POETS WALL
Poets Wall proclaims the personal perspectives of poets
Sleepless in a damp bed I tune through the news;
I hear four national channels and three local views
from the authoritative voice of Aunty BBC;
The trusted voice, the respected voice;
The paid for out of our pocket voice.
She talks about the anti bankster protest in London
That global protest taking place in almost a 1000 cities
against economic injustice and criminal exploitation;
But she don't tell me that, nor does she tell
about the cold bones and damp uncomfortable blankets;
The chill sharp wind stabbing up from the Thames
as we shiver on the steps of Jesus' great house.
Would the son of god understand our need of sanctuary?
Would he know we suffer for the sake of others?
Does he see that for the first time since WW2
this house is not being used to fleece tourists
but to broadcast compassion love and hope?
Aunty please please, I know you understand
that media owned and controlled by the 1%
would fear and hide the truth from the 99.
So could you help us to inform and educate,
instead of labelling us a Hitler associate
by bemoaning your gripe on your every channel
that because of these thoughtless protesters
St Pauls is closed to tourists and their cash
for the first time since the second world war.
Yes this protest is about money Aunty
and about something not happened since WW2
But not in the way you think.
Oh Aunty,
Why hast thou forsaken me?
uploaded by txt mssg from the streets of London
I am sitting with Joseph Williamson,
in The Famous Old Porterhouse, on the edge
of the square named after him. I sip Cains,
listen. He talks, Guinness untouched,
puffing at a pipe of his firm's best shag.
'It always seemed so simple to me,'
he continues. 'The men looked
so desperate, their purpose,
their very humanity stripped from them,
Back from the Napoleonic Wars
and nothing down for them. Nothing.
'I just had to find them some work,
a little dignity, wages for their families.
The tunnels were the bread and butter,
reflecting the stubborn strength of the men.
But a man needs a little jam, so we built
houses, a church or two and hang the cost.
'The house in Everton was my favourite.
We'd sneaked it up to fifteen storeys,
straight as die, before they stopped us.
We could have raised that little beauty
right up to heaven and taken our tea
with the Master Builder himself.'
From his book 'Singing the City', ISBN 0 9537437 0 5
Poetryportal UK's Online Poet of the Year 1998.
Colin Watts has many hats in the world of creative writing including; Tutor, Playwright, Actor, Author. He is also a Performance Poet and a founding member of the Dead Good Poets Society.
A long established 'avant-garde' within the Liverpool art scene, Colin is renowned for his ceaseless political activism and his proactive citizenship.
Mothers give birth here and there
Give birth now and then
To small and innocent babies
That grow and change.
Some grow up to be a good guy
And some grow up to be a bad guy
Some try to create peace
And some only create havoc.
So many influences in the world
Their mind and their decisions
Their decisions that change the world
For the better or for the worse.
They meet people that change them
And people that they change
They meet people who use them
And people that they use.
Some bravely save innocent lives
And some ruthlessly take innocent lives
Some grow up to be loved and cherished
And some grow up to be loathed and feared.
Some become leader that lead and inspire
Inspire others to better themselves
And some charge ahead with no care
No care and no thought for who they hurt.
Some piously desire true love and happiness
That binds all people together and forever
Some dangerously desire wealth and power
For themselves and only for themselves.
Some create oceans of death and destruction
That many innocent people drown in to perish
Never being able to see or hug loved ones again
Or live the life they wanted to live.
Some shine the torch of compassion and hope
In the deepest and darkest places in the world
Places devastated by corruption and manipulation
Where people can now see a shining light of help.
The world reflects the beauty and ugliness
Of its busy and imaginative inhabitants
That either conquer their dreams
Or tremble in their own fears.
We discover them through their actions
And through what they say
Some rise to be a hero
While others fall to be a tyrant
Tawfeeq is a young poet from Birmingham UK who has had several works published. He cites his biggest inspiration from the world of literature as Harold Pinter. "He was no ordinary poet; he was a passionate defender of the free human spirit."
His thoughts were of the future
Under a clouding angry sky
A life measuring by potential
A budding flower about to die.
Their thought focused on money
Who gets what but don't mine the why
How fat should some cats grow
while a hungry billion cry?
Desperation took her to the streets
Spirit in her ovaries - raging wild
Her youthful intuition concerned
about the planet's unborn child.
They bathe in opulence behind a wall of guns
Pondering humanity's dire fate
While the proactive youth of the planet
protest angry at their gate.
“Threatening cycle helmet”?
Or protection for a worried head?
She's just peace-testing near State batons
not auditioning for the 'Brain damaged and dead'.
An increasing toxic burden
weighs heavy all around
While cocooned in economic reality
they talk of dollar, yen and pound.
Don't put off until tomorrow
What you can save today
Is a good advert for investing
And is what the protesters say.
Sons of Star Wars rattle sabers
behind strong backs and smile
While shaking hands with other powerful men
Who've flown a comfortable thousand mile.
The concerned of many nations
trudge idealistically from land to land
Seeking somehow, somewhere justice
Hoping exploitation will be banned.
Keeping rational under pressure is their job
Seeking solutions to please greedy bankers
and appease the angry growing mob.
His fuzzy, youthful, sublime spirit
With vision stretched ahead in time
Filled his veins with courage
as he charged the armoured line.
They labelled him a “Hooligan
Vile villain, Yob, anarchistic thug”
Young death tragic, but so foreseen
Clings as a blood stain on their silken rug.
Guns had fired, heads had cracked
They knew the risks but still they came
Those about to die - dispute you!
Some faces masked - but not in shame.
They can't abide a rebel with veiled face
Must clearly identify the whole human race
For they that protest and hide away
survive on the street another day.
Like the prophets we believe in better
Are with Gandhi Mandela-man in peaceful compliance
Could we as adolescent unchaining slaves
be pure Spartacus in defiance?
They label him a “Villain”
Yet the Press never caught this boy's eye
to see innocent purity, just as respectable
as any well spoken suit and tie.
His thoughts were of the future
Under a clouding angry sky
A life measured by potential
A budding flower about to die.
© George Robert Mackay, 2001
Composed during the G8 Summit street protests in Genoa.
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings.
While quacks of state must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man:
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of women merit some attention.
Scottish poet 1756 - 1796