A Short Musical Interlude

Enjoy.

Jussi Björling & Robert Merrill - Pearl Fishers Duet

The Ballad of Reading Goal

Each man kills the thing he loves,
by each let this be heard.
Some do it with a bitter look,
some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
the brave man with a sword.

Some kill their love when they are young,
some when they are old.
Some strangle with the hands of lust,
some with the hands of gold.
The kindest use a knife because,
the dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little,
some too long, some buy and other sell.
Some do the deed with so many tears,
and some without a sigh.
For each man kills the thing he loves,
yet each man does not die.

Oscar Wilde: The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Music and Poetry For The Weekend: Rod McKuen

Barack Obama: Nowhere Man

You might think a poem about George Bush is a funny way to introduce a post about Barack Obama, but for me it makes sense, there is a parallel, which I'm sure won't be lost on you.

Whereas Bush squandered the good will of the world, as described by the Australian poet, Manfred Vijars, Obama has done something far more unforgivable to something far more precious than goodwill. He has taken the hope that was placed in him by a trusting electorate, the hope for a genuine new beginning, hope for change, hope for some kind of justice for all Americans, he has taken that hope, not squandered it, for in fact hope cannot be squandered, it can only be, in the case of Obama, crushed, cast to the ground as something worthless and trampled underfoot.

Not a criminal act, as those of his predecessor, but something rather worse, something quite heinous in fact, betrayal. He betrayed his people, but he has betrayed hope itself.

I first posted this in 2007, there a few lines in there that could have been written yesterday.


Dubya You've Spent What Wasn't Yours To Spend

You have spent the good will of the world

A Poem From Oz
A Cynical Sceptic

This piece came about as a result of the Cole enquiry into the Australian Wheat Board (AWB) inquiry paying "commissions" to Saddam Hussein to accept our exports.
Not a single individual (in the AWB) received a benefit, but our wheat-farmers retained their Iraqi market short term.

A Cynical Sceptic

There's a bucket load of crap that's being spread around the world
and were tugging on the coat tails of the biggest flag unfurled,
I can't believe the bullshit that our pollies try to push-
For "Freedom and Democracy" and their pall bearer "Bush"!

The world stood 'with' our Yankee mates that sad September day
and strained real hard against the bit to leap into the fray
to show those evil mongrels that you just can't do that stuff!
We waited for the invite so we'd stand together tough.

And George, your European allies, you treated with disdain?
Piss on your mates to stand alone? where's your bloody brain?
The principals you represent, you've trampled underfoot.
Withdrawal of rights! pre-emptive strikes! (Morality's hard put!)

We joined you in Afghanistan. That was just and right!
But you bombed a bit, sprayed some shells and then just left the fight?
Hell-bent on another path - left the Afghans in the mire
to purse some flaky doctrine that your "Neocons" aspire.

The mongrels of September hailed from countries far and wide
Tunisia, Algeria and Saudi 'rabia's side.
Were trained in the Afghan', Sudan and Yemenee
their funds came through Italian banks and those of Germany.

Some met in Indonesia and Malaysia no duress-
were taught to fly, (and here's the rub) you guessed it-the Us!
Those countries-"there" were all involved in that September's whack.
The logical response? You say - "We must attack Iraq!"

That despots should be toppled so their people can be free
is appropriate, but bloody hell, not so selectively.
Mugabe is an evil prick who gives his people hell
but do you care for suffering there? Not that I can tell!

To justify agendas "hid" you create a smoking gun!
Bullshit is still bullshit mate, no matter how it's "spun."
No Balkan Coalition where the World united stood
against one mongrel despot to get rid of him for good!

Now we can't point the finger 'cause we're also hypocrites
in our trading practises and that gives me the shits!
We slip some backdoor money to the biggest prick around
while standing tall with hand on heart, profess we're honour bound.

Howard, Vale and Downer are three pretty astute blokes
yet their amnesia's "collective"? - More like collective jokes.
Three hundred million dollars, and they can't remember squat?
If we tried that, we wouldn't last! they'd have us damn well shot!

Our leaders puff their chests out while strutting on World's stage
treating us like kindergarten kids not not quite of age.
Beating drums for false crusades through doctrines they impel -
you lied to us you bastards! May you rot in fucken hell!!

