ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 14, 2015 17:26:44 GMT -5
I wrote this last night out of angry love. It's dedicated to the people of Paris but of course it's for all decent, humane, tolerant and caring people across the world.
For the people of Paris:
guns, grenades, more guns: yesterday among the crowds at the concert, the people sitting in cafes, a vapour filled the air as a sad music played its threnody: 'I died in Paris.'
the already half-fallen leaves shed by the autumn trees rustle with pain as the wind's sighs carry them aloft over the buildings and streets, over the vanished people, the words: 'I died in Paris.'
in every brick, each grain of soil your blood, your murdered flesh, cries out and even if an avalanche of snow appeared, it could not cover up the sin, nor the fiercest rainstorm wash away the endless stain that proclaims: 'I died in Paris.'
each one of you who died lies together at last in our shared humanity: whatever you once were death, our common destiny, arrived early, and now you are one: 'You died in Paris.'
somehow in this shared death the warmth of all that makes us human, humane, gives you an equal honour; you have become the earth and air and waters, you have become symbols of freedom: 'You died in Paris.'
that lonely night out of the chattering lightning of Kalashnikovs a beacon of light stood fast, glowing as a shield against the storm, a sword against all those who hate life and wish it joyless: 'we, each one of us, died in Paris.'
through that death a flower of new life will blossom, watered by the pure river of our blood: though we bled in Paris we live forever; love is stronger than hate, and, as was truly said, 'love eats death.'
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 16, 2015 7:26:02 GMT -5
Fanaticism:
heart colder than dense-packed snow, tears frozen to rigid ice, through life's archipelago you demand the sacrifice of all that makes us weep, all things that make us laugh; you hold the lives of others cheap, seeking only your own epitaph
so it is that you approach, resolute as a cockroach, determined to destroy every trace of joy
the God who reigns above is full of mercy and love, vaster than your fantasies of hatel how could He not abominate the cold indifference with which you force what you believe upon us, in a coarse and senseless try to terrify the living into no longer being loving, giving, but hard and cold, callous and cruel as you, myopic in your singularity of view, seeking, in cowardice and prejudice, to make the world one vast necropolis
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 19, 2015 10:34:45 GMT -5
What some people tell me:
because my skin is brown too many people think they got the right to put me down, and being a gypsy too - oh, you got no rights at all, girl; just be grateful they don't lock you up. You might as well be black or a Jew in Raqqah; certainly NOT the source of any pearl of wisdom out of YOUR mouth. Like a cantankerous pup or kitten, you should have been drowned at birth rather than trying to make out YOU got worth, when all YOU got to offer, gypsy slut, is sweet naff all. Just shut the fuck up; you got no right to take our put-downs wrong: it's just there ain't no place where you belong, and it's plain fact, no meaning to affront you, when I call you a brown-skinned gypsy cunt, and after all, it's pretty much perverse you thinking you can write a verse good as a man: a WHITE man, even; shit, poets have balls, don't you know? So you ain't it, stuck on the curse each month; hey, THERE'S your rhythm, so you just ride that good old menstrual cycle, and we'll say no more about it. Take our jism inside you: hey, that's good white spunk, enough to fill at least part of Lake Baikal, so just forget all of that crazy junk; besides, a gyppo can't amount to shit, so give it up, and do the proper bit, kowtowing with humility and grace to your true lords, white men - the master race!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 20, 2015 17:44:40 GMT -5
Mahalas are the shanty-towns in Eastern Europe - primarily Romania, Bulgaria and Serbia - where the Roma are forced to live. I tried to write it in a sort of blues style. Shanglo is one of our many words for the police!
Them Mahala blues:
Them Mahala blues falling down on me like rain, Them Mahala blues falling down on me like rain, If it wasn't for misery my life would be nothing but pain
No electrics, no water, tumbledown shacks for our homes, Built on piles of garbage, where us human trash belong, You can smell the Mahala from a lonesome mile away, But lawdy Mama, it's the only place where we can stay.
Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, If it wasn't for misery my life would be nothing but pain
Maybe if we get lucky the shanglos won't turn up today, haul us off to jail no matter what we do or say, no rights, no nothing; they won't let our kids in schools, Then they turn and tell us we're a bunch of dirty fools
Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, If it wasn't for misery my life would be nothing but pain
By Nature and tradition cleanliness is in our blood: you think we CHOOSE to live out her in filth and mud? give us our rights and then you'll surely see just how good a Roma lass or lad can truly be
Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, If it wasn't for misery my life would be nothing but pain
Here in the Mahala it's total degradation with squalor, persecution and endless discrimination; we try to live the best, but hey, case you don't know we ride the self-same buses once belonged to old Jim Crow
Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, If it wasn't for misery my life would be nothing but pain
As for the world outside of us, it's cold and cruel and blind, not seeing us as humans, never taking mind that we got rights the same as you: look in your heart, you'll find what makes us all human is the act of being kind
Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, Them Mahala blues fallen down on me like rain, If it wasn't for misery my life would be nothing but pain
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 21, 2015 10:14:55 GMT -5
Blind rage:
angry at everything, too choked with hate even to have any focus, so it's true: you really do hate everything
raging against not only obvious targets like governments, politicians, bankers, captains of industry, scientists and philosophers, but here and now you denounce everyone and everything; nothing and no one is worthy
like caustic soda you foam at the mouth perpetually, forever resolving to act yet fixed in stasis
you despise everything and everyone, even those with whom you have sexual relations, for love to you is utterly alien, to be feared and loathed, even as you loathe yourself
you belong nowhere, wherever you are found is only a station waiting room, not even a hotel; you have no home
you moralise endlessly and yet are utterly lacking in empathy, even sincerity, your mind so clouded with its confused certainties
it isn't true despair you feel within, simply the emptiness of not enough reality, and your anger isn't righteous, just a self-pitying, entitled sort of hate, and, though you hardly know it, you are dead inside
the spark within is no true flame, only at best a CGI masquerading as fire, coldness and emptiness are all that live within, all you show of anger simply a pose, another attempt to convince yourself you live when in fact you haven't even the substantiality of a glove puppet or silhouette
who will save you from your endless illusion of anger and importance? who will wake you from your conscious coma?
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 21, 2015 16:38:49 GMT -5
That last piece was inspired by someone on another forum who is obsessed with the idea that everyone except him is racist and who told me that I was racist and that I hated Muslims.
He also seemed to feel that it was all the fault of the victims in Paris that they got murdered because 'the French disrespect Muslims.'
When I disagreed (politely in spite of my instinct to give him some right verbal) he accused me of being a racist and anti-Muslim.
So I wrote this poem.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 22, 2015 9:46:26 GMT -5
The children of Hitler:
in the end, even you went up in smoke, consumed by the fire as your foul breath poisoned the air around
gone the cheering crowds, the military parades, flowers from young girls; you are mute at last, all the lies and hatred that once flowed unstoppably out of your twisted mouth silent at last
what we didn't know, rejoicing in our sudden liberation, was that you were only acting, faking it like always, just making out that you were dead, when really you'd just closed your eyes, hoping to catch a covert glimps of suddenly crawling out of your wreckage hidden Roma and Jews, mentally photographing them in preparation for your resurrection in a new disguise and once again, through your children and grandchildren, lay violent hands on the 'inferior'
even from beyond the grave from an internet cafe in hell Hitler instructs the likes of Breivik, bin Laden, Le Pen, ISIS, and many others, sharing his poisonous belief that 'the other' is always to be feared, hatred over all
soon the carnage of the haters begins again, prison camps, racist massacres, and it's difficult now to spot the children of Hitler, they no longer wear white skin alone, but may have olive, brown, swarthy or black complexions, and even choose different targets and a facade of differing ideologies, only the hate remains constant
all the same, at bottom they're all the same, haters of life, haters of 'the other' (who in their mind is never the same as themselves but some inferior, subhuman being without rights)
well, fuck them all! as long as the children of Hitler continue to terrorise the world the spirit of Hitler lives on within them all
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Post by Scottish Lassie on Nov 22, 2015 22:48:19 GMT -5
Very expressive and well written, love them Lady Linda.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Dec 8, 2015 10:30:07 GMT -5
Thanks, Scottish Lassie.
