donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:19:23 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:19:23 GMT -5
The Immigrants: for my ancestors
you stood on the harbour at Hamburg,
awaiting the ship to take you to England.
not yet refugees,
the Nazis not come to power for a while longer.
only as economic migrants
did you board that vessel of hope
and sail the hostile seas
to a land of freedom
even though the taunts
of 'dirty Jew' hurt you
you struggled on,
settled in London's East End
when Hitler ruled
you were glad of England's freedom
and stood fast against
Mosley and his slimey crew
you came to think
of England as your home,
your children born here,
and their children too
and even though
you went to synagogue
and sent your kids to shule
none of us ever thought
we were anything other
than English,
British
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:21:47 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:21:47 GMT -5
Discovering America
1)
will you ever be discovered, America, at least by yourself?
from the moment you emerged into the consciousness of Europe it was as a myth
the legend of your discovery later grew into the fable of your foundation. just as the old worlders looking for India found America so the new worlders looking for a fantasy found it in the republic
just as in the stores the shop assistants like whores try to sell dreams so too the political classes unite behind one central fairy-tale of the founding fathers
2)
i thought i could touch you but you always escape into another of your endless illusions
some say we are slaves of the machine, others that it's long overdue we crawled back into the caves
some say there's no shortage of dreams - you can escape into any fantasy you want - sex, drugs, tv, the political bazaar, the endless smorgasbord of cults all proclaiming their truth from marxists to the Westboro Baptist church. all promise you salvation of a kind
3)
some sing, advocating a culture of entitlement; we are black, our ancestors were slaves, we are gay, oppressed by our sexuality, we are women, victims of our gender, and like the plant in 'Little Shop of Horrors' demand an endless supply of special treatment
4)
have you prayed tonight, America? have you prayed in your countless churches, synagogues, mosques?
have you prayed tonight, America, in your temples of mammon - the banks, the stock exchange, the retail stores selling baubles?
the stench of deceit hangs over the nation of dreams a fog shading eyes from clear vision
as the people huddle together in tunnels drinking in the propaganda of would-be saviours do they ever ask themselves have we prayed enough for your soul, America? did we ever love you before we killed you?
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:24:18 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:24:18 GMT -5
The Hammer Fan
As a lifelong Hammer how could I resist the way the boy blows bubbles through the mist of time as if the very air was kissed by the traction of the spray to provide grist to the mill as thousands of voices rise (half pissed) to sing 'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles' as we twist in exaltation to celebrate a goal that whizzed to the back of the net and got us three points and blissed us out completely and made the opposition fans desist!
Author notes
The 'Hammers' is the nickname of my favourite football team, West Ham United (that's football as in soccer by the way, not the gridiron version!) and 'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles' is the club's theme tune.
Sorry about using the pararhyme 'whizzed' in one line!
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:26:08 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:26:08 GMT -5
For my great-grandfather: a tribute
A hundred years ago you volunteered, and all around you heard crowds as they cheered you on your way, short-stepping it to France, hoping to lead old Fritz a merry dance
the hopes and dreams of youth were in your heart as you left Blighty's shores, there to depart for fields unknown before, in Belgium's land, now groaning under the invaders' hand
chirpy cheerful when you made the shore, warm welcome from the people that you saw, then in your bivouacs you rested till the time should come for you to die or kill
but Flanders fields were soon awash with mud, and quickly irrigated with the blood of all the comrades who around you lay, and night dragged on to each unending day
somehow you lived, your chirpy spirit fled as even sleep was shared with all the dead, and nightmares racked your mind; with every shell you knew you dwelt within a living hell
only 18 when you went overseas you soon became a man; a life of ease was all you dreamed off: that's if you survived the tumult round you in which nothing thrived
three years of hell - names etched into your brain like Ypres, Mons, forever to remain beacons of folly to your generation, and even now defying explanation
now we remember all your sacrifice, our tears acknowledge the unbearable price millions paid then, hoping among their sorrow the end of war would bring a new tomorrow
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:29:40 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:29:40 GMT -5
Alien Patrol
Well, like they're always telling us in the tabloids and media, enemy aliens are out to get us, and of course they must be illegal aliens 'cos they''re invading our airspace, right?
so what I say is, only one thing to do if you see one of them enemy aliens: walk right up to it and say UFO!
