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Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:45:24 GMT -5
Song of the Way
Now here I go Through wind and snow, Through sun and rain, Pleasure and pain, To find the goal That haunts my soul.
Here, where the way begins and ends, I lie down among true friends.
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Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:46:11 GMT -5
All flesh is grass
Farewell, earth's loveliness, And all our earthly bliss; What gives us pleasure Is vain beyond measure, All diamonds and pearls Simply toys for the girls.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
Beauty with time will fade, Friendship may be betrayed, Even love falters. Teach sons and daughters Their dreams are in vain. Only death ends all pain.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
No worth in wealth, No promise in health, However you strive You cannot survive When the grim reaper calls We all must fall.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
No hope lies in strength For we all at length Must weaken and fade Till in time we are laid In the safe care of death Who steals our last breath.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
No strength lies in power: The grave will devour The high and the low Wherever they go. Hide from the reaper? You'll still be a sleeper.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
O, are you clever? Still, no one whatever, No matter how wise, Can cheat death of his prize. Brains cannot save Anyone from the grave.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
Since there's no hope to stay Death's scythe that swings our way All we can do Is to be kind, loyal and true. As we ride in our hearse we Must all pray for God's mercy.
All flesh is grass, All life must pass.
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Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:47:29 GMT -5
A Ballade of the Selfish Gene
There once was a selfish gene Who roamed all over the earth Until with his mystic sheen He lured a helix to birth. Of feelings, an absolute dearth; Of love, not a single trace: But in spite of a notable lack of mirth He founded the human race.
Once he’d made his mark, all unseen He straddled the world with his girth; As his brain grew bigger and ever so keen An inflated idea of his worth Covered the sorrowing earth. Then as luck would have it he found a place Where an unselfish gene had given birth, And she taught the human race.
She showed him how to keep clean, And make home a happy berth; She dressed him in furs like a clever colleen, And she fed his ample girth. He had no idea of her worth, But she kept him in his place, And in spite of his feeble attempts at mirth She tamed the human race.
Envoy
Goddess, in this crazy earth We’ve brought a little grace; Us girls still have to give birth But we’re teaching the human race.
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Post by biglin on Jan 6, 2011 8:00:05 GMT -5
A Feminist Triolet
All men on earth are so damn vain You wonder why you take the time To listen while they all complain: All men on earth are so damn vain.
Since Adam’s time they’ve been a pain, And yet you nod and smile and mime. You wonder why you take the time: All men on earth are so damn vain!
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Post by biglin on Jan 6, 2011 8:01:02 GMT -5
A Woman's Soul
The soul of a woman Is not like the water, Whether she be A mother or daughter,
Nor like a howling gale Or gentle breeze; A woman's soul Is like none of these.
We are not false or fickle Though men believe All sorrow's caused by us: Blame it on Eve.
We may not strive To be the first to fight against a foe, But push too hard: You'll see how far we'll go.
We are not empty shells, Waiting for pretty jewels and trinket-boxes; We have our own thoughts, As wise as foxes.
We are not dark or deep, Though men still say The secret of a woman's mind Is a riddle till judgement day.
The soul of a woman Is easily found; Just open your eyes And look around.
We care, we dare, we share, And sometimes we rant and rave, But if you treat us right We'll love you to our grave.
The soul of a woman Is easy to find If you make her laugh And you are kind.
The soul of a woman Is no great surprise; Just open your heart And gaze into her eyes.
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Post by biglin on Jan 6, 2011 8:01:34 GMT -5
Eve in the Garden
Everyone looks for a scapegoat, just someone to blame,
Poor old Eve, wandering happily about in the Garden of Eden, without any clothes on.
Honi soit qui mal y pense Yoni soit qui mal y pense
And then this snake sort of slithers up to her and says: hey, don’t you want to make the scene like score a hit off of that tree of knowledge of good and evil
so of course Eve took him at his word and that’s why babies were born if you believe that you’ll believe anything but they do say Lilith was really a snake so maybe it was only jealousy
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Post by biglin on Jan 6, 2011 8:02:11 GMT -5
Patient Griselda
(To the tune of 'Waltzing Matilda')
Dedicated to every woman who's been driven mad by a man
Once a drudging housewife wept upon her ironing-board, Steam from the iron mixing with her tears that ran free, And her voice shook with rage as she yelled and sang this silly song: 'No more a patient Griselda I'll be.'
Patient Griselda, patient Griselda, No more a patient Griselda I'll be, And her voice shook with rage as she yelled and sang this silly song 'No more a patient Griselda I'll be.'
Down came her husband shouting loudly for his food; She picked up the iron and hit him with it, you see, And she carried on singing as she hit him with the iron again, 'No more a patient Griselda I'll be.'