Reprinted with kind permission of Manfred Vijars copyright - 2006

The Nowhere Man
by William Rivers Pitt,
5 April 2011


So, yeah, Obama is in. The President of the United States officially threw his hat into the 2012 election ring on Monday morning, and the nation reacted with a resounding, "Oh."

What a mess.

It wasn't even two and a half years ago. Can you believe it? Two and a half years ago, there was a detonation of optimism that echoed across the country once the returns were in on that November night. People took to the streets here in Boston, literally banging pots and pans together as they danced and shouted in celebration. The scene was repeated in city after city and town after town, and even the "mainstream" media gushed from election night to Inauguration Day about the spectacular moment in American history we were all witnessing together.

Hindsight, however, tells us today that much of that optimism was wildly misplaced. The long shadow of George W. Bush still hung low and dark over the land, as it does even now. That was part of it, of course, part of the sense of expiation and purgation so many felt once the deal went down; on that November night, the national nightmare of Mr. Bush's presidency was writing its final pages, and then came January, and he was gone. Despite all the failures and disappointments that have since come, those were two very good days.

And there have been disappointments. A great, great many of them. The words we heard were beautiful back then, soaring and sure, and many believed. How could they not? Here was this new president who could sing the birds down from the trees, who was introduced to the country in 2004 by way of a convention keynote address that blew the roof off the joint. Some years later, along the jagged, wending path of a brutal primary campaign, candidate Obama was carried to the nomination by the power of his words, and yes, many believed, even in spite of themselves.

But then he won it all, and two and a half years later, many of his most ardent supporters now hear his words and taste ashes in their mouths. You campaign in poetry, someone once said, but you govern in prose. The poetry was magnificent. The prose, in far too many ways, has been dreck, and those who believed now find themselves more demoralized than they can easily describe.

He and his fellow Democrats all but folded on health care, leaving us with less than half a loaf. He backtracked on Guantanamo, and doubled down on Afghanistan. He promised to erase Bush's tax cuts for the wealthy, and broke his oath shamelessly, to his party's great lament in 2010. Wall Street stands unmolested at the center of his counsel, while Main Street withers on the vine. He is flipping missiles into Libya while flipping off the American people by racing to "compromise" with brigands and thieves on the matter of how many billions to cut. He has, to be sure, had his share of victories, but in so many critical ways, he has been the Nowhere Man, the absence of what was so seemingly present when he was elevated to his current station.

What galls the most, what infuriates and confounds, is the brazen clarity of the situation at hand. Mr. Obama has not been losing policy arguments to reasonable people. He has been losing policy arguments to people who are, in many instances, absolutely and unabashedly barking mad. He is losing policy arguments to people who sought elected office in government in order to denude and destroy that very government. Listen to them talk and the matter is plain: they got the job to destroy the job, and are so blinded by the fervour of their political catechism that they cannot be reasoned with under any circumstances. They are destroyers and usurpers, but Mr. Obama has time and again bared his neck to them, and we have all suffered with their sundry victories, and his sundry defeats. more truthout

Suicide In The Trenches

.
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967)
.

Assud The Bunny And Cartoon Jihad

Update; All the vids were down, so apart from this little bit, I have trashed the rest of the post.

.

I think the best introduction to this six minute video (full script below) is not to rant about what is being directed at these kids but to offer a poem by Philip Larkin, one time a nominee for poet lauriet.
Just change mum and dad to adults and apply the poem to every kid that is subjected to religious dogma, no matter what denomination and no matter in which country.

As you might guess the screen capture at that particular moment wasn't accidental, being a bit of a fan of irony and all that.


This be the verse
 

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

Phillip Larkin. 1922-80

A Wee Poem. The Saga McCann

.
As always (in my case) trusting memory ain't the smartest thing to do.
Consequently I haven't a cue where I lifted this wee ditty from, all I know it was posted somewhere by IRONSIDE, and to you Sir a doff of the cap if not indeed a mighty flourish of the hat.



