Fears and Doubts
by Eric Fried
(from "100 Poems Without a Country")
Have no doubts
about the one
who tells you
he is afraid
but be afraid
of the one
who tells you
he has no doubts
*
The View From The Window
by R.S Thomas
Like a painting it is set before one,
But less brittle, ageless; these colours
Are renewed daily with variations
Of light and distance that no painter
Achieves or suggests. Then there is movement,
Change, as slowly the cloud bruises
Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps
A black mood; but gold at evening
To cheer the heart. All through history
The great brush has not rested,
Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,
Looking coolly, or, as we now,
through the tears' lenses, ever saw
This work and it was not finished?
*
Turnip-Heads
by Fleur Adcock
Here are the ploughed fields of Middle England;
and here are the scarecrows, flapping polythene arms
over what still, for the moment, looks like England:
bare trees, earth-colours, even a hedge or two.
The scarecrows' coats are fertilizer bags;
their heads (it's hard to see from the swift windows
of the Intercity) are probably 5-litre
containers for some chemical or other.
And what are the scarecrows guarding? Fields of rape?
Plenty of that in Middle England; also
pillage, and certain other medieval
institutions - some things haven't changed,
now that the men of straw are the men of plastic.
They wave their rags in fitful semaphore,
in the March wind; our train blurs past them.
Whatever their message was, we seem to have missed it.
*
Pessimistic Note
by A.C. Jacobs
The times are getting sour:
Scapegoats are being looked for.
Where do they go looking for them?
Where have they looked before?
*
The 6 foot Goddess
by Charles Bukowski
I'm big
I suppose that's why my women always seem
small
but this 6 foot goddess
who deals in real estate
and art
and flies from Texas
to see me
and I fly to Texas
to see her
well, there's plenty of her to
grab hold of
and I grab hold of it
of her,
I yank her head back by the hair,
I'm real macho,
I suck on her upper lip
her cunt
her soul
I mount her and tell her,
"I'm going to shoot white hot
juice into you. I didn't fly all the
way to Galveston to play
chess."
later we lay locked like human vines
my left arm under her pillow
my right arm over her side
I grip both of her hands,
and my chest
belly
balls
cock
tangle into her
and through us
in the dark
pass rays
back and forth
back and forth
until I fall away
and we sleep.
she's wild
but kind
my 6 foot goddess
makes me laugh
the laughter of the mutilated
who still need
love,
and her blessed eyes
run deep into her head
like mountain springs
far in
and
cool and good.
she has saved me
from everything that is
not here.
*
Anno Domini
by George Barker
(an extract only)
at a time of bankers
to exercise a little charity;
at a time of soldiers
to cultivate small gardens;
at a time of categorical imperatives
to guess about clouds;
at a time of politicians
to trust only to children and demigods.
And from those who occupy seats of power
to turn, today, away
without incurring permanent reprisals.
When the instruments of torture
are paraded in public places
permit us to transmute them,
somehow, into ploughshares.
When the tribulations of some tribes, or persons,
seem, as so often, to exceed a reasonable allotment,
condescend, superior, to examine fate
and make sure that its machinery has not gone wrong.
When those who deserve little more than
a severe whipping, wake up to a morning of pink
champagne and strawberries,
visit them, surely with one moment of retribution
and slight indigestion. Expunge
from the punishment book of the frivolous
those impositions incurred for singing at funerals;
and to the hopelessly optimistic
award, if you will, a few kisses ...
*
Rhondda
by John Evans
accept nothing of terminal moraines,
the pit wheels, the wind,
the grey sky
over
backyards
& blackyards.
wherein,
the threatening weather,
the dust
& the bird-shit
it seems
they go on living here,
optimists
every one of them;
singing
in their stone walls,
keeping the kettle on,
waiting
for another word
from England.
*
Dream Song 1
by John Berryman
Huffy Henry hid the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point, a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.
All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry's side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.
What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be.
Once in a sycamore I was glad
all at the top, and I sang.
Hard on the land wears the strong sea
and empty grows every bed.
*
Bagpipe Music
by Louis MacNeice
It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.
John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.
It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.
Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.
The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."
It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.
Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.
It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.
It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.
It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.
*
Requiem
by Labi Siffre
She tells me how on her seventh birthday
her father did it to her
"Daddy's special birthday gift" he'd said
and placed her hand between his legs pressing
"this is for you"
then spread her like a rug and thrusting
gave her love the way till now she'd
trusting thought all good fathers do
the same as where were you and what
where you doing
when you heard of Lennon's, Kennedy's
or Luther King's death
It's funny how you never forget
the first time you had sex
from Monument by LS © '72
*
If we must die
by Claude McKay
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
*
First They Came...
by Martin Niemoller
They came first for the Communists
And I did not speak up
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak up
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak up
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak for me
*
He Was Lucky
by Anna Swirszczynska
(translated by Magnus J. Krynski & Robert A. Maguire)
The old man
leaves his house, carries books.
A German soldier snatches his books
flings them in the mud.
The old man picks them up,
the soldier hits him in the face.
The old man falls,
the soldier kicks him and walks away.
The old man
lies in mud and blood.
Under him he feels
the books.
*
Hi Labi, I've been trying to find a way to contact you but have only found the comment box as a way to connect so apologies! I've included my email, if you would reply to me I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to ask you a few questions. Thanks very much. Felix
Posted by: Felix Joseph | 24 March 2022 at 16:14
In this time , strange Covid season I have been enjoying music and rediscovering brilliant songs of yours, Crying Laughing Loving, Watch Me, and It Must be love. They are just so good.
I find your choice of poetry very interesting and your website in general very thought provoking.
I have long wondered where you went as I recall Crying Laughing Loving as a teenager and found it on spotify.
So your older songs are still giving much pleasure.
Thanks
Posted by: Colm Black | 06 May 2020 at 10:12
Just found your website - thank you Mr Siffre I will be reading it and reading it ... so sorry you could not get married then again who knows just best wishes ... Sincerely Hania
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