Archive for the revolution Category

Dawn 1945(a persona poem)

Posted in Poetry, revolution, Uncategorized, War, writing with tags , , on January 12, 2016 by Graeme Cooper

Grey light creeps across the ashen paving

With purpose as deadly as the foreign boots

Of the infantrymen who hide still

In the suburbs of Berlin.

 

The new sun interrogates us who are left,

The morning breeze lifts fallen banners,

Insinuating shame underneath.  As if,

They have the right to question!

 

The Fuhrer will pound his fist and defy

The very air to bring its scorn near

Our glorious purpose.

 

But this morning,

He is dead.  All is dead.

 

The proud promised future is litter

and ash and I

Stand, as if naked,

In this cold dawn, listening

for the whisper of tanks.

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Unsaved

Posted in Poetry, politics, revolution, War, writing with tags , , , on May 5, 2015 by Graeme Cooper

He rises darkly whilst, quietly,

She sleeps on, dreaming.

Outside, the sun has not

Yet decided to rise.

 

Unhindered by kindness paralysed

By sleep,  unlit by interrogating rays,

His hatred, smiling,  combs its hair,

Preparing before risings that will come too late.

Dandelions Are Freer Than Me

Posted in philosophy, Poetry, revolution, shopping, Uncategorized, War on September 2, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Vertical blinds slice the sunrise

Into prison bars on a mocha feature wall.

Whilst, outside, dandelions exploit

Pavement cracks as habitats until

Becoming casualties of chemical warfare.

Because freedom means control,

We must defend our sterile prisons

In the name of liberty.

Necessity Is the Mother of Indifference

Posted in Mental Health, Poetry, revolution, shopping, writing with tags , , , , on July 24, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Street’s transitory intransigent heart,
Cracks like a mortuary paving slab inviting,
Unwary, undead, disease-ridden feet to catch,
And trip, unfalling this time,
A tiny but timely reminder unheeded,
By suited commuters of the ruin,
That lies within, underneath,
The hearth of their happy homes built,
On the ancient burial ground of Capital’s disposable minions,
Yet to come.

Gas main and underground trains shake
As tectonic plates of a century prematurely aged,
Stutter uncertainly, unsure,
If we have seen the final fin de siècle, concerned,
That the fireworks were not enough.

Turning complacent from the setting sun,
I endure starving faces and neglected children on BBC1,
And refuse the news for another channel which serves,
Understandable, unchallenging reality with a narrator colloquial,
And rinse my mind by absorbing myself in,
Which girls will he pick? Who will make the best cake?
To take away the lingering taste of,
Inevitable crumbling low-key catastrophe
Which unfolds next door (or close) nightly,
And creeps into my unconscious dreams,
So in the morning which I knew would come,
My defence manifests as malevolent indifference,
Towards those that are not us.

Unable to psychicly afford guilt to crack,
My insulated isolation, I buy back my humanity by,
Credit card for ” just two pounds a month” , take,
My mundane daily (fair trade) drugs and am,
A smiling global citizen, city zen again turning,
A blind eye, belligerently blasé about the blood,
Spilled on faraway sand to fuel my rush hour rage
On a motorway through no mans’ land.

Once stress was an enemy to be busted. I,
Turned to yoga then whalesong then gave up and worshipped,
Prozac and sleeping pills,
But now pills are passé and we are slaves to interactive tablets,
Since my phone became I, phone, I run on stress,
It holds me together, I hold it close,
With caffeine and codeine to take the edges off.

Too cynical to believe the ad man’s promise that I grow better by consumption,
But resigned to the truth that without it I cannot function,
Too savvy to want what I don’t need,
Too wired to deny that I need what I don’t want.

Scribbled in a Thunder Storm

Posted in Poetry, revolution, War, work in progress with tags , , , , , on July 23, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The violence of lightning,

Smashes the stranglehold,

Of oppressive air,

Returning water, exiled

As vapour from excessive Sun,

To turn grateful earth green.

 

Now nurtured by more,

Democratic Helios, his

Power tempered by mighty Thor,

Fields flourish and the revolution brings,

Prosperity from violence,

Tranquillity from war in the sky.

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