Two poems to my Mother.

TO A LOVED ONE

(My Mother)

Autumn of low sun

and long shadows

dark days

and morning mists

that cloak my valley

in dreamscapes;

softening

winter's

harsh approach.

Like you, before you flew

left clues

of imminent departure

in shrouded sentences

and sideways glances

that signalled

the frozen years to come.

The daylight sleeps

yet the trees

stripped of their leaves

allow light into my forest

and winter's moon

upon the woodland floor.

So it it with you

warm memories flicker

in the inner sanctum of my soul

and tears cannot put out

the fire I have inside for you.

LOST OPPORTUNITY

The last kiss we gave each other, as you lay dying

Was like the first kiss that you gave to me, to hush my crying.

But through the myriad wasted hours in between

delicate times for kissing you, were missed by me.

Why oh why does it take birth and death

to separate me holding you, mama mild,

like you held me when I was an upset child.

But , oh why did I not cradle you as you grew old?

And now you're gone, I regret all that I should have done.

Told you at thirty how pretty you were; my heart you'd won.

At forty that you had spun my dreams.

At sixty, your highness, you were my queen.

In the hour of your death it was obscene

watching the crows circle over your bed,

unable to breath life back into you

too useless to smother you with myself.

                                                                David, who thinks of you every day.

A time to throw stones and a time for peace.

 On Friday 26 September the British House of Commons, voted on whether to become the lackeys of the USA and bomb ISIL bases in Iraq (some hope, bases don't exist and ISIL will melt into the general population in the area that they receive the support of the indigenous tribes).  There was however one beacon amongst a sea of mediocricy when George Galloway, in a passionate summation of the situation destroyed the rest of the commons with the following excoriating speech. It needs no further comment.

  

 At the same time the autumn mist of mellow fruit and mistiness has descended on my beloved valley, far from the madness of our government and the bombs that bring with them collateral damage ( a euphemism for the burning and shredding of innocent children and women):-

Meanwhile lovely Anastasia in far of and cold Moscow dreams still of the summer past:-

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News from St. Petersburg.

Deutsch: Vincent van Gogh im Jahr 1866 im Alter von 13 Jahren. Vermutlich entstand das Foto nach Beendigung des Internataufenthalts in Zevenbergen, bevor er in die höhere Schule in Tilburg eintrat. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

City of culture rivers, canals, the sea and beauty. Tourist traps are expensive (£4 for a cup of tea) but get to where the Russians eat and dine and it's £0.50 for a cupa. Mind you the tea is crap. and I found nowhere with a nice Darjeeling or Assam. DO NOT have a glass of Vodka (about the equivalent of 4 shots, for £1.30) in the morning, as the Russian sailors do - nor anytime - I felt ill for the rest of the day and thought that I was going to be sick. It took two hours of steady walking to get rid of the effects - no wonder Russia has one of the worst record for early death from the dreaded liquor. My remedy was the rest of the holiday back on the wagon.
 The Hermitage is beyond description, three floors and a basement filled with the works of the old masters - twenty of everything Cezanne's, Picasso's, Van Gogh's, Gaugan's etc, etc as well as some exiting Russian modern art.
 The people are friendly, articulate and extremely well educated and the place, like Moscow is buzzing. My guide Natalie was informed, educated and buoyant, although, naughty girl, she smoked the stick of death, Stop it Natalie! Fireworks, pop concerts and symphony orchestras, all for free in the main square. And, perhaps, one of the most amazing sites that I have ever seen about 500 Hells Angel's lights flashing and horns blaring doing fifty miles an hour around the city roads and being escorted, front and end by police cars with lights flashing and sirens screaming, joining in the fun.

Life in the Gulag.

