Communist Poetry

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Nov 9 2015 09:09
I cannot say what makes a poem ‘communist’. I like this. Monkey ‘All monkeys are brothers,’ Agreed the amiable small creature. ‘But one has to draw the line,’ Dropping a coconut to show just where. His smile was in extremis, Like the end of a cocktail evening. His lips twitched, he was squeamish, Hated hurting heads or feelings. ‘A joke’s a joke,’ he stuttered, ‘But some things even I can not condone. My brothers wouldn’t like it, I speak not for myself alone.’ The drooping palm-leaves Were playing their end-of-performance tunes The tree-trunk bowed Like a tactful manager despising his patrons. D.J. Enright
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Feb 2 2016 19:58
The Poor Wake Up Quickly Surprised at night, The trishaw driver Slithers from the carriage, Hurls himself upon the saddle. With what violence he peddles Slapbang into the swarming night, Neon skidding off his cheekbones! Madly he makes away In the wrong direction. I tap his shoulder nervously. Madly he turns about Between the taxis and the trams, Makes away electric-eyed In another wrong direction. How do I star in that opium dream? A hulking red-faced ruffian Who beats him on his bony back, Cursing in the tongue of demons. But when we’re there He grumbles mildly over his wage, Like a sober man, A man who has had no recent visions. The poor wake up quickly. D.J. Enright
fidel gastro
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Feb 4 2016 19:08
Nobody has mentioned Benjamin Zephaniah but I guess as he is still alive he's not a historical figure? Anyhow..... Miss World https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DflgQ4CyQSM Money https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VT_WpXlqW1s
Sleeper
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Feb 4 2016 20:22
Yes Fletcher wrote:
Whilst there is a working class I am of it, While there is a criminal element, Then I am in it, And whilst there is a soul in prison, Then I am not free. Poetry of the Class War
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Feb 4 2016 21:41
Sleeper #155 It's good, though owes something to E.V. Debs: 'I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.' (Court statement, 1918)
Sleeper
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Feb 5 2016 20:43
Benjamin Zephaniah is a wonderful poet, as well as being patron of Haven. All good. red and black riot wrote:
Nobody has mentioned Benjamin Zephaniah but I guess as he is still alive he's not a historical figure? Anyhow..... Miss World https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DflgQ4CyQSM Money https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VT_WpXlqW1s
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Feb 5 2016 21:02
I searched for The Mask of Anarchy and it didn't show up on this thread so here it is: ( also you can have it read to you if you use windows - http://www.bl.uk/learning/langlit/poetryperformance/shelley/poem3/shelley3.html ) As I lay asleep in Italy There came a voice from over the Sea And with great power it forth led me To walk in the visions of Poesy. II I met Murder on the way - He had a mask like Castlereagh - Very smooth he looked, yet grim; Seven blood-hounds followed him: III All were fat; and well they might Be in admirable plight, For one by one, and two by two, He tossed the human hearts to chew Which from his wide cloak he drew. IV Next came Fraud, and he had on, Like Eldon, an ermined gown; His big tears, for he wept well, Turned to mill-stones as they fell. V And the little children, who Round his feet played to and fro, Thinking every tear a gem, Had their brains knocked out by them. VI Clothed with the Bible, as with light, And the shadows of the night, Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy On a crocodile rode by. VII And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies. VIII Last came Anarchy: he rode On a white horse, splashed with blood; He was pale even to the lips, Like Death in the Apocalypse. IX And he wore a kingly crown; And in his grasp a sceptre shone; On his brow this mark I saw - 'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!' X With a pace stately and fast, Over English land he passed, Trampling to a mire of blood The adoring multitude, XI And a mighty troop around, With their trampling shook the ground, Waving each a bloody sword, For the service of their Lord. XII And with glorious triumph, they Rode through England proud and gay, Drunk as with intoxication Of the wine of desolation. XIII O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, Passed the Pageant swift and