Patient Griselda, patient Griselda, No more a patient Griselda I'll be, And she carried on singing as she hit him with the iron again, 'No more a patient Griselda I'll be.'
Up popped a neighbour knocking loudly at her door, Up popped the coppers, one, two, three. 'What's your husband doing lying dead upon the floor? Patient Griselda, you're coming with me.'
Patient Griselda, patient Griselda, No more a patient Griselda I'll be. 'What's your husband doing lying dead upon the floor? Patient Griselda, you're coming with me.'
Up jumped the housewife with the iron in her hand: 'If I go down I'm taking you all with me,' And her voice can still be heard as in Holloway she does her 'bird' Singing, 'No more a patient Griselda I'll be.
Patient Griselda, patient Griselda, No more a patient Griselda I'll be, And her voice can still be heard as in Holloway she does her 'bird' Singing 'No more a patient Griselda I'll be.'
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Post by biglin on Jan 6, 2011 8:03:12 GMT -5
This is a poem I wrote about my daughter.
For Sara
I have gone out to the garden, And gathered red roses for my daughter. I would make a garland of crimson To wear on her tiny head.
She walks slowly around the garden, Clutching tighly in her hand A piece of soft cloth. She loves the flowers in our garden.
The sunlight plays upon her little dress, Making it seem translucent in the hot day. My darling, do you love it in Mummy's garden?
So my young Sara draws close to me, Laughing and jumping as she meets me. Yes, Mummy, I love the garden. I cut some roses to make her a garland.
Then we sit down together in the garden, And I sing to my lovely daughter. This is for you, I tell her, A song about a beautiful young princess.
I am your spellbinder, Sara; For you I fashion the clouds above, And the green earth on which you set your feet, And the golden rays of the sun that shines upon you.
I have fashioned the sea for you to swim upon, And the scents and colours of the trees and flowers, And woven all these into a tapestry Only for you.
I have been good, and I have been bad; I have laughed and cried, have sung both high and low. I have loved deeply, I have been beloved; I have betrayed, and I have been betrayed. I have given all I had, and I have stolen; I have fought and nearly killed in my young life. I have been foolish, yet also wise, And have woven my many-splendoured heart Into this magic tapestry for you.
Even yourself, my carefree, laughing Sara, My daughter blessed above all other girls, I have woven you into my magic tapestry, Fashioned for you alone.
My daughter hears me speak, and then she laughs. Oh Mummy, you are funny, and I love you! But you shouldn't tell me all those silly things; You're a good girl really!
And so we sit together in the garden, Laughing and happy, sharing summer air, Garlanding each other with roses, And knowing each to be the tapestry In which both lives are woven on the wind.
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Post by biglin on Jan 6, 2011 8:03:50 GMT -5
One of the great heroines of the Bible IMHO
Jael
Is there no hope for Israel but this, To bow the neck and set the bitter kiss Upon the lips of those who'd make us slave? Rather than that, let us lie in our graves.
So did I speak when I lay in my bed Beside the lord of Israel I had wed; 'Sisera's troops are strong; we cannot fight,' He told me, turning over in the night.
The men around me were all weak and scared: Not one would lift a finger; no one dared Even to speak of vengeance on the king, And yet to me it seemed a little thing.
If only Sisera the king was slain His troops would scatter, and a new campaign Could drive his hosts out of our Promised Land; But no one dared to strike with their own hand.
I chafed in anger as I saw the men Afraid to enter in the enemy's den, And to slay Sisera and set us free, But none would dare respond to my poor plea.
I asked: none answered; I complained: none heard; I wasted precious hours on fine words, Until at last it came into my head My hand alone could see the tyrant dead.
Then Deborah, the prophet of our folk, Arose, and bade Barak lift our heavy yoke; Barak rose up, put Sisera to flight, And then he fled away into the night.
The glory of the victory won that day Went to Barak, for no one dared to say The heart and mind of Deborah drew the plan That Barak only followed like a man.
After the battle, broken and weary, Bowed down with defeat and his eyes still bleary From lack of sleep, great Sisera, quite spent, Tottered his faltering way towards my tent.
I knew at once it was our country's foe, Yet for a while I thought to let him go, And wander further on his weary way; I almost pitied this sad runaway.
I took him in my tent, laid him to rest, And gave both food and water to my guest; I let the mighty Sisera inside, Not yet resolved upon my regicide.
He lay there sleeping soundly in my tent, And then I rose and very softly went To where my husband's hammer lay close by, Resolved at last that Sisera must die.
I took a nail in my trembling hand, And grasped the hammer firmly as a band Tightens around the hair; I, lowly Jael, Struck Sisera with hammer and with nail.