I have found Moscow to be the most vibrant, attractive, cosmopolitan, and beautiful city that I have ever visited. It is vast  and so far I have visited 10 different cities within the city. Each area is totally different with its own sub-culture but whatey all have in common is open green spaces and parks. I have , in two days, visited about 5% of the city and next year, God willing, I will visit again for two weeks to see more. Everyone is so friendly and helpful and it is full of young people who make the place buzz, with that feeling of excitement and joy that only comes with the blooming of youth and the joie de vivre that comes with it.
 The city containes 20 million of Russia's population of 74 million. Water is free, no plugs, the metro has wonderful stations and the trains are very fast and as soon as one pulls out, within 20 seconds another arrives. Freedom of speech and friendly discussions between opposites take place in the cafés , parks and bars. Everything is pristine which some like and some don't but it is the cleanest city that I have ever been in. The military are around, in small numbers, and leap to their feet on the metro to give you a seat. You get the impression that the motherland would be defended at all costs, as in the past, and the memorials remind you of the 27 million who died fighting Hitler and probably played a major part in his defeat.
 The next post on this blog will be reporting on my visit to Sankt-Peterburg/Санкт-Петербург.

About to Land in Moskva.

This blogger is about to land in the enemy of the western world in 15 minutes. Flight with Transaerow as the best that I have ever had.
 Watch this space for further reports from the wild bear.

WHy the Labourt Party Must TURN LEFT -> -> ->

Portrait Picture of Tony Benn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Portrait photo of Barbara Castle (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

James Keir Hardie was an early democratic socialist, who founded the Independent Labour Party in Great Britain (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

    I was a foot soldier for the Labour Party from 1961 until Blair invaded Iraq   My sole but, miserable, compensation for not having left a distressing legacy behind me is that I DID NOT vote for any of the three candidates for the leadership, when sadly John Smith did and the hopes of returning a Socialist government died with him. In did not feel that either of the three candidates (Becket, Blair and Prescott) would give a fig for what the, then, members of the party were looking for. I did however cast a vote for Prescott as the Deputy Leader as he personally helped my colleagues and myself when we were going through the courts over the banning of Trade Unions at GCHQ in 1984. I always repay a favour.
 With the three major parties offering only the same shades of neo-liberal politics to the electorate many millions are totally disenfranchised and are seeking something new, such as Scottish Independence (how about independence for Kernow as well, now that the E.U. has officially recognised it as an  official minority within  the U.K.). Neo- liberalism was defined as follows by Shamus Cook who, lamenting the lot of working class people in the Western World brilliantly defined defined it as follows:-
  “The essence of neoliberalism can be reduced to the following: government should be used exclusively to help big business and the wealthy with tax cuts, subsidies, privatizations, anti-labour laws, etc., while all government programs that help working and poor people should be eliminated. It’s really that simple.”  
 Ed Milliband is now confronted with offering more of the same, at the next election, surrounded as he his by advisers who, like the other parties seek to appeal to the middle ground. Well I have news for you Ed, the middle ground is a tiny minority controlled by the establishment and the lies of its media whilst the rest of us are yearning for something different.
 After over fifty years in politics I have only ever met two whom I respect both for their intellects and their refusal to compromise on socialist policies (sadly Both Barbara Castle and Tony Benn are dead). I have met many of the rest of them from ministers to MP's  and was even sadly a misguided foot soldier for some of them ( I exclude Terry penny from this list, as he was a proper socialst who fought,  Tidley Ridley or Old Nick, in a huge Tory swathe in the Cotswolds. I met Ridley when he was destroying the miners at Thathcher's behest and I can honestly say that he had the handshake and the demeanour of a wet fish).
 Well, dear reader, as ever I digress, so back to the subject. I am convinced that there is a sea change about to occur in British politics, regardless of what happens in Scotland, UKIP is going to split the Tory vote and many of my racist Tory colleagues at GCHQ like millions of other conservatives will be rooting for them. Milliband should therefore show the boldness and vision to offer a leftist alternative (just 10% to the left will do) by sacking  his advisers and he would sweep the country if he stood on a platform of taking the railways and energy back into public ownership whilst retaining LLoyds and RSB (on which us taxpayers have spent more than 80 billion pounds and merging them together as a state bank independently run and controlled but responsible to the commons. It was they and their chums in the city and America who ruined the economy of the Western World and the Greeks, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Italians and the Irish, amongst others are still suffering from the consequences of crooked bankers with their criminal risk taking and blind robbery.  It is in his hands otherwise British politics will fracture and I fear the right wing are waiting and that W.B Yates terrible prediction will happen:-


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
       THE SECOND COMING
    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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Harvey Andrews meets Phil Ochs.