Back in May our Madeleine,
Vanished while we had a gin.
We never got to go for dinner,
Unless we put a dope pill in ‘er.
When Kate checked up – I had to make ‘er,
“They” had had the gall to take ‘er!
We all jumped up and had a search,
That brat had left us in the lurch.
Then Katie said, “Oh never mind ‘er.
Call Sky News and they can find ‘er.”
But still the case was not resolved
And so policemen got involved.
We printed lots of photos of ‘er,
But then we thought, “Why should we bother?”
If we set up a fund instead,
Others can find her – we’ll stay in bed.
So we dumped the twins inside a crèche,
And learned to live our lives afresh.
We went on shows, we went on telly,
Our lips a-quiver, like raspberry jelly,
We begged the crowds to give us cash,
And amassed a tidy little stash.
We practised looking devastated
Our lust for fame could not be sated.
Every day was filled with hope,
We even got to meet the Pope!
He said to Kate, “Bless you, my child”,
And Katie simpered, blushed and smiled.
Then gazed towards the camera crew,
With doeful eyes and woe anew.
Then at a press meet, some H*n git,
Went and asked us if we’d done it?
We said, “How dare you! What a farce!
Look at us – we’re middle class!”
Well, not quite that, but that’s the gist
And we crossed her off our Christmas list.
Then the police came round to call
And said they’d found blood on the wall,
Philomena, round and fat,
Said it could have been a gnat.
And, you know, it could be true,
Mosquitoes leave a death scent too.
How’s a dog supposed to tell,
If someone is alive and well?
But it’s OK – they don’t suspect us,
The Portuguese love and respect us.
And so does everyone, it seems!
We are the stuff of poor folks’ dreams.
We’re classy and so dignified,
We’ve never screamed or retched or cried.
We don’t attempt a dirty search,
Instead we sit inside the Church,
Kate folds the pages of her Bible,
And talks of Maddie’s unusual eyeball.
The press at home can’t get enough,
Of all this ‘wonderful parents’ stuff,
They rightly tell the common classes,
All our critics are jumped-up a*ses.
But the Portuguese are not so nice,
Their press are looking at us twice.
They ask why we left the kids alone,
But EVERYONE does this at home.
They’re dropping hints – the feeling is
We have something to do with this!
It’s hurtful, unhelpful and just not true,
(Well, it might be, but we’re not telling you.)
The evidence grows day-by-day,
It’s all a bunch of lies, we say.
They’ve found death scent inside our car,
And the mileage has gone up too far,
There’s bodily fluids where the wheel should be,
(Hey, that’s just where we told the twins to wee.)
They’re claiming they’ve found DNA,
But is it Madeleine’s – who can say?
They’ve found a great big clump of hair,
But we say that they put it there.
“We cannot trust these Keystone cops!”
Katie rants and raves and strops.
They take us in and say we did it
And ask us where on Earth we hid it.
We will not answer such accusations
We use our initial allegations,
“Maddie was taken by a bunch of paedos!”
But still they make us both arguidos
This is not good – this is quite bad,
And Kate is getting really mad.
We need to get her home, it’s clear
Or else the twins will disappear.
So off we went on EasyJet
But we weren’t beaten – no, not yet!
We got the most expensive brief
And the government’s worn-out P.R. chief
That chap Branson's agreed to pay,
A fool and his money, as they say.
We ridiculed the use of science,
A most discredited appliance,
Our friends and family spread the word,
That all these rumours are quite absurd.
They’re utterly ridiculous.
In fact, they’re downright ludicrous.
We know that Maddy is not dead,
She’s gone to a better place instead.
Wherever she is, whatever her fate,
She’s better off now than she would be with Kate

Two Short Poems

In contrast to yesterday's thoughtful piece, something a little lighter.

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends

It gives a lovely light.

Edna St. Vincent Millay


'tis just as well

In the customs shed

They search my bag

But not my head.
unknown

But if I remember correctly it came from:Nailing Colours; Poems of rebellion A wake up call for the twenty first century, Nailing Colours brings together eighty of the most talented and radical of contemporary voices, including SuAndi, David Bateman, Maya Chowdhry, Kevin Fegan, Rosie Lugosi, John Lyons, Cheryl Martin and Henry Normal. They show their colours with passion and caustic wit as they advocate personal and political revolutions. 'There's no sitting on the fence here - these poets are not afraid to voice their opinions, however unpopular, and they do so with great skill and assurance.'

Well worth a read for ageing and budding anarchists alike.

Porphyria's Lover

Porphyria's Lover

THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And call'd me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propp'd her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorn'd at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And yet God has not said a word!

Robert Browning.

Update: The discussed link in the comments section can be found here.

A Poem

I thought something a little different to end the day and perhaps in future I might post one or two more pieces of poetry. It is nice to escape now and then, I remember when life was all verse, my own as well as others.
A scene from my camera.


"TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE"

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

By James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915).

Monday Boops

'I loved my love with a platform ticket,
A jazz song,
A handbag, a pair of stockings of Paris Sand--
I loved her long.
I loved her between the lines and against the clock,
Not until death
But till life did us part I loved her with paper money
And with whisky on the breath.
I loved her with peacock's eyes and the wares of
Carthage,
With glass and gloves and gold and a powder puff
With blasphemy, camaraderie, and bravado
And lots of other stuff.
I loved my love with the wings of angels
Dipped in henna, unearthly red,
With my office hours, with flowers and sirens,
With my budget, my latchkey, and my daily bread.'

The Dangerous Deception Of "Dubya"

Inarticulate, dumb, fumbling. lazy, failed, ignorant, unworldly, under qualified, not a ticket you would choose to run on for the most responsible job in the world. Whether he ran on that ticket I do not know, when he did his running it was during my dropped out period, when the ways of the world meant nothing to me and I cared even less.

But ran he did and somehow managed to get elected, (yes I know, let's not go there) in spite of his more apparent shortcomings. Those with much more political savy than Bush could ever have, no doubt turning these shortcomings into political gain.

Just a simple boy from down home, inexperienced therefore uncorrupted man of the people, just what America needs, a god fearing dumbfuck President for a bunch of god fearing dumbfuck voters.

And how it worked, as millions upon millions associated with him and aligned themselves with him, "There's no harm in Gee Dubya, just a good ol' boy," and so was elected the dumbest, meanest, most under qualified, most dangerous President ever to sit his sorry arse in the White House.

And it worked so well, that no matter the amount of scorn or ridicule that rained down on this abject failure, he was forgiven. That he couldn't string a coherent sentence together or that his IQ was so obviously lacking, he was forgiven, in fact you could say he got away with murder, ho ho de fucking ho.

And to those of us who knew better, and I say us, for I am as guilty as others, we joined the chorus and took the easy route, almost an endorsement of the man and his policies really, instead of addressing matters with the gravity that they warranted,we just poured more ridicule on him as he and his bunch pursued their deadly agenda, no doubt laughing away quietly, as the ridicule ran, as did the proverbial water, from the backs of both ducks and men.

Having said this I hope you can still find some little humour in these Dubya and other American pol limericks. As I mentioned previously they fell with ease from the pen and none taking more than a minute or two to compile, whether they are any good or not is for you to judge and not I.
Most, if not all written in haste in replies to contemporary topics.

There are more featuring other pols and events, but for now, these.

All his life he's suffered affliction,
Such a looser, reads like bad fiction.
With all this power,
Should be "Man of the hour"
Somebody help him with his diction.

A halfwit did so aspire,
To positions lofty and higher.
The press sounding glum,
“We backed someone dumb”
Who would have thought such a liar.

I am a man of no great stature,
Diebold did the country capture.
Times were great,
In lone star state.
A nuke or two then the rapture.

President number forty three,
Part the job foreign policy.
Condi give me a lesson,
So I'm not guessin.
Just where all these countries be.

Georgie Porgie pudding 'n pie,
Told the voters one big lie.
Swallowed whole by the trolls,
Now he's tanking in the polls.
Three more years collective sigh.

To those that swallow his credo,
Albeit his IQ is zero.
I have to say,
In my limerick today.
Don't make a half-wit your hero.

Whitehouse crimes are almost blase,
Standards and morals in total decay.
Your presidency's flawed,
Don't go abroad.
You could end up like Pinochet.

For war how he hungered and lust,
Now it’s all turning to dust.
Gas so high,
Don’t look to the sky.
Not even in God can you trust.

A captain is no ordinary seaman,
He’s learned and adept for a reason.
To safely navigate,
The great ship of state.
But Dub, in hurricane season.?

Truthiness showed it's face today,
Must have soured the creme brulee.
Far from happy,
The President chappy.
Colbert you're next for Gitmo Bay.

Old gee dub gonna keep y'all secure,
Same old line you have to endure.
Forget the spin,
You're easy in.
When you're an active gay male whore.

You can't toot rocks says old Dubya Bush,
Better hit after credit card crush.
Must have order,
Fence the border.
Stay at home like my friend Rush.

Hey George you d man,
Can't do it? yes he can.
On this runaway train,
What can we gain.
Such fun, let's nuke Iran.