Into his brow I drove the nail fast; Once, twice, I struck, then all was overpassed, The blood that trickled faintly from the brow Of him I slew soon ceased its gentle flow.
How strange that a mighty king lies dead, And yet his royal veins so little bled! Now I, a simple woman, dared to slay The man who made all Israel run away.
Ah, but they say, how like a woman's art To lure him in with treason in my heart, But smiles upon my face that he might trust The woman who'd deliver him to dust!
Have I strong hands to wield a mighty sword And take up arms against a powerful lord? I slew my foe the only way I could, Nor do I rue the shedding of his blood.
'O blessed among women!' so they sing About my slaying of the mighty king. For neither gold nor glory did I slay; For freedom's sake I took his life away.
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Post by biglin on Jan 9, 2011 17:40:07 GMT -5
The Porraimos
Porraimos,' a Romanes word meaning 'the devouring,' is the term used by the Romani people to refer to the gypsy holocaust under the Nazis. Nearly a million died because of their race.[On a personal note, my Uncle Jaime was a porraimos survivor who had his parents, brother and sister murdered in Auschwitz. This poem was written following a visit there.
I, a stranger, walk the trail of tears Shared by my race. Like them, I carry an alien face. Even after all these years Our deaths remain unmourned, ignored. The crowd of tourists thronging round At Auschwitz now seem almost bored. With so much horror in the TV news Can tears of pity for the past be found?
I, trembling, try to take stock Of thirteen years of madness and cruel death: Auschwitz, Chelmno, Bialystock; I catch my quivering breath.
Here and now, in this dreadful place I stand alone, The only representative of my race And hear the drone Of others thinking 'only my death matters.' They should remember what the poet Donne said: 'Each man's death diminishes me.' Idle chatter From increasingly bored tourists fills my head, And I escape to a much earlier time, To relive in myself the vicious crime.
I am alone and frightened as I stand Watching the familiar uniform Of the SS driving us from our land, And then, like a huge swarm Of stinging wasps, on to the train they led us, And made us promises of work and homes, And even dignity. Oh, how they bled us! Our blood soon reddened the mighty ocean's foam.
I am a gypsy girl today, I, waiting for the train to take me Into the darkness where they soon will make me Abandon earth for ever. I must pay, I and my people, for what they call the crime Of being homeless, wandering the road, Passing our time In our hand-painted vardos, with our load Of kipsis and other goods to sell. For this they sentenced us to hell.
I, a gypsy, out of India, wandering, I, betrayed, stripped, beaten, raped and slain; I, who but yesterday was dukkering The vast of a rakli, slaughtered on the plain.
I am surrounded, cursed and spat upon, Lied to and about; My blood is slowly oozing out: I shall never bear a son.
The heroes in black are raising their fists And punching and kicking me into the ground; There is no strength left in my wrists, Nor any help to be found.
I, naked, dripping with sweat and blood, Am dragged, too weak to scream, towards the shower; They do not want to wash me clean of blood But to destroy me in this evil hour.
And now they bundle me into the room Which now I know will be my bitter tomb. The gas pours in; I try to catch my breath, But there's no cheating this unwelcome death.
Not a bird sings as I pass away, Not a flower blooms as I am cast aside; Just yesterday I should have been a bride, And gladly married miri ro, Yet here I am and now to hell I go, Or death at least. Divvel, pray for me now! I'll soon be fertiliser for the plough.
I am a single voice Mourning the loss of 800,000 folk Who, under the bitter yoke Of tyranny, were slain. We had no choice; Death was the only way to end our pain.
Out of the thousands who died Mine is only a single cry For the old and the young, The women and men, Who were led out to die Again and again: I am only their voice.
Here, in Auschwitz, Chelmno, Bialystock, I watch the crowds of tourists flock. The holocaust deniers spin their lies; The special pleaders will not grant our place Beside their own. 'Gypsies are not a race,' Or so they, lying, say, and with insincere sighs Try to round down the numbers of our dead, And almost blame us. Oh, the bitter bread We eat even today! The evil names They call us as they try to bring us shame! Yes, I'm a gippo, pikey, call me what you will: Love always conquers hate, and always will.
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Post by biglin on Jan 10, 2011 17:21:05 GMT -5
One of my translations:
Wind, carry me (from the Turkish of Sabahaddin Küdret)
Wind, carry me along with you! Look, I am so lonely in this road, Just living my ordinary little day.
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Post by biglin on Jan 15, 2011 18:04:22 GMT -5
This is a poem I wrote for a lesbian builder friend of mine who sadly died at the age of 31.