A daughter of the Roma:
I am a daughter of India, born under her scorching sun, lashed, enslaved, tortured and raped by the gauji lords who sought to bend us to their will, and we were scattered, fled into exile, running from the blows yet fighting back, and in spite of vultures circling above hoping to devour the carcasses of our people we refused to die
no, we endured; nothing more, but then when tossed into the cauldron of genocide that we survived at all is surely something
out of our blood we built a nation without a home, a people with the most infinite patience, and for over a thousand years we have withstood hunger, cold, blazing sun, the pitiless whips of taskmasters, the cold damp cells of prisons, even the ever-open maw of the devouring furnaces, and we have survived the lies they tell about us, and out of our spilt blood a mighty river has formed the newest ocean of the world
cruise liners, dredgers, cargo ships, sail through our turbulent waters, knowing that the solid foundation of our blood will permit safe passage
out of our torrid waters golden fish swim to a welcoming shore, and the teeth of pitiless power have been extracted skilfully, so that now our music resounds not, as of old, in brigaki djilia but in full-throated operas of joy
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Dec 10, 2015 9:53:47 GMT -5
Chalga is a Romani style of music originating in Bulgaria and Romania. It's a cross between folk (especially turbo folk), electronica and hip-hop. I might post some YouTube clips of it later today.
Anyway, here's my poem.
Chalga:
Chalga se o khul: togged andre kale mortsi tru-pos sar bárripóari 'drey tattoos, Romska perla; nikoi ne mozha djil sar tu, miri manoush, miri pheni a prala, ne kukavici, amaro folki a Romale, a chavale, ake vrytama, ushit Rom akana, ame hutasa mishto kai kerasa, amaro bar-ro scrce, amaro sevdah, patjivaloo manoush kak o shutka o gorgias dell, amaro djillia mamuj o glox varekia baxtale - chalga kerdem bestipen, bestipen kerdem mestipen, amaro mestipen, amaro Romipen, amaro jinapen!
Chalga is the shit: wrapped around in black leather, body decorated with tattos, Gypsy pearl, nobody can sing like you, my people, my sisters and brothers, O Romanies, O children, the time has come to stand up, Romanies, if we revolt we will win, our big heart, our wild sensuality, righteous people, not the garbage non-gypsies call us, our songs against the world, everywhere happy - chalga brings us wealth, wealth brings us a better life, our life, our gypsyness, our wisdom!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Dec 16, 2015 10:45:58 GMT -5
To a Puritan:
I fear the future: slowly edging towards forty, scrunched up in bed, tormented by nightmares; when the day comes at last will I wake refreshed?
you, invincible censor, anxious in your pursuit of virtue to strip away all joy from life, to banish laughter, exile tears, leaving us only a barren monotony where all feeling has fled
how considerately you demonize my aspirations for freedom, my praise of tolerance, my willingness to prefer to forgive a loyal friend who has offended me rather than cast them out into the fire
you don't even read my poems, let alone listen to my criticisms of you, incapable forever of writing verse, since in your inability to feel empathy with others in your heart only an abstract intention pervades you
let us move beyond deception and put aside any attempts at understanding. you are an iceberg; only when you melt does the faint possibility exist that in your eventual dissolution warmth may thaw you into human feeling
so let's - for the time being at least - just analyse. what do we find? a wilful blindness, a willed deafness to all phenomena and facts not fitting in with your preconceptions and prejudices which, in your ivory tower, you worship as gilded images of absolute truth
is it from fear you only see the leafless winter trees, never observe the russet glow of autumn the hot gaudy flush of full summer, the delicate greening of spring?
is it from ignorance that you are unable to perceive every tree has roots as well as leaves and branches?
what is it you search for, riding frantically at speed across an unnoticed landscape? like Nasr-ud-Din are you looking for the donkey on which you ride?
just as a tree has roots, so too our veins and arteries pump blood to heart and brain, so without deep digging the source of the tree remains forever unknown
even so, without examining your heart and mind to see what lies at the deepest level rather than the superficial wraiths on which you base your vision of the world: dark, occluded, sinister and fearful; is it any wonder love and joy escape you?
so instead of truth you hold up your tiny slivers of light that somehow escaped from the perpetual fog of your all-pervasive gloom, and declare in pride: 'THIS is the ONLY sun.'
