REMEMBRANCE of LIES and TRUTH

 

 

Unarguably there.

One smooth white block of stone, memorial to the ordered dead.

Her Majesty lays the wreath, steps back and dips her head.

Behind her, in perfect ranks, her guardsmen, bearing guns.

Behind the guard those politicians, silent for once,

Shoulder to shoulder, as if they were at one,

As if no war had ever been their fault.

Behind them, in order, captains of the court,

Then marching servicemen, and civilians

Who serve the suffering people,

Readers of papers, like newsprint, all in neat lines.

 

And after them, wheel to wheel, as if they had been ruled,

Roll veterans with absent or paralytic legs,

And after them the ones with faces broken or burned

And following them, the ragged mass of those who cannot stop crying

Cannot stop fighting, cannot sleep, cannot be housed

Cannot move on from images in their eyes and brain

Cannot stop their visions of carnage,

Cannot believe that a fit and healthy man can one second be

A living, laughing mate and next a scatter of red lumps.

A brain so full of play, even in the hardest times,

Could now be just grey matter sliding slowly down the white stone wall.

 

Not there.

 

 

© Richard Lawson

Dolberrow

11/11/2019

Blanket Blocked

Months - if feels like years - ago, our Weston Poets group were set the topic of "Blanket" as the theme of our next Weston Poets meeting.

Well, I confess I have been well and truly blocked on Blanket. 

I have two images, but they will not form themselves into poetry. 

One is our now home ground, smoothed by a gleaming layer of sweet white snow, crisp and perfect, lying there a magic gift from heavy, low dark skies of yesterday, with tiny sparkles from a white sun so weak that it can scarcely lift its head above the wood's fine tracery, 

 and deep in this vision of purity is my four year old self, skipping ecstatic from my kitchen door to find my winter world transformed into a magic shining incomprehensible land of whiteness, 

 and now my dancing child is overseen by a darker, silent self who knows this magic carpet is slipping away, flying lower year by year because another blanket it changing; 

a huge dark sphere of perfect shadow, black as the snow is white, clothed with a rim, the finest, narrowest shim of blue and gold wrapped round our home 

so thin, but strong enough to keep this space rock warm enough for us and all life to live and breathe and love, 

 a narrow band of air so fine between the soil that gives us food 

and an infinity of freezing space, 

our air is changing, slowly, but so rapidly, changed by the rattling coals that kept my kitchen warm, changed by the immensities of blackness that bleed and scrape power from the heart of rock beneath our feet, 

under the skim of soil, under the rock of ages cleft for us all to live our plastic lifestyle, to live so well, but now, 

 but now we know that we must not change the infinitesimal blue gold blanket into a weight that smothers us out of sweaty sleep, to find the night time air is all too hot, to find the shower will not run its cooling streams, to lie down and feel our heart speed up impossibly and in a living nightmare pass away to leave a damaged world for that young wondering child

Acceptance

 

He used to run ahead,

Stop, sniff, and raise his leg

Marking this bush, that fallen tree

Making this wood his own domain

Happy and free.

 

And where the foot-worn way

Divided, he'd always stop and stay 

Three paces on the lower fork

That led down to the deeper wood

Which promised him a longer walk -

 

and deer. Gave us that backward look

To see which of the paths we took.

And if we'd follow him,

Take off, given his head,

Ears flapping in the wind.

 

And if we chose the path that led

Up to the open hill instead 

He'd register the way it went

Without resentment or complaint,

Change to our path and run ahead

 

Happy to be alive.

 

 

 

(c) Richard Lawson

Dolberrow feb 2017

 Today is the fourth anniversary of Vejer's passing

The Promise of Hiroshima

It was all so beautiful.

Mathematics could dissect reality itself,

Complex, and finely balanced,

A logan rock that moves with just a touch,

and through these mysteries

we came to understand

the energy constrained within a grain of sand.



Infinitesimal becomes

unbounded power.

One plane, one flash

One whole town gone to dust.

Nothing except a few skeletal lines

Some shadow where a man had been.

Silence, apart from screams.



For some, that was success.

And this is how it stays. We live

under the sword of Damocles

death dangling by a hair,

our fallibility denied.

We live beneath the constant threat,

our wilful ignorance of hell.



As if the sheer perfection of the science

could purge the politicians' faults.

As if the discipline

that led them to unlock the door

could somehow spread itself

into the corrupted soul and mind

of those whose stock in trade is lies.