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:38:23 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:38:23 GMT -5
The poem blames the poet
I was a poem once; even though I hate poets one of them created me
what a cheek! didn't even ask for my permission; just scribbled away on my nice clean surface till I was covered in words
it felt like being raped by a tattooist but even then the poet wasn't satisfied,
tortured me with crossings out, scrunched me up into a tiny ball and lobbed me into the waste paper bin! even deleted me from the files on his computer! with no so much as a 'by your leave'
the poet brought me to life
then killed me
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Mar 5, 2019 11:40:34 GMT -5
Post by donna on Mar 5, 2019 11:40:34 GMT -5
Waitress service
They say you always get what you deserve: my life has taught me that just isn't true. We also wait who only stand and serve
Like baseball pitchers readying a curve motion's our forte, and we see things through. They say you always get what you deserve.
some customers have a right bloody nerve, not seeing all the thousand things we do; we also wait who only stand and serve
sometimes it's worse than that, and some right perv reckons you're easy meat, up for a screw; they say you always get what you deserve
boring and hard, you need a lot of verve not to get caught out, follow every cue; we also wait who only stand and serve
it can be hard work trying to preserve your dignity when dishing out hot stew: they say you always get what you deserve
the lorry drivers filling up with derv give you tips, clutched to fast as superglue; we also wait who only stand and serve
we hope there'll come a time when we can swerve out of this life; till then, what can we do? They say you always get what you deserve; we also wait who only stand and serve
Author notes
A true story about my time working as a waitress between the age of 19 and 20.
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donna
Jnr. Member
Posts: 55
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Poems
Apr 24, 2019 19:20:32 GMT -5
Post by donna on Apr 24, 2019 19:20:32 GMT -5
Survivors:
The dust departs; the smoke from chimneys hushed at last. Light breaks, hesitantly, tentatively, gently stroking the silent murderees
no point in rejoicing simply at the end of a senseless slaughter, as all around we wade knee-deep in blood, see the blank faces of the survivors, roused by a sudden wind of liberation. Now a pallid sun attempts to shine. The bones beneath the skin jut awkwardly out through the almost invisible flesh. No rapture in this greening of spring.
here they stand, living monuments and testimony, too mute to scream or laugh, numbed by the gangrene of their suffering
Author notes
Dedicated to all Holocaust deniers
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Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:00:41 GMT -5
To the Dogmatic Young:
you’re still looking for some kind of healing, a miracle to free you from this feeling of isolation and frustration, even downright desolation; but you can boogie all night long and still not know your right from wrong
you want to teach the world to love but all you know is push and shove, and rough and tumble isn’t apple crumble, any more than a quick feel and fumble
you can’t even think for yourself: you read about life from a book on the shelf or, even worse, Facebook and Twitter, Snapchat and Instagram with their fake glitter
love and life are real; you have to touch the earth beneath your feet, the sky above, but all you are will never amount to much: a handful of dust within your sanitised glove
and yet you think you know it all, your prideful self just aching for a fall, so sure that you are good and right, while others live in endless night
how sad to think that you’re our future, your arrogance your only suture against the wounds reality deals, so you close your eyes and make babbling squeals of self-righteous claptrap if anyone should dare put forward a view that you don’t share
brainwashed and zombified, stoned on lies, propaganda filling your ears and eyes, now that I’ve come to middle age my heart beats with a different kind of rage
you won’t listen but I’d advise if you really ever want to be wise open your heart and open your mind: you might be surprised at what you find!
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Poems
Dec 21, 2020 19:02:38 GMT -5
Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:02:38 GMT -5
Cui bono?
throughout history, prophets have promised
salvation, paradise on earth, revolution,
all kinds of impossible dreams, and because the hopeless
have nothing to cling on to except a wish
that the future may be better, they clutch eagerly
at the quack nostrums being peddled, the deliberate lies,
the withdrawal of what little freedom they have,
all in the name of some idol - Mammon for some,
liberation from the patriarchy for others, racial transformation,
destroying language and destroying history,
left and right each bent on reducing the bulk of us
to brainwashed zombie slaves.