Much talk of truth has been said,
And fishes that rot from the head.
But makes me do wonder,
The words of boy blunder.
Could he lie straight in his bed.

For five long years he's been having his say,
From course once set he'll never stray.
Don't panic,
On Titanic.
"Hey there iceberg get outa my way."

Come back Napoleon Bonaparte,
In all the wars you did start.
You led from the front,
It weren’t no stunt.
That’s the message to impart.

Additions.

What a state the country's in,
Whitehouse bullshit wearing thin.
So we must,
In pardons trust.
One for you and one for him.

Tricky Dicky to Gerald said,
Be VP it's serious bread.
Just one favour,
Might need a saviour.
No problem, lets go ahead.

Do not fear so much to die,
When it comes one big sigh.
All I can say,
Won't be today.
The rapture's coming bye and bye.

There’s certain kind of fundie says you gotta abstinate,
Others chuck rocks if you find a little playmate.
When all said and done,
These religions can’t be fun.
If she wants to put out don’t hesitate.

(Leiberman)
In backing the war and its slaughters,
Joe ain’t doing what he ought to.
Like some two bit whore,
Of that you’re sure.
Just look at his sackful of quarters.

A Senator named Russ Fiengold,
Argued that truth be told.
From colleagues, scant backing,
Seems backbones are lacking.
Russ, you're out in the cold.

A Whitehouse aid named Scooter,
Did dastardly deeds for a shooter.
Outing an agent named Plame,
Got stuck with the blame.
Pity it wasn’t Anne Coulter.

Down the Straits of Hormuz,
Oil tankers perilous do cruise.
Should one get a rocket and sink,
Then problems abound me do think.
Dub, are you still on the booze?

Neocons have most surely,
Run the gov extremely poorly.
Better fun,
If they could run.
A piss up in a brewery.

Neocondi for VP,
What a site that would be.
It would be nice,
If little miss Rice.
Had a touch of diplomacy.

How easy the words would come over,
To rhyme and joke about Rover.
Better words I just might,
Scribble down and write.
After all, if Dub can get sober!

Well Karl what’s it to be,
Obstruction of justice or perjury.
Has shafting mizz Plame ,
Ended your game?
Bit of a shame national, security.

Double super secret girl called Plame,
Nobody ever heard her name.
Words from Rover,
Career over.
Nuclear intel down the drain.

Hurry up Armageddon,
Then I get my suit of lead on.
My spuds will grow.
With internal glow.
Serve up well with some gammon

Evil will not have the final say,
Let us all to god now pray.
I thought that you might,
Come down and smite.
Guess you're having a merciful day.

So much clamour he be put to the sword,
A lifetime sentence says the rest of the horde.
His sentence be,
If up to me.
I’d get him a crib in the lower ninth ward.

Can't get enough of corruption and graft,
Does my flying on private aircraft.
This here bill,
Keeps things still.
A fine example of our statecraft.

What's an honest dissenter to do.
Hail to King George but can't say boo.
Senate repent,
Remember Kent.
Patriot vanguard ACLU.

When I see or read or hear,
Folks all a quaking like frightened deer.
Government spin,
Has sucked you in.
Right where they want you, a climate of fear.

To make predictions is full of pitfalls,
Will it be sunny or will it be squalls.
Hard to predict,
A simple verdict.
That's why gypsies have glass balls.

Heartthrob Fitz is close to deciding,
Rover's neck is on this riding.
Fitz take care,
Of Gov. beware.
Accidents happen when hang gliding.

Young Stevey Colbert says he's a soaring,
All us Libs laughing and a roaring.
Poor trolls,
See the polls.
Red Alert tomorrow morning.

I’ve been reading your blog Sir, for the left such hate,
And of WMDs and the reasons you state.
That they were not found,
All scattered around.
The Coalition of Willing got there too late.

Tweety my nerves are on edge, how you do them grate
The way of the lapdog is normally castrate.
Your sweetheart is tanking
Will this stop you wanking
Or forever and ever will you yearn to felate.

Hardball is a big misnomer,
Tweety is a Whitehouse gofer.
One look at George Bush,
On knees he do rush.
Oh daddy let me play with your big soldier.

Patrick Fitzgerald please hurry on,
Haste is indecent but we pray bring it on.
Efforts of years,
Might end in tears.
If you get upstaged by Armageddon.