free, Tearing up, and trampling down; Till they came to London town. XIV And each dweller, panic-stricken, Felt his heart with terror sicken Hearing the tempestuous cry Of the triumph of Anarchy. XV For with pomp to meet him came, Clothed in arms like blood and flame, The hired murderers, who did sing 'Thou art God, and Law, and King. XVI 'We have waited, weak and lone For thy coming, Mighty One! Our purses are empty, our swords are cold, Give us glory, and blood, and gold.' XVII Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd, To the earth their pale brows bowed; Like a bad prayer not over loud Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' - XVIII Then all cried with one accord, 'Thou art King, and God and Lord; Anarchy, to thee we bow, Be thy name made holy now!' XIX And Anarchy, the Skeleton, Bowed and grinned to every one, As well as if his education Had cost ten millions to the nation. XX For he knew the Palaces Of our Kings were rightly his; His the sceptre, crown and globe, And the gold-inwoven robe. XXI So he sent his slaves before To seize upon the Bank and Tower, And was proceeding with intent To meet his pensioned Parliament XXII When one fled past, a maniac maid, And her name was Hope, she said: But she looked more like Despair, And she cried out in the air: XXIII 'My father Time is weak and gray With waiting for a better day; See how idiot-like he stands, Fumbling with his palsied hands! XXIV ‘He has had child after child, And the dust of death is piled Over every one but me - Misery, oh, Misery!' XXV Then she lay down in the street, Right before the horses' feet, Expecting, with a patient eye, Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy. XXVI When between her and her foes A mist, a light, an image rose, Small at first, and weak and frail Like the vapour of a vale: XXVII Till as clouds grow on the blast, Like tower-crowned giants striding fast, And glare with lightnings as they fly, And speak in thunder to the sky XXVIII It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail Brighter than the viper's scale, And upborne on wings whose grain Was as the light of sunny rain. XXIX On its helm, seen far away, A planet, like the Morning's, lay; And those plumes its light rained through Like a shower of crimson dew. XXX With step as soft as wind it passed, O'er the heads of men - so fast That they knew the presence there, And looked, - but all was empty air. XXXI As flowers beneath May's footstep waken, As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken, As waves arise when loud winds call, Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. XXXII And the prostrate multitude Looked - and ankle-deep in blood, Hope, that maiden most serene, Was walking with a quiet mien: XXXIII And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, Lay dead earth upon the earth; The Horse of Death tameless as wind Fled, and with his hoofs did grind To dust the murderers thronged behind. XXXIV A rushing light of clouds and splendour, A sense awakening and yet tender Was heard and felt - and at its close These words of joy and fear arose XXXV As if their own indignant Earth Which gave the sons of England birth Had felt their blood upon her brow, And shuddering with a mother's throe XXXVI Had turnèd every drop of blood By which her face had been bedewed To an accent unwithstood, - As if her heart had cried aloud: XXXVII 'Men of England, heirs of Glory, Heroes of unwritten story, Nurslings of one mighty Mother, Hopes of her, and one another; XXXVIII 'Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number, Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you - Ye are many - they are few.’
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Feb 5 2016 21:20
Thirty years ago I attended a poetry workshop in Birmingham held by Benjamin Zephaniah. Only remember he was a nice guy who generated creative enthusiasm.
Sleeper
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Feb 5 2016 23:08
Tina Morris - anarchist They will do terrible things to your face- wiping away the colours of dreaming from your eyes and forking your tongue's innocent laughter Storming the secret places of your garden mind where magic seeds your life with wonder, they will prune and dig and hack and leave a dreadful emptiness where once jungles flowered. When your body would bend itself to earth's warm pulse or drink the juices of the seasons or paint the skies with fierce imaginings they will erect barriers and cages around the wild creature which is your soul. And you will forget that once you knew the power of magic and the joy of freedom as you wither away behind the terrible things they have done to your face.