left is right and right is wrong
both stuck in rigid paradigms
determined to oppress all those
who dare to think and act for themselves
as has been said before
only the wrong sort of people will ever have power
because only the wrong sort of people
will ever want power
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Poems
Dec 21, 2020 19:04:36 GMT -5
Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:04:36 GMT -5
Greta Thunberg:
Only 16, yet a superstar,
with fame and money I'll go far
My name is known both far and wide
and many ask me to be their bride,
but I am special, no man's toy,
know adulation can soon cloy
only 16, yet a superstar,
with fame and money I'll go far
from Sweden's chilly climes I come
and endlessly I beat the drum
on global warming, and even though
I talk much nonsense, you'd never know
only 16, yet a superstar,
with fame and money I'll go far
I tell them I can see CO2
and because I say it they believe it too,
and just because it isn't so
doesn't turn my fans into a foe
only 16, yet a superstar,
with fame and money I'll go far
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Poems
Dec 21, 2020 19:06:42 GMT -5
Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:06:42 GMT -5
Adam de Ros, Unacknowledged Inspirer of Dante:
Adam de Ros deserves the fame since lavished on another name; an English trouvère, yet he felt the call to be a monk. He wrote of how St Paul travelled to hell to see the souls in torment, Archangel Michael guiding his descent
The gates of hell display a tree of fire from which there hung those whose chief desire on earth was avarice, or those who slandered others: these were the gates. While St Paul wandered, Michael conducted him among the shades, showing how sinners suffer in this Hades
rivers of molten iron, glowing furnaces of flame, sinners buried deep to hide their shame, all this and more beside the poet penned, and all those images- whole lines – we find in Dante’s later work. He read de Ros, and stole his poem. The unacknowledged loss of a great name and work needs reparation, and Adam de Ros should have equal reputation with Dante, who, although he stole wholesale, wrought wonders himself when he retold the tale
Author notes
Adam de Ros wrote a poem about St Paul being conducted around Hell by the Archangel Michael. He was a celebrated English trouvère and Dante's Inferno copies him slavishly, not just in terms of imagery but even line by line. De Ros ought to have equal fame with Dante who (I give Dante full credit for being a great poet in his own right) plagiarised his work while de Ros is now unjustly forgotten.
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Poems
Dec 21, 2020 19:11:29 GMT -5
Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:11:29 GMT -5
Brexit - Freedom raises its Fist against our oppressors
all things bright and brexitful all crazies great and small all things daft and thunderful the EU made them all
and by the Lisbon Treaty our sovereignty was gone and if we stay much longer by 2021
the EU army beckons conscription for us all the EU fascists reckon they'll make slaves of us all
they steal our fish and force us to take in all their dross for the EU and its institutions we just don't give a toss
land that gave us Cromwell Boudicca Alfred Churchill we won't give up our freedom to swallow your poisoned pill
you enemies of the workers your capitalist design appeals only to the shirkers and all your plans malign
will soon be swept asunder when Brexit comes to pass and with a clap of thunder we'll raise a joyful glass
our freedom that was stolen will soon be ours again and then the EU golem will crash down in its pain
all things bright and brexitful all crazies great and small all things daft and thunderful the EU made them all
Author notes
Prompt - Brexit; it's sort of to the tune of 'all things bright and beautiful'
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Poems
Dec 21, 2020 19:12:53 GMT -5
Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:12:53 GMT -5
Portrait of the Artist as a Woman:
out of the colours of earth I fashion my world, I, the unschooled, I, self-taught at the age of nine drew the wonderful shapes I saw
but I was a woman, and not of the right 'class' to be 'suitable' for a society painter
no Rosa Bonheur, no Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, only simple Suzanne Valadon
so, though I learned to draw and paint I had to make my living as a model, posing (mainly nude of course) for men
out of the dirty confined streets out of the gutters of Paris I struggled and endured
in time they allowed me to paint, mostly other women and often nude
many liked my work but I never became rich and famous like some
my son Maurice Utrillo learned from me how to draw and paint he became celebrated while I was forgotten
yet the art that I produced was as good as any of its time even from beyond the grave I shout defiance, crying: 'look at me; I am a painter'
now I hang in galleries along the other artists yet it still rankles
much as I love my son I was the better painter and he copied me
Author notes
Prompt - an artist; I chose to write about Suzanne Valadon
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Poems
Dec 21, 2020 19:14:15 GMT -5
Post by biglin on Dec 21, 2020 19:14:15 GMT -5
Britannia:
you, lady of lands, our island home, four realms chiselled as bright as bronze or marble from our green earth, our good moist loam, the sceptre in your hand more than a bauble
the shield you bear guards our liberty, won in the teeth of countless oppressors, home and abroad; your eyes are old, yet still dazzle with the sun of your fierce independence, maintained at the point of a sword
we are not at war now, yet within our nation a conflict rages. Tolerance is lost, compassion, fairness, freedom, in striation glaciered away harshly in hatred’s frost
all that was fresh and sharp has blunted, all that was free and serene has been cast down, and folk become deformed, their spirits stunted, fled to the pages of history our lost renown
why do we seek to strain after these chimaeras? what good is the mad pursuit of a slavish devotion to a false God who will destroy you? Look nearer: our land is washed on all sides by the waters of ocean
hate may consume you, but our sceptred isle, our earth of majesty, can polish rust into pure gold again. Let freedom smile once more upon our island’s precious dust
Author notes
I assume most people will understand that 'this sceptred isle' and 'this earth of majesty' are direct quotes from Shakespeare's 'King John.'
My poem is obviously about the United Kingdom and I am proud to be British though not always proud of what successive governments of all parties have done nor proud of the growing intolerance, indifference to suffering and other negative aspects of life that seem to be increasingly frequent in the country I love.
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