Can’t stand Joe Scarborogh makes me wanna puke,
Rare as a unicorn gave the prez rebuke.
Maybe he’s nervous,
About phone service.
Somebody listening maybe a spook.

The net is closing and the trap it narrows,
What's it to be Karl, jail or gallows.
Fritz I do implore,
Let me settle for.
A ball a chain and a few broad arrows.

Having all power is omnipotence,
That’s a fact there’s no pretence.
Another fact is you so depress
Because you don’t possess,
The tiniest hint of competence.

The aim of five lines is to come across witty,
But for place named after, some small pity.
Would I lie to you,
It really is true.
Limerick town is known as Stab City.

Everything I touch is doomed to fail,
Like Python's Circus looking for the grail.
We need a decoy,
The Guard deploy.
Or polish up the gun and go shoot some quail.

Ernie Fletcher was the protégé,
Of soon to be pariah Tom DeLay.
To the judge a request,
On their behest.
Adjoining cells, you really don’t say.

Little Tommy Tucker spins for his supper,
All the while trying the dems to scupper.
I wish he would stop,
And his balls do drop.
Then transition to manhood buy a hot hooker.

Little Tucker Carlson wears a bow tie,
Sartorial elegance not in my eye.
Fervent wish of mine,
Insert where no sunshine.
Then little Tucker no more can lie.

When I see that bloody bow tie,
Blood pressure rises far too high.
Little insufferable prick,
Sliming up my limerick.
It’s enough to make a grown man cry.

TOWING A YOKE

Light pollution, sure their wasn't a hint of it, somewhere near midway 'twixt France and Ireland.
There was just the one colour, black. A perfect black canvas that played its part in the creation of the few lines at the end this piece of prose; originally being writ as a stand alone few lines.

Some two or three years after the creation of those few lines, I joined for a brief spell, a little circle of writers who would meet every two weeks and read out whatever we had written on a subject chosen at the prior meeting, in this case "A starry night"
So then I composed the long intro of events leading up to the birth of those few lines. And here I cannot stress enough just how magnificent a sight it was.
I hope you can get a feel for the moment.
I employ a hybrid of Northern English vernacular with a biteen of Irish thrown in to add a little flavour, I hope you enjoy.



TOWING A YOKE

I got the job where most all jobs is got; in the pub.
Would I ship aboard a trawler going to France, and tow a boat back.
Giving it a bitteen of thought, and not wanting the sole company of two other men, I says “If Herself can come, you’re on”
“It’s a bit rough on board” says the skipper.
“Sure she’ll grand, not a problem”
So off we sets; it were fair lumpy day; thought to me self, I’m glad Herself’s with me, at least we can keep the bunk warm.
There’s nothing much to do on those kind of jobs, it’s all steaming.
Skipper weren’t up to much, he were a Kiwi, I think he’d been to one of them antipodean charm schools, but that’s another story.
Next day, it were glorious, so we thought we’d soak up some rays.
We dragged the mattresses up onto the foredeck, just in front of the wheelhouse, it were the only place you could sunbathe.
True to form, Herself, not bein’ one for false modesty or bikini tops, gets ragged off, and its tits out for the lads.
Now you can call me biased, but she’s a fair bonny lass, and I’m sure lads in wheelhouse agreed wi’ me.
It must have made watch keeping a bit more interesting.
In fact if it weren’t for autopilot, I don’t think boat would have ever got where it were s’posed to.
But got there we did, and made ready the tow for next day.
Well Herself had brought her glad rags, so we hit the town and got her lit.
Herself with her long tanned legs n all glittery, she looked a million dollars, and I felt like one.
What’s all this got to wi’ stars? Well as the Manx say, “Traa-dy-Liooar” it’s a bit like manyana, only nowhere near as urgent, “Time enough”
So off we sets back with this yoke in tow. Now for them of you that don’t know what a yoke is, well it’s a grand Irish word, and if you does a bit of writing , then it’s a right handy one to have.
A yoke is anything, a big yoke, a small yoke, a grand yoke altogether, you gets the idea.
One crystal clear night, there’s Herself and Himself, that’s me, sat on a couple of fish boxes on the blunt end off this old yoke we were sailing on.
And there it were, in all it’s glory, the Milky Way. It just blew us away, I just haven’t got the words in me to describe it.
It were like we were little atoms, no them little things inside ‘em, them neutrons or protons or whatever they're called.
We were speechless, it were a wonder we’ll never forget.
It were some time later, I couldn’t get this sight out of me head, and then didn’t a few little lines appear, just like magic, and them lines were these.


