Sunday, 28 February 2021

Old Woman

 


You see me, only as I am today,

Bent and warped and frail and worn away,

And think not of my youthful carelessness,

My heat, my stamina, my strong caress.

You see my skin, translucent, pale, thin,

And patched and freckled, blotched, and my poor chin

All downed and spiked and coiled with wiry hairs,

And see my tired eyes, milk filmed with cares.

And know not anything of who I used to be,

When I had umpteen children at my knee,

And made my garden, grew it first from seed,

And dug the borders edged the lawns with stone,

And raised the beds and pruned the apple trees,

And cut the firewood and did not moan,

And new the names of every pretty weed,

And let them be, but laboured on my knees

To stop them crowding out the rarer flowers.

No, you knew me not in former, finer hours,

In glory days when unbent, I could bend,

And cannot now conceive, nor comprehend, 

Because it seems so cruel and so wrong,

That I am only weak, because I once was strong. 


Tuesday, 9 February 2021

A Lament For These Sad Times

 

A slow lament for these drab times, I'll play,

Alas, they won't improve, can't be restored,

So all the clouded sorrow of the day,

Shall learn I am immune, am quite inured

To misery and loneliness and grey.

For minor keys and portamento slides

Depict the churning of the changing tides,

Of cruel seas and mad affairs of men,

And know tomorrow comes, dawn breaks again.


And there are patterns in the music of the spheres,

Which wise composers borrow,

They sound as truth to those who aren't made bored

By seeking out the sequences of life.

For finding patterns relayed to our ears,

We recognise such phrases, hints as chime,

Resounding loudly down a thousand years

Which hold within the wisdom of their time,

And know when great distrust exists, is rife,

That there is naught to do but bear our sorrow.


And yet we needs must voice it when we feel

That there is more to thinking than we're taught

For melody and harmony reveal

That strange eternal nature of our grief,

And speak of deeper things we understand

And finding we are moved we find relief.

Not in the simple spelling out at length,

Of music's words of comfort, loving strength,

But in the underlying complex thought,

That has the charge of each creative hand.








 


Friday, 5 February 2021

Optimism is Cowardice (Spengler)


Optimism's Cowardice, a wise man said so.

He who looks into the future without dread, though

sufficiently apprised of man's propensity

to violence, political intensity,

to folly, 

has no damned business being jolly.

Thursday, 4 February 2021

Freedom Of The Press (based on 2 quotes from Spengler)

 Freedom Of The Press 


“To-day we live so cowed under the bombardment of this intellectual artillery(the media) that hardly anyone can attain to the inward detachment that is required for a clear view of the monstrous drama. The will-to-power operating under a pure democratic disguise has finished off its masterpiece so well that the object's sense of freedom is actually flattered by the most thorough-going enslavement that has ever existed” Spengler


“The press today is an army with carefully organized weapons, the journalists its officers, the readers its soldiers. The reader neither knows nor is supposed to know the purposes for which he is used and the role he is to play.” Spengler


Today we live so cowed, yet think we’re free

Under bombardment of artillery,

The media, and others who torment

Regard it as their duty to prevent

The smoke from clearing so the view

Of all the monstrous drama’s clear to see.

The press an army, weapons organised,

Its hacks its officers, who plan attacks

The readers, soldiers hypnotised,

Who, knowing nothing real from day to day,

Are held most cheaply, easily abused,

Blind to the purposes for which they’re used,

Nor of the role they are to play. 

No person must attain detachment, calm,

The daily news is meant to bring alarm.

The will to power dressed in the disguise

Of power at its softest, most dilute,

Has finished of its masterpiece, so well,

That truth we cannot really tell,

(Because it’s never really told) from lies.

We are enslaved by power absolute. 






What Is Truth (inspired by a quote from Oswald Spengler)



“What is truth? For the multitude, that which it continually reads and hears.” 


What is truth, does it hang about the BBC,

Like mist or ozone in the air?

I think it must be so, for it seems to me

That all such facts as can be trusted are approved there.

What is truth? do you know? does anyone care?

Can it be what I wish it to be?

Is it common as muck, or like gold, quite rare?

What is truth, does it hang about the BBC?

And can I ignore it if it makes me feel free,

If living a lie, prevents my despair?

What is truth, does it roll across the deep, grey sea,

Like mist or ozone in the air?

Can I challenge what they say it is, or shouldn’t I dare?

Will it die if I don’t pay my license fee?

Is it what it’s acceptable on Twitter, to share?

I think it must be so, for it seems to me

It’s only what you’d want your peers to see.

No point in facts that do not seem fair.

Does Parliament invent it? Do they guarantee

That all such facts as can be trusted are approved there?

And what are opinions, are they just a snare

Designed to trip you up? Do they sting like a bee?

Must they be squashed or avoided if they take you, unaware?

What is truth, is it what I hear continually

Does it hang about? 

Wednesday, 3 February 2021

Cordyceps


The body politic has been infected,

Its soul is poisoned with the spores

Of arrogance and tyranny, now easily detected

In the ruthless, lying speeches of the bores.

And the ruthless lying species which is politician

Sweats his megalomania through his pores,

And fills the air until each foul deception

Is accepted by the trusting population,

Unable to detect the putrid stink of scores

Of men and whores who love corruption.

Not satisfied with merely abetting the destruction

Of all that was held good, they impose laws

Enshrining toxic nonsense, 

Dripped from brains of unelected

Parasites. For the cause,

That is the real infection,

Must be imposed yet still respected,

Thus the trusting, ant-like people of the nation,

Are told that total ruination,

(Since it’s done for their own safety and protection)

Is a benefit and really has no flaws.