I have long been an admirer of Harvey Andrews, a very talented and much under rated, British singer and recording artist. We have two things in common: firstly for our sins we both support Birmingham City and you can hear him sing if you scroll down this Blog to the post about, in my humble opinion the days when the Blues had proper supporters ( and moreover massive support with one attendance of over 44,000 in 1966 when we were in the second division ) as opposed to the tiny gates of today and a group of whinging, so called supporters, who fortunately or unfortunately form a large but vocal and very immature minority of one of the Blues many supporters sites called Small Heath Alliance; secondly we are both huge admirers of Phil Ochs and Harvey's tale of his meeting with Phil Ochs can be found here.

 Harvey recorded a very moving tribute to Ochs after he died and I urge you dear reader to listen to this YouTube video of the song. I must admit, silly old emotional thing that I am, that It moved me to tears a few nights ago when I first became aware of it. The song is extremely well written, not too sentimental and yet it admits to an admiration of what Ochs believed in and taught him. The voice is quite, melodic, crystal clear but wistful and matches the mood of the song perfectly.

Bitter Tears and Ethnic Cleansing - Buffy St. Marie

No comment - the song speaks for itself.

Polly Bolton

 She now writes gardening books and holds tuition classes in singing in her hideaway in Shropshire. Although hardly known users can trace her career on Wiki or find more infotmation here. To me she is quite the most talented female vocalist anywhere, and yet, as fate has decreed, she is largely unrecognised. Listen to this and if you don't agree then please post a comment (see my profile).

For the attention of a Phil Ochs Heretic ( Old Fella) plus, as a bonus, Ochs jamming with John Lennon.

There are a few of us who still believe, like  Neil Young, that this guy was one of the finest poets of his generation, eclipsed in Nanci Griffith words by, "The Midnight boy from Minnesota", whom he helped and gave a bed to when he first arrived in Greenwich Village. Others doubt the quality of his voice and dismiss him as a forgotten protest singer. I disagree with both, although his voice was later damaged when he was strangled and left for dead on a beach in Tanzania and lost the upper range of his vocal chords (conspiracy theorists blame this attempted murder on the FBI who subsequent archives have revealed held a massive file on him).
 Firstly lets listen to the voice and the poetry and the differing themes explored in this piece similar to Shelly, Keats or Browning.

Boys Own.

 I was lucky enough as a boy to have been bought up in green and verdant England. Largely due to my father's  job in the Air Ministry, which involved him travelling around some of the RAF bases in the west of England (in those days there was no cosmetic and lying labelling such as, "The Ministry of a Defence"  whose major role since it was given that title has been to blow up and dismember Wogs, Arabs, Kenyans, Argentinians and Afghans - indeed anyone as long as they live overseas and are not Protestant or White) who alongside The War Office and The Admiralty were responsible for administering the defence of the realm wherever it existed in far flung tracts of the
empire.
 Anyway dear reader, as usual I digress so let us return to the subject in hand - that magical, awakening and innocent period of ones life called boyhood. What memories of the smells, the fishing, tramping through gorse and chalk land, exploring in the woods and playing cowboys and indians ( my particular hero, who flickered on the black and white and spidery screen from Hancock's projector at the YMCA hut in Wootton Bassett was Johnny McBrown - long since forgotten as are Hopalong Cassidy and Gabby Hayes) , and taking those first tentative steps onto the ice of the Kennett and Avon canal, in winter, to see if it really would hold our weight, where only a few months earlier we were skimming stones off of its surface. My playgrounds ranged from the Malvern Hills,in Worcestershire, to the chalk downs of Wiltshire through to exploring the byways of The Forest of Dean. Long ago sadly those days were lost, like innocence, or as A. E. Housman gloriously portrayed it:-

INTO my heart on air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,	5
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again

 Much later the awakening of other thought as I begun to wonder what really was under Jackie Slater's blue knickers, and some boys paid her a sixpence to have a look. That lost age is summed up for me in the following two quite different songs which both, however, lament the glorious past.