Showing posts with label workers poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label workers poetry. Show all posts

Friday 31 July 2015

Without Us.


Without Us.

You, yes you in your Armani suit and Gucci watch,
don't judge me by the label on my shirt.
I've no need for labels,
my worth is etched on my face,
emgraved on my hands.
I'm the power that tore roads through mountains
dragged logs across the earth.
Brick by brick
these hands built your "DESIRABLE RESIDENCE",
your "EXCLUSIVE RESTAURANT".
My sister made your fancy suit,
What we create we can destroy
and recreate for ourselves.
Don't you know,
without us,
you stand cold, hungry, naked?

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Saturday 18 July 2015

Never Rise Off Their Arse.


Rebel Tam.

When rebel Tam was in the pit
He tholed the very pangs o' Hell
In fechtin' for the rights o' Man,
And ga'e nae thoucht unto himsel'.

"If I was in Parliament,
By God!" he vowed, "they soon would hear
The trumpet-ca' o' Revolution
Blastin' in their ear!"

Noo he is there, back-bench Tam,
And listens daily to the farce
O' Tweedledum and Tweedledee,
And never rises off his arse.  
Joe Corrie.
Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Sunday 15 December 2013

I'm Proud.


What I think.
I’m Proud

I’m proud of my people, proud to be one of them,
that great mass on society’s bottom rung.
Those who, with coal-dust under their nails
in their eyes, in their lungs
claw at the earths entrails.
Their brothers,
cement in their hair
in their mouth, in their ears,
oil ingrained in their fingers,
on their face.
Sisters, glistening with sweat
midst the ceaseless noise of machines
that throw out shirts, shoes, toys, carpets
for other people.
Those with soil and sweat stuck to their skin
smelling of the earth, feeding the multitude,
grinding out their lives in a harsh pitiless system
weighted down
with a sack load of half-dead dreams,
sometimes brought to their knees
by a tidal wave of despair,
never defeated,
groping in the dark to find tomorrow,
keeping hope alive;
they amaze me.
Somehow, from somewhere
in this cold, cruel
unforgiving scheme of things
they find love for their children.
Not a teaspoonful, not a cupful,
but buckets full, to bathe them in,
to pour over them.
They seem to know
that one day this world will be ours
and to take care of it
we will need those who have been loved.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Saturday 30 November 2013

The Clutha And John McGarrigle.


       By now everybody will have heard the tragic news of the police helicopter crashing onto the roof of the Clutha pub in Glasgow. All our thoughts, for some considerable time, will stay with all those friends and relatives of the injured and the dead. The Clutha along with the Scotia, just across the road, were much more than places for a drink, together they formed an institution, an oasis of poetry, music, debate, banter and laughter. Those who visited either of them once, usually became life members of both, you could slip seamlessly from one to the other, perhaps even several times in a night. I was a great fan of the Scotia poetry nights, and it was there that I met John McGarrigle. John didn't have an easy life, but he lived it with energy. I always thought that in his poetry, he could capture the full spectrum of human emotions, he could come up with the witty, ridiculously funny, stupidly funny and the profoundly moving. Sadly he will write no more, as John was one of those who died in that dreadful event. 

Old Young Man.

Unemployment. Rising prices
Never bothered me before
Now, struggling for subsistance
I slowly realised my wasted years
steeped in ignorance

The brashness of youth has gone
Leaving behind an emptiness
not easy to define
Old before my time
I yearn for contentment

Where has the young lad gone
That angry young man
That shook his fist in careless anger
At any unfair society?
Shall we ever see him again

Write Nice Things.

last night
as I sat by my typewriter
a junkie 
climbed in my window,
I was writing a poem
a very interesting little poem
about a flower that I'd seen
that day,
the junkie battered my wife
stole all of our money
and when he left
took with him
my television set
and my hi fi unit,
this unfortunate little incident
rather disturbed me
it really put me off writing
my little poem
about the birds and bees
and the flower that I'd seen
so, I wrote about the wind and the trees
instead

Two of John's poems from his little book, Glasgow's McGarrigle. Fat Cat Publications, ISBN 187 1009 014

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Saturday 15 October 2011

GREAT OAK TREES FROM LITTLE ACORNS GROW!!



         Glasgow's Occupy protest at George Square on October 15, probably wasn't the biggest in the world, but never the less it was passionate. Speaking to different individuals and groups, the same thing came through, the system wasn't working, it was a rip-off, it was corrupt. They all wanted a change, though most weren't quite sure what that change should be, just that it should be a fairer system that saw to the people's needs and not those of the corporate or financial world. Most had no faith in any of the political parties and didn't trust them to bring about the desired change. In spite of Glasgow's cold and damp ground there were those who seemed quite determined to camp out in October, on the Square's inhospitable grass.



Though Glasgow's protest was small it should be remember that this is the first time in the history of the human race that there has been a protest in practically every city on the planet at the same time, on the same matter, all with the same desire, to change a corrupt system. Obviously the people are waking up to the fact that this world-wide corporate system does not work in their favour and has to be changed. By communicating and staying clear of political parties, they will arrive at how they want to change it and with growing numbers, co-operation and solidarity between the various groups and individuals involved, nothing on the planet can stop them.


Great oak trees from little acorns grow!!

FIRES OF THE FUTURE.
I
am fire,
I surge, I hiss,
sometimes bursting forth in a flame
that lights up the world
illuminating unimagined dreams.
Then the black cloak
blankets out the glow.
Again all is dark,
but, still
beneath the surface
I surge, I hiss,
I endure, waiting, seeking,
building up pressure.
One day I will explode
destroying forever
the Tartarean crust of oppression.
I am fire,
I am the people.


ann arky's home.

Sunday 9 October 2011

THEY HAVE EARNED DEFEAT!!


         We are an unbeatable force, governed by consent, we have the right to withdraw that consent, and when we do, we are ungovernable, our lives will be ours to live.

Source untraced, yet.

FIRES OF THE FUTURE.
I
am fire,
I surge, I hiss,
sometimes bursting forth in a flame
that lights up the world
illuminating unimagined dreams.
Then the black cloak
blankets out the glow.
Again all is dark,
but, still
beneath the surface
I surge, I hiss,
I endure, waiting, seeking,
building up pressure.
One day I will explode
destroying forever
the Tartarean crust of oppression.
I am fire,
I am the people.

ann arky's home.