Poetry Corner
Poems from the past, or original( reader’s contributions welcome!) More poetry Poetry Archive
In These New Times
“In these new times, in spite of the dangers, the most brutal force, the most fearful night, we are engaged in the fight to survive.” No Novo Tempo-Ivan Lins, Vitor Martins
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Articles, more......
Birds, Bees and Mankind
Electricity Powers the Universe
Electromagnetism and Life
False Flag World
Influence of Malthus and Darwin on the European Elite
Is Colony Collapse the price of E.M.F progress?
RF Risk Assessment Built on a House of Cards.
The Disappearing Bees
The Specter That Haunts the Death of Litvinenko
Unrepentant: Kevin Annett And Canada’s Genocide
Zimbabwe under siege
smeddum said
A Man’s A Man For A’ That
Robert Burns
1795
Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that:
The man o’ independent mind
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities an’ a’ that;
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.
smeddum said
Irony
The twentieth century has often fooled us.
We’ve been squeezed in by falsehood as by taxes.
The breath of life has denuded our ideas
as quickly as it strips a dandelion.
As boys fall back on biting sarcasm,
so we rely for safe defense
on an irony not too suppressed,
not too naked either.
It has served as a wall or dam
to shield us against a flood of lies,
and hands have laughed as they applauded,
and feet sniggered as they marched.
They could write about us, and we’ve allowed
them to make movies of this scribbled trash,
but we have reserved the right
to treat all this with quiet irony.
In our contempt we felt superior.
All this is so, but probing deeper,
irony, instead of acting as our savior,
you have become our murderer.
We’re cautious, hypocritical in love.
Our friendships are lukewarm, not brave,
and our present seems no different from
our past, so cunningly disguised.
Through life we scurry. In history,
like any Faust, we’ve been prejudged.
With Mephistophelian smile, irony,
like a shadow, dogs our every step.
In vain we try to dodge the shadow.
The paths in front, behind, are blocked.
Irony, to you we’ve sold our soul,
receiving no Margaret in return.
You have buried us alive.
Bitter knowledge has made us powerless,
and our weary irony ironically
has turned against ourselves.
1961
Translated by George Reavey (revised)
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
smeddum said
THE OLD DREAM COMES AGAIN TO ME
by: Heinrich Heine (1799-1856)
THE old dream comes again to me:
With May-night stars above,
We two sat under the linden-tree
And swore eternal love.
Again and again we plighted troth,
We chattered, and laughed, and kissed;
To make me well remember my oath
You gave me a bite on the wrist.
O darling with the eyes serene,
And with the teeth so white!
The vows were proper to the scene,
Superfluous was the bite.
This English translation of “Mir Träumte Wieder Der Alte Traum” was composed by James Thomson (1834-1882).
smeddum said
Poems as Hearing Aids
Listen to the sunshine
Can’t you hear it?
Can’t you hear it?
Can’t you hear it shine?
Listen to the crops die
Can’t you hear them?
Can’t you hear them?
Can’t you hear them die?
When the butterflies and the bees all go!
Oh! Who will be the first to know?
Can’t you hear them?
Can’t you hear them go?
Listen to the sunshine
Listen to the crops die
Listen to the bees go
Can’t you hear them now?
Oh! Where have your ears gone?
Oh! Where have your ears gone?
Sold them to the bank man?
Sold them to the bank man?
Can’t you hear it now?
Can’t you hear the sunshine now?
Paul Anderson
smeddum said
Gaoir na h-Eòrpa by Sorley Maclean
A nighean a’ chùil bhuidhe, throm-bhuidh, òr-bhuidh,
fonn do bheòil-sa ’s gaoir na h-Eòrpa,
a nighean gheal chasarlach aighearach bhòidheach,
cha bhiodh masladh ar latha-ne searbh ’nad phòig-sa.
An tugadh t’ fhonn no t’ àilleachd ghlòrmhor
bhuamsa gràinealachd mharbh nan dòigh seo,
a’ bhrùid ’s am meàirleach air ceann na h-Eòrpa
’s do bheul-sa uaill-dhearg san t-seann òran?
An tugadh corp geal is clàr grèine
bhuamsa cealgaireachd dhubh na brèine,
nimh bhùirdeasach is puinnsean crèide
is dìblidheachd ar n-Albann èitigh?
An cuireadh bòidhchead is ceòl suaimhneach
bhuamsa breòiteachd an adhbhair bhuain seo,
am mèinnear Spàinnteach a’ leum ri cruadal
is ’anam mòrail dol sìos gun bhruaillean?
Dè bhiodh pòg do bheòil uaibhrich
mar ris gach braon den fhuil luachmhoir
a thuit air raointean reòta fuara
nam beann Spàinnteach bho fhòirne cruadhach?
Dè gach cuach ded chual’ òr-bhuidh
ris gach bochdainn, àmhghar ’s dòrainn
a thig ’s a thàinig air sluagh na h-Eòrpa
bho Long nan Daoine gu daors’ a’ mhòr-shluaigh?
The Cry of Europe
Girl of the yellow, heavy-yellow, gold-yellow hair,
the song of your mouth and Europe’s shivering cry,
fair, heavy-haired, spirited, beautiful girl,
the disgrace of our day would not be bitter in your kiss.
Would your song and splendid beauty take
from me the dead loathsomeness of these ways,
the brute and the brigand at the head of Europe
and your mouth red and proud with the old song?
Would white body and forehead’s sun take
from me the foul black treachery,
spite of the bourgeois and poison of their creed
and the feebleness of our dismal Scotland?
Would beauty and serene music put
from me the sore frailty of this lasting cause,
the Spanish miner leaping in the face of horror
and his great spirit going down untroubled?
What would the kiss of your proud mouth be
compared with each drop of the precious blood
that fell on the cold frozen uplands
of Spanish mountains from a column of steel?
What every lock of your gold-yellow head
to all the poverty, anguish and grief
that will come and have come on Europe’s people
from the Slave Ship to the slavery of the whole people?
inthesenewtimes said
To live is to lie.
To live is to lie,
Even if we have to die.
We embrace with such celerity
This world of counter-verity.
I thought,” Let’s tell the truth
About the disappearing bee”,
But now, I fully realize
That was silly of me.
To live is to lie,
Even if it means to die.
To live is to lie ,
Even if they must die.
Are we bringing peace to Iraq,
Through torture and bombing them back
To pre-historic times?
Let me show you that I’m learning:
These are not war crimes!
To live is to lie.
I’m not quite sure why.
I dreamt they fixed the Scottish election
And now they’re holding me under section
I’m not sure which of the
Mental Health Act, Scotland, 2002.
You’d better be careful
That doesn’t
Happen to you.
To live is to lie,
Not ours to reason why.
So come gather round
and let’s make up some more
about Tony Blair’s legacy,
how McConnel’s not a bore.
Such scope for imagination,
The very lifeblood of a nation!
Oh! Ye strangers to the truth
Give me the grand design,
Made up on the hoof,
Whatever comes to mind!
And if it be but arrant pish?
That, it is our most fervent wish.
To live is to lie,
All that is truth must die.
Cailean Bochanan