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Feb 7 2016 22:57
Michael Smith: stoned to death by three reactionary JLP mobsters Mi cyaan believe it mi seh mi cyaan believe it room dem a rent mi apply widdin but as me go in cock-roach rat and scorpion also come in one good nose haffi run but mi nah guh dong sit dong pon high wall like Humpty Dumpty mi a face mi reality one lickle bwai come blow him horn me look pon him wid scorn when me realise how mi five bwai pickney was a victim of the trix dem call partisan politics an mi bun mi belly and mi bawl Mi seh mi cyaan believe it mi daughter bwaifriend name is Sailor and him pass through the port like a ship more grand pickney fi feed but the whole a we need what a night what a plight mi cyaan get a bite, mi life is a stiff fight and mi cyaan believe it sittin in de corner wid mi friends talkin bout tings and time mi `ear one voice seh: "who deh?" mi a seh "who deh?" "who a seh who deh when wi a seh who deh" when wi tek a stock, dem lick down wi flat teet start fly, and big man start cry an mi cyaan believe it mi seh mi cyaan believe it De other day mi a pass one yard pon de hill, when mi tek a stalk mi `ear "hey bwai!" Yes ma'am "hey bwai!" Yes ma'am "You clean up de dog shit?" Yes ma'am an' mi cyaan believe it Doris a mother of four, get a wok as a domestic bass man move in an bap-si-kaisico she pregnant again bap-si-kaisico she pregnant again an mi cyaan believe it De yard de other night when mi a hear fire, fire to plate claat, who dead, you dead, who dead, me dead, who dead, Harry dead, who dead, heleven dead, woyeee, Orange street fire deh bun mi `ead and mi cyan believe it Lord me see one black bud livin in one building but no rent no pay so him cyaan stay, Lord de opress and de disposess cyaan get no res`, what nex` Tek a trip from Kingston to Jamaica, tek twelve from a dozen, mi see mi mama in heaven. Madhouse. Mi cyaan believe it. You believe it? How you fi believe it when you blind you eye to it? But mi know you believe it, laaawd, mi know you believe it.
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Feb 7 2016 18:37
Women of the Weather Underground They call it terror if you are few and have no B-52s if you are not a head of state with an army and police if you have neither napalm nor tanks nor electronic battlefields terror is if you are dispossessed and have only your own two hands each other and your rage It is not terror if you are New York’s Finest and you shoot a ten-year old Black child in the back because you think Black people all look like they’ve just committed a robbery It is not terror if you are ITT and buy the men who line Chilean doctors up in their hospital corridors and shoot them for supporting the late democratic government of their country It is not terror but heroism if you were captured by the Vietnamese for dropping fragmentation bombs on their schools and hospitals Only those who have nothing can be terrorists .......
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Feb 19 2016 11:18
Not exactly communist poetry but the poet is a communist, so what the hell. A Poem From a Dying Anarchist A good man knows how to die He sees no darkness Only light A good man knows how to die He knows what death is He feels its beauty Understands the nature of its release A good man knows how to die He never seeks it But welcomes it when it comes A good man knows how to die He learns how by living a good life A good man knows how to die He knows that what he leaves undone Will be done by others That the things he did not see Will be seen by others And as death steals over him The knowledge of this wraps him up like a warm blanket A good man knows how to die And as his death approaches, his regrets flutter away Like a beautiful butterfly transformed from an ugly grub A good man knows how to die And as he breathes his last breath The pain and anguish of his life leave his face And it is reborn Yes, a good man knows how to die And I am a good man ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Feb 19 2016 12:11
It's good. Who wrote it Noah?
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Feb 19 2016 18:19
Auld-bod wrote:
It's good. Who wrote it Noah?
Nobody well known - some guy called Comrade Webby!
boomerang
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Feb 21 2016 10:00
Noah Fence wrote:
Auld-bod wrote:
It's good. Who wrote it Noah?
Nobody well known - some guy called Comrade Webby!
Thanks for sharing that poem, Noah. You say Comrade Webby... as in Webby from libcom???? The poem is very moving and I like its message, or at least what I interpret as its message, which is that we can make peace with death if we live our lives in a good way, by doing good things in this world, and trying hard to make a positive difference... and that even if we can't finish the job (none of us can), that there will be others to carry on for us, and even if we won't be here to experience the positive effects of what we contributed, that others will be here. Many others. And that's a beautiful thing.
