Tuesday, 23 February 2010

Do NOT read this!

Do NOT read this!

Or if you must
make absolutely certain
that you destroy the evidence.

Yes it's true -
we like to mix our metaphors -
penetrate innocence
with some small piece of flesh
(perhaps grey matter)
that has no business being
stuck into places
such as those that
we like to stick it

But then what are we to do?

Living in a world where
new thought-crimes
are being invented every day

The guilt-ridden parent-fixated psychoses
of the ruling classes
mixed together with a resurgence
of medieval, mythic, and magic:
solidified into
a nightmare of regulations
as to what words you are permitted to use
and what order you are allowed to put them in.

Rules about what thoughts you can have,
which of those you are allowed to say out loud,
which you may be permitted to write down,
which ones you can publish,
the direction in which you are allowed to cast your gaze,
whether you are allowed to remember what you saw when you looked in that direction,
the view of yourself that you are allowed to present to others.

All of these things now belong to someone else.

In a community where thought became property,
where words and symbols and pictures and sounds
have more value than land,
a new kind of oppression is needed to ensure the domination
of the haves over the have-nots.

Long after we are gone
our universe will still be here
remembering every choice
we ever made

or else our universe will
not
still be here.

We do not need rules
for anything else.

This poem
will not
self-destruct
in five seconds.

Monday, 22 February 2010

Prayer - Carol Anne Duffy

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.


Carol Anne Duffy, Britain's twentieth poet laureate,
and the first woman to be appointed to the position.

Carol Anne Duffy on Wikipedia

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

I would rather be popular than be good

I would rather be
popular than be good. But
I am not either.

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Last of the mortals

What pathos is this!
To be here dying,
in the company of those who are the first humans to not die;
or else they live so long that death is merely
the last thing that they haven’t tried yet.