Delight the night
For hidden by day
Delight the night
We sailed the Milky Way
Our chariot of rust and rattles
Our space ship on the sea.
.

Jack Murtha. A Soldier's Declaration And A Small Deception

A Soldier's Statement

"I AM making this statement * because I believe that the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.

I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers. I believe that this war, upon which I entered as a war of defense and liberation, has now become a war of aggression and conquest. I believe that the purposes for which I and my fellow-soldiers entered upon this war should have been so clearly stated as to have made it impossible to change them, and that, had this been done, the objects which actuated us would now be attainable by negotiation.,

I have seen and endured the sufferings of the troops, and I can no longer be a party to prolong these sufferings for ends which I believe to be evil and unjust.

I am not protesting against the conduct of the war, but against the political errors and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed.

On behalf of those who are suffering now I make this protest against the deception which is being practiced on them; also I believe that I may help to destroy the callous complacence with which the majority of those at home regard the continuance of agonies which they do not share, and which they have not sufficient imagination to realize."

* as an act of willful defiance of military authority,

Siegfried L. Sassoon...July 1917

Forgive me but it is I that practice the deception, but reading Sassoon's statement that he issued reflecting the concern he felt for his men to every other point he brings to the fore, I cannot but help make the comparison between the message of Jack Murtha and Sassoon.

And it is EVERY last point that Sassoon makes, from beginning to ending:

also I believe that I may help to destroy the callous complacence with which the majority of those at home regard the continuance of agonies which they do not share, and which they have not sufficient imagination to realize."

Some ninety years on.

It’s Time to Bring the Troops Home

For 2 ½ years I have been concerned about the U.S. policy and the plan in Iraq. I have addressed my concerns with the Administration and the Pentagon and have spoken out in public about my concerns. The main reason for going to war has been discredited.

Our military has been fighting a war in Iraq for over two and a half years. Our military has accomplished its mission and done its duty.

I said over a year ago, and now the military and the Administration agrees, Iraq can not be won “militarily.”

But to highlight a few, the similarities are frightening, but this:

A panel of army doctors quickly decreed that Siegfried Sassoon was 'suffering from a nervous breakdown and not responsible for his actions', and sent him off to a hospital for shell-shocked soldiers (Craiglockhart War Hospital in Scotland).

But the publicity the army feared wasn't entirely suppressed. A pacifist Member of Parliament read Sassoon's 'Statement' aloud in the House of Commons. There was an uproar.

Now nobody has carted Murtha off to the big house in the country, but the right wing smear machine did it's best, how many times did we listen/read "Sit down and shut up Murtha, you crazy old man."

The point of all this, when Sassoon recognised that the war could never be resolved by any other means than political discourse, which history has proved him correct, and no matter how many more bodies were thrown into the conflict to die needlessly, he stood up to be counted, and by virtue of making his statement his message was crystal clear, enough! it's time to end it.

I could go on but I think the point is made, other than to ask how many more millions died needlessly from that time on until the conflict ended and how many more are yet to die in this?

And now if you are feeling comfortable and nodding in agreement I would like to make my feelings known.
This talk of "Heroes" both British and American, well I am afraid they are not. That America has taken over the role that once was ours, the role of Warrior Nation, you have become so inured that it borders delusional.
The stark reality is WE are an invading force in an illegal war of aggression and are an army of occupation. Heroes only to ourselves, but don't include me.

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Siegfried Sassoon
1918

Walter Reed. Does It Matter?

Does it Matter?

DOES it matter?--losing your legs?...

For people will always be kind,

And you need not show that you mind

When the others come in after hunting

To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter?--losing your sight?...

There's such splendid work for the blind;

And people will always be kind,

As you sit on the terrace remembering

And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?...

You can drink and forget and be glad,

And people won't say that you're mad;

For they'll know you've fought for your country

And no one will worry a bit.

Siegfried Sassoon 1918.

Autumn Journal

I much admire this earthy timeless piece,
taken from MacNeice's Autumn Journal.