For Cass: An Elegy
You were no giant, yet in a world of men
You held your own. Short, maybe even fat,
You lifted weights most men would struggle with,
And joined stones, wood, glass, metal, into one
Tremendous whole that added up to house,
Or flat, or office block, or whatever else
You chose to build. You were still young,
And strong as any oxen of the field,
Yet your loud laugh could make the heavens smile,
And your kind heart would give up your last fag
Or buy a mate a pint with your last quids.
I envied and admired you, but most of all
I loved you and I wanted to be like you,
So confident, so full of fun,
So capable and yet compassionate:
No girl could ever want a better mate.
In an evil day
Your girlfriend brought the news that you were dead
At only 31. Yes, I shed tears,
For you were like a princess among women,
An exception every bit as magnificent
As Artemisia Gentileschi's art.
You laboured hard, yet never lost your heart.
We were not lovers, yet I truly loved you.
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Post by biglin on Jan 15, 2011 18:08:31 GMT -5
Bella the Beautiful
Where the grim smell of the factory Wafts fumes high up above, Lives the beautiful young girl Bella, Whom all the young boys love.
She has flowing raven tresses That the jealous wind caresses All down her lovely face, At which boys long to gaze.
A boy from a rough estate Who lives just up the road Sighs as he walks her street, His love a heavy load.
With a can of spray paint in his hand He writes upon the wall: ‘To hell with all the other young girls! Bella’s the fairest of all!’
Even the people who, passing, Read his graffiti, smile, For just like Petrarch by Laura By Bella the young boy’s beguiled.
In this drab estate in South London The youngster who loves her in vain Dreams that one day he will win her, And free his heart from its pain.
All over the world this artist Will display his undying love, On the walls of underground stations, On the clouds high up above.
His words of love will burn so bright That Bella cannot help but see The words he writes so hopelessly In the long dark night.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 25, 2011 7:47:49 GMT -5
This is a poem I wrote many years ago as a young man when Khomeini had taken over in Iran.
One of his many repellent 'decisions' was to order the execution of all prostitutes in Iran.
I wrote this poem as an elegy for them.
For the prostitutes killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard
The blood was warm it was our blood the earth was dry we warmed it with our blood until our lives grew cold
slumped in a posture we would rather not have chosen but choice was not permitted us since even the strongest imagination can't keep out bullets pumped into a heart
we stood against a wall of stone and we who had only wanted to be kind found suffering gave us all the answers but asked no questions
and when the bullets blew away our breath and smashed our bones and splintered our cells we wanted to ask the lonely men what need of theirs we could have supplied
our voices narrowed to a scream as bullets kissed us raped our soft warm flesh we never knew such abstract hate before that grew like a cancer inside us
and now that the earth itself is levelled donw to the sharp report of rifles our flesh is nuzzled by the bullet's love our bodies flung to the floor and what does it mean this frozen sexless murder of our sex in the loving sun's bright rays we could have lain for ever with his heat
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Post by biglin on Jan 30, 2011 19:11:02 GMT -5
I've posted the version of 'The Porraimos' on here as I originally wrote it.
This is the version that got published in the 'Literary Bohemian Magazine' in 2009
Poetry – Issue 3 | February 2009 The Porraimos by Linda Marshall
I am alone and frightened as I stand And watch the SS uniforms Drive us from our land Like stinging wasps; they swarm Until I’m surrounded, hit and stung. I am lied to and about And will never bear a son. My blood is slowly coursing out
Into the darkness. They soon will take me And my people, for what they call a crime. This train will make me Pay for passing my time In a hand-painted vardo, with a load Of kipsis and other goods to sell. For being homeless, wandering the road, They’ve sentenced us to hell.
Divvel, pray for me now! I’ll soon be fodder for the plough.
They bundle me into the room. The gas pours in; I catch my breath, In what I know will be my tomb. There’s no cheating this unwelcome death. Not one flower blooms as they cast me aside; Not one bird sings as I go. Yesterday, I might have been a bride And gladly married miri ro.
Here, in Auschwitz, Chelmno, Bialystock, The holocaust deniers spin their lies; I watch the crowds of tourists flock. These special pleaders with insincere sighs Will not grant us our place, Round down the numbers of our dead. Or say, “Gypsies are not a race.” Today I eat this bitter bread.
Editor’s note:
Porraimos (alternatively spelled Porrajmos or Porajmos) means ‘the devouring.’ The Roma use this term to describe the Holocaust, where nearly a million died because of their race. Despite their large death toll, none were called to testify and no one spoke on their behalf at the post-war Nuremberg Trials. To learn more about Roma culture, read Bury Me Standing, by Isabel Fonseca.
Share About the author Linda Marshall lives in London where she writes about her Romany heritage. An avid traveler, Linda has visited over thirty countries and has lived in Turkey and Saudi Arabia. She is working on her first novel.
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