Archive for revolution

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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.

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.

Che Daydream

Posted in Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on July 21, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Cultivate  considered revolution,

Compassionate and calm.

Kill when it is necessary,

But show respect for the dead.

Don’t hate the enemy,

Love the cause like a daughter.

Not hateful, angry destruction this,

But loving surgery for a sick society.

Give thanks for the noble,

And the good.

Turn it into a future,

With fewer stragglers.

The Grammar of Revolution

Posted in philosophy, Poetry, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , on July 4, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Grammar is like personality: a question of self-confidence.  Sometimes it is a prescription of an unreachable “should” until I realise, with a smile, that those who  prescribe need prescription to give them meaning.  So in life:  we are prescribed to by those who lack the confidence not to prescribe.  A dictatorship of the fear of freedom.  A society founded upon the inability to express without lines to write on.

A thought, fully developed, will take us back to the start, and then on to silence.  The limit of language’s ability to express itself and the perfect statement.  And so it is that poets and revolutionaries spend their lives, not trying to fill the silence, but to explain it and, in explaining, banish sound.  The ultimate aim of language is to render itself obsolete and real silence is not a lack of sound but a black hole which has sucked in all possible combinations of sound.

Then a faint hum will echo around the empty universe and it will all begin again.

If only that damned bird would stop singing.

Josephine Corcoran

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