Surbiton, and a woman gets in, painted
With dyed hair but a ladder in her stocking and eyes
Patient beneath the calculated lashes,
Inured for ever to surprise;
And the train's rhythm becomes the ad nauseam
repetition
Of every tired aubade and maudlin madrigal,
The'he faded airs of sexual attraction
Wandering like dead leaves along a warehouse wall:
'I loved my love with a platform ticket,
A jazz song,
A handbag, a pair of stockings of Paris Sand--
I loved her long.
I loved her between the lines and against the clock,
Not until death
But till life did us part I loved her with paper money
And with whisky on the breath.
I loved her with peacock's eyes and the wares of
Carthage,
With glass and gloves and gold and a powder puff
With blasphemy, camaraderie, and bravado
And lots of other stuff.
I loved my love with the wings of angels
Dipped in henna, unearthly red,
With my office hours, with flowers and sirens,
With my budget, my latchkey, and my daily bread.'
And so to London and down the ever-moving
Stairs
Where a warm wind blows the bodies of men together
And blows apart their complexes and cares.

Louis MacNeice.
Berlin 1938

For Women

I rise up singing from your belly,
like some glad keeper of the palace swans
content to serve your navel
as an acolyte would serve his unseen god
and take your perspiration as communion.

Rolling now together in our bedroom world
We’ll map out elbows and each other’s backs.
There are some parts of you
that have no highways.
Hairy forests cover even well-worn paths
but every forest has its own surprises
and the hiker coming through the glade
can only marvel as Columbus would
at sailing past the old world’s edge.

Rod McKuen.

For women everywhere.

Dubya You've Spent What Wasn't Yours To Spend

Dubya You've Spent What Wasn't Yours To Spend

You have spent the good will of the world

This piece came about as a result of the Cole enquiry into the Australian Wheat Board (AWB) inquiry paying "commissions" to Saddam Hussein to accept our exports.

Not a single individual (in the AWB) received a benefit, but our wheat-farmers retained their Iraqi market short term.

A Poem From Oz

A Cynical Sceptic

There's a bucket load of crap that's being spread around the world

and were tugging on the coat tails of the biggest flag unfurled,

I can't believe the bullshit that our pollies try to push-

For "Freedom and Democracy" and their pall bearer "Bush"!

The world stood 'with' our Yankee mates that sad September day

and strained real hard against the bit to leap into the fray

to show those evil mongrels that you just can't do that stuff!

We waited for the invite so we'd stand together tough.

And George, your European allies, you treated with disdain?

Piss on your mates to stand alone? where's your bloody brain?

The principals you represent, you've trampled underfoot.

Withdrawal of rights! pre-emptive strikes! (Morality's hard put!)

We joined you in Afghanistan. That was just and right!

But you bombed a bit, sprayed some shells and then just left the fight?

Hell-bent on another path - left the Afghans in the mire

to purse some flaky doctrine that your "Neocons" aspire.

The mongrels of September hailed from countries far and wide

Tunisia, Algeria and Saudi 'rabia's side.

Were trained in the Afghan', Sudan and Yemenee

their funds came through Italian banks and those of Germany.

Some met in Indonesia and Malaysia no duress-

were taught to fly, (and here's the rub) you guessed it-the Us!

Those countries-"there" were all involved in that September's whack.

The logical response? You say - "We must attack Iraq!"

That despots should be toppled so their people can be free

is appropriate, but bloody hell, not so selectively.

Mugabe is an evil prick who gives his people hell

but do you care for suffering there? Not that I can tell!

To justify agendas "hid" you create a smoking gun!

Bullshit is still bullshit mate, no matter how it's "spun."

No Balkan Coalition where the World united stood

against one mongrel despot to get rid of him for good!

Now we can't point the finger 'cause we're also hypocrites

in our trading practises and that gives me the shits!

We slip some backdoor money to the biggest prick around

while standing tall with hand on heart, profess we're honour bound.

Howard, Vale and Downer are three pretty astute blokes

yet their amnesia's "collective"? - More like collective jokes.

Three hundred million dollars, and they can't remember squat?

If we tried that, we wouldn't last! they'd have us damn well shot!

Our leaders puff their chests out while strutting on World's stage

treating us like kindergarten kids not not quite of age.

Beating drums for false crusades through doctrines they impel -

you lied to us you bastards! May you rot in fucken hell!!

Reprinted with kind permission of Manfred Vijars copyright - 2006

Nice one Manny, thank you.