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Feb 21 2016 12:47
Noah Fence wrote:
A good man knows how to die He knows that what he leaves undone Will be done by others That the things he did not see Will be seen by others
These lines were the best. I knew you had some health issues but are you doing as poorly as the poem suggests? Boomerang: Noah is Webby he changed his nick.
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Feb 21 2016 13:23
Quote:
These lines were the best. I knew you had some health issues but are you doing as poorly as the poem suggests?
Well thanks! As for my health lets just say the wheels have been falling off at quite a rate with the latest turn for the worse last week. I'm in good spirits though. In fact it's quite exciting in a weird way and anyways, it ain't quite over yet! It's a matter of timing between transplant and end of play. Which will come first??? On my good days though I'm having a fucking blast!
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Mar 3 2016 12:13
Danil Harms was the best, he write only one complete book, Occasions and Majakovsky were revolutionaries and banned by Stalin. Bout of them tell about contradictions and occasions, absurdity, what change of new soviet era bring whit it. Literature studies respect them even they are radical and more like revolutionaries than communist.
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Mar 16 2016 21:25
Anger born of love Creates something new Something of power Something magnificent, majestic The motivation to discard comfort, forgo gratification To lose identity and use anonymity as a lever to prize open the door to freedom Anger born of love Overcomes fear, pain and hopelessness It propels you through deep snow, along icy rivers and over flesh shredding rocks Anger born of love is the distillation of the human spirit It is something of hard beauty Something that lives in the heart of those that are the change in the world And it is something very, very fierce
elraval2
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Mar 16 2016 21:49
Sorry, haven't read through the entire thread... but has Pablo Neruda been mentioned?
ajjohnstone
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Mar 17 2016 01:13
Once again to promote our blog, Socialism Or You Money Back, every Tuesday there is a topical humourous poem posted by our comrade Richard Layton. This was his latest offering SILLY B’LEADERS! 7/3/16. Obituaries of Nancy Reagan reveal how she and the former U.S. President used to consult an astrologer before making political decisions. The myth of leadership runs deep, It undermines each thought; Like faith in God from a young age, It’s something that we’re taught. It’s there to put us in our place, To make us feel quite small; So all of us will then believe, We matter not at all. We’re told that it’s great leaders who, Make our whole world go round; And if it wasn’t for their deeds, We’d flounder on the ground. Adolf was guided by the runes, And Churchill picked by fate; (1) Whilst Blair’s one more Messiah who, Arrived back far too late! The problem with all statesman is, They’re guilty of one sin; And it’s the same as all of them, Believe in their own spin. With egos massaged by all those, Who toady to their needs; They really do become convinced, The world turns on their deeds. But when we look at the hard facts, We find this is a myth; (2) And leaders throughout history, Have more than took the pith! (1) Churchill was convinced that ‘fate’ had chosen him to be a ‘great man’. He modestly described himself as a star shining amongst lesser lights. (2) Wikipedia on ‘Leadership’, “Noam Chomsky and others have brought critical thinking to the concept of leadership and have provided an analysis that asserts that people abrogate their responsibility to think and will actions for themselves. While the conventional view of leadership is rather satisfying to people who ‘want to be told what to do’, these critics say that one should question why they are being subjected to a will or intellect other than their own if the leader is not a subject-matter expert”. Others found here http://socialismoryourmoneyback.blogspot.com/search?q=richard+layton&max-results=20&by-date=true
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Mar 17 2016 12:18
How about this lovely poem from Louis Aragon on the GPU (Cheka, GPU, OGPU,NKVD, and finally KGB): "Prelude to the Cherry Season": I sing the GPU which is taking shape In the France of today I sing the GPU we need in France I sing the GPUs of nowhere and everywhere I call for the GPU to prepare the end of the world Call for the GPU to prepare the end of the world To defend the betrayed To defend those always betrayed Ask for a GPU, you whom they bend and whom they kill Ask for a GPU You need the GPU Long live the GPU the dialectical figure of heroism Real heroes not imbecile idiot pilots Who people think are heroes just because they Fly in the face of the earth Long live the GPU, true image of materialist splendor Long live the GPU; down with Chiappe and the Marseillaise Long live the GPU; down with the pope and the bugs Long live the GPU; down with money and banks Long live the GPU; down with the cheating East Long live the GPU; down with the family Long live the GPU; down with infernal laws Long live the GPU; down with socialist assassins like Caballero Boncour MacDonald Zoergibel Long live the GPU; down with the enemies of the proletariat
elraval2
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Apr 7 2016 22:45
is it just me or is most 'Communist' poetry terrible?
