all, dehydration, starvation and exhaustion, and ultimately for hundreds every year death, trying to succeed. It should be noted that up to 60% of illegal US-Mexican Border crossings, actually succeed. I personally believe it is time to make all borders disappear. Link to artists webpage :- http://anateresafernandez.com/