but you foolishly ventured out of your comfort zone, where only the equally blind and deaf shared your robotic consciousness, and, having entered the world of life, you cried out sharply in astonishment as, perhaps for the first time, you met REAL people
and you were shocked to find they saw the world not just in primary colours, nor fabricated whole mythologies about millions of people, but saw complexity, gradations, exceptions, and above all understood that to be human is always to be fallible and imperfect
we who gave our hearts to sun and moon ask for ourselves only a single boon, there cannot ever be true righteousness without the saving grace of tenderness
we may well be deluded, caught in a net of folly, blind trust; but falsehood is different, corroding the soul, stealing our breath into a perpetual universal vacuum
but the vastness of lkife is pregnant, abundant; even the barren wastes of deserts are not lifeless
can light penetrate your eyes, the music of laughter soften your clenched lips, and the flat battery of your broken-down heart be recharged with compassion and love?
you could live in a world where the scent of flowers perfumes the air, the song of birds delivers an oratorio, and all are at peace with one another
let us fight not against one another but together, for a future worth loving, and make our starriest dreams, our most optimistic hopes for enlightenment, become a living reality
it's OUR future now! what are you going to do to make it happen?
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Dec 18, 2015 17:38:37 GMT -5
A poet speaks:
I am nothing, I am only a poet: you look in vain for words of wisdom tumbling from my mouth like shooting stars, nor are my eyes gifted with prophecies of times to come; they see nothing beyond the world around them
what a shallow, silly thing I am! doubly so, being not simply no more than a poet but also a woman, cursed with our natural shyness in the face of omniscient men; at best, only a poetess
how can I, uncultured as I am, dare even to lift my eyes from the floor in the presence of the almighty, all knowing man, who has experienced every aspect of life and knows everything about everything while I know only the distaff side
even my birth, they tell me, is only because my husband lacks a rib plucked out of his ancestor Adam's body so long ago
therefore I am doubly worthless, unfit in spades ever to raise my voice, dash down my trite and trivial musings instead of imbibing the wisdom of men
so it is in due humility I bow my head, and ask for mercy and succour, plead that at least a drop from the spring of Helicon may fall on my unworthy lips
Chaucer, give to me, I pray, your warmth, your modesty, your insatiable appetite for life in all its richness, your captivating mixture of delicacy and earthiness
Shakespeare, grant me the smallest feather of your aerial flight, the dense-packed complexity of Cymbeline, the rapturous flow of Antony and Cleopatra, the vivid imagination of Macbeth
Milton, bestow upon me the rolling thunder of your mighty organ pealing, and the spirit of courage with which you fought against oppression, for freedom and toleration, and the power to call on God to avenge those who today are also slaughtered saints
Pope, grant to me your mellow music, ease of turn in phrase, the bitter gall with which you chastened falsehood and the spirit of abundant life and perpetual yea-saying
Blake, give to me the vision of heaven on earth you glimpsed in the sun blazing in the sky, brighter than the furnaces of Satanic mills, passion and compassion fused in one
Byron, grant me your joy in life, your understanding that the human body is holy, and that love involves more than the purely spiritual
Heine, give me your spirit of defiance, your irony, your humour, your melancholy tinged with gold and diamonds, and your abundant tenderness of soul
Lorca, grant me the power to walk with open eyes, rich as your own in images, playing, like your own mouth, wild melodies that stir the soul, and the courage always to stand for life and deny the very existence of shallow death
Kolmar, give me, I pray, your spirit of love and understanding, your empathy not only with all things human but even with the enemies of life into whose hearts you saw but did not judge and for your courageous love even of them evaporated in the death camps
how can I be worthy of any of you? great souls, great minds, all utterly beyond my poor capacity to honour life
but if a tiny tear from a single eyelash of yours should fall upon my pen perhaps even I may write something worthy, something of which I have no further need to feel ashamed
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Dec 19, 2015 18:19:38 GMT -5
Anger:
you tell me,
with a patronising wag of the finger,
'you shouldn't be angry;
you need to learn to control your temper.'
I have to admit
I've never found it easy
turning the other cheek,
still less to wag my tail like a lap-dog
but let me tell you something about anger,
the anger of being expected to roll over
so that you can kick me as I lie there,
the anger of your expectation
that I will, and shouold, bow down before you
in your dreams, pal!
I'm angry at your lies,
angry at your arrogance,
angry at your attitude of superiority,
righteously angry against the injustice
you represent and incarnate
in every fibre of your being
if you think
my righteous anger will ever leave me,
that I'll be shy and quiet and demure -
well, dream on, you sad mush!
you stand for oppression
and I'll fight your kind until the day I die,
angry as hell!
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