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Apr 9 2016 06:47
This machine traverses the world Blind, deaf, stupid No care for the destruction in it's wake It just rolls on, devouring all Spitting out the bones Our bones It's fuel is reason, beauty, possibility And from its exhaust spews isolation, pain, confusion and hopelessness There are no winners, no one and nothing is safe This machine, capitalism, like a stinking putrid soulless animal Eternally ravaged by an insatiable hunger will never stop And all the while, men and women feel the sharp horror of separation from how it could be Should be Like tiny amoeba, alone in a vast empty universe We stand, transfixed in it's dark light Made to feel to blame for our inability to live in these unnatural hellish conditions that this animal subjects us to Made to feel inadequate Made to feel fear So saturated by the blood of this thing that we cling on to it, worship it, and spend our lives feeding it This creature must be slain if we are to feel joy in our species To realise the possibilities that we hold To not be alone anymore For this is the true crime committed by this machine, this animal, this capitalism It separates us and puts us into our most unnatural state Alone We starve in a world of plenty We freeze under a hot sun We are imprisoned by limits in a limitless world All this because we are forced to be alone Alone Alone...
Sleeper
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Apr 9 2016 17:31
Alex Comfort - anarchist Song For The March Now on the night march now in the dark time you who have sung before give us a song, now You are the voice of the dead you are the tongue, speak sing with the numberless throat of the dead and the weak Should that song once rise, and should they live again, a wind of voices will spring joined in my single voice You have desired a song should we dare to sing though you kill all of us the song will go on. This has goodness, breath, a blade against history a blow at the old lie life in time of death this has culture, grace the conscript who disobeys a prison roof in a blaze a heel in a rulers face this is our poetry every command that finds a hand that takes a hand voices like rising winds and the running street.
elraval2
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Apr 9 2016 18:50
in my humble opinion, the above may be communist, but certainly not poetry. And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge The loveliest moon, that ever silver’d o’er A shell for Neptune’s goblet: she did soar So passionately bright, my dazzled soul Commingling with her argent spheres did roll Through clear and cloudy, even when she went At last into a dark and vapoury tent
elraval2
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Apr 9 2016 18:53
what about Lorca. has he had a mention here?
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Apr 10 2016 08:08
This I think owes more to William Morris than Karl Marx. Song And when our streets are green again When metalled roads are green And girls walk barefoot through the weeds Of Regent Street, Saint Martin’s Lane. And children hide in factories Where burdock blooms and vetch and rust And elms and oaks and chestnut trees Are tall again and hope is lost When up the Strand the foxes glide And hedgehogs sniff and wildcats yell And golden orioles come back To flash through Barnes and Clerkenwell When governments and industries Lie choked by weeds in fertile rain For sure the few who stay alive Will laugh and grow to love again John McGrath
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Apr 10 2016 10:22
That is ace Auld Bod.
Sleeper
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Apr 10 2016 20:33
Tristan Tzara TO MAKE A DADAIST POEM Take a newspaper. Take some scissors. Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem. Cut out the article. Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag. Shake gently. Next take out each cutting one after the other. Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag. The poem will resemble you. And there you are – an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.