(c) Richard Lawson

24/7/2015

I am the very model of a modern Tory Minister

 To Carole Cadwalladr with huge respect

I am the very model of a modern Tory Minister

The way we get our funding now is nothing short of sinister

We wallow in the millions donated by Temerko

Despite the murder that they carried out on Litvinenko.

We’re dancing to the policies that stream out from the Kremelin

Like rats who scamper to their deaths behind the pipe of Hamelin.

We tolerate the poisoning of poor old Sergei Skripal

To keep the Russian oligarchs from closing down their Paypal.

But so long as right wing editors will never put the boot in

The voters never know about the links we have with Putin.  [chorus repeats x3]

We know that it would only take the journalists to dig more

Before they found the truth about the links of Andy Wigmore

What drives dear Lubov Churnukhin to be so free with her stash

And understand the motivation of Dmytro Firtash.

If any journo questions why the Russians wanted Brexit

We know Security will lead them quickly to the Exit.

I am the very model of a modern Tory Minister

The way we get our funding now is nothing short of sinister

So long as right wing editors will never put the boot in

The voters never know about the links we have with Putin.  [Chorus repeats x3]

AFTER THE BATTLE

The lords and warriors are done

Courage and carnage weighed out in their scales

The matter settled in their minds

Mayhem gives way to quiet.

We are the first to come, after the ravens.

They just want eyes, but we take anything - 

Belts, helmets, swords - anything that shines.

We're more like magpies, us.

Next up are women, 

Sighing like the wind among the grass.

Their groaning drowns the sound of those 

Who're slow to die.

Even now I hate it when they find 

Who they are looking for.

Their wombs move, and the sky

Is wounded by their cries.

Why do they come here, looking for grief?

Why not just say home, dry

And wait and see if he returns,

And if not, cry alone?

After the women, come the monks

Incense to offset the gathering stench

Of blood and shit and rot, urging their spirit souls to leave.

If they existed, would they want to stay?

Last band of all, sent by their lord

Poor peasant farmers come

And dig deep trenches over days

And drag the stench away

Planting the rotting seed.

They do the one good thing in all of this, 

Nourish the earth, so that it grows

Another crop of playthings for the lords of war.

Lords, lovers, lollards, diggers, all,

Who makes a profit here?

Only us magpie scavengers.

One day we'll rule the way things are, you'll see.

(c) Richard Lawson 

13.10.2015

The Promise of Hiroshima

It was all so beautiful.

Mathematics could dissect reality itself,

Complex, and finely balanced,

A logan rock that moves with just a touch,

and through these mysteries

we came to understand

the energy constrained within a grain of sand.

Infinitesimal becomes

unbounded power.

One plane, one flash

One whole town gone to dust.

Nothing except a few skeletal lines

Some shadow where a man had been.

Silence, apart from screams.

For some, that was success.

And this is how it stays. We live

under the sword of Damocles

peace dangling by a hair,

our fallibility denied.

Living beneath the constant threat,

in wilful ignorance of death.

As if the sheer perfection of the science

could purge our politicians' faults.

As if the discipline

that led them to unlock the door

could somehow spread itself

into the corrupted soul and mind

of those whose stock in trade is lies.

100. Richard Lawson
     24/7/2015

Zoological Questions

Does a truffle hound go snuffle

When it's looking out for truffles?

Would a wombat bat a Womble if it met one?

These are the kind of questions

a zoologist could answer

But it's really really difficult to get one.

And were there ever proper Orcs in Auckland?

Were unicorns especially unique?

These are the kind of answers

Mythologists would share with us

If they weren't such an exclusive little clique.

100. Richard Lawson
     2015

The Promise of Hiroshima

It was all so beautiful.

Mathematics could dissect reality itself,

Complex, but simply balanced,

A logan rock moved by a touch,

and through these mysteries

we came to understand

the energy constrained within a grain of sand.




Infinitesimal becomes

unbounded power.

Three planes, one flash

One whole town gone to dust.

Nothing except a few skeletal lines

Some shadow where a man had been.

Silence,    apart from screams.




For some, that was success.

And this is how it stays. We live

under the sword of Damocles

peace dangling by a hair,

our fallibility denied.

We live beneath a constant threat,

in wilful ignorance of death.




As if the sheer perfection of the truth

could purge the politicians' faults.

As if the discipline of science

that showed them to unlock the door

had somehow spread itself

into the corrupted soul and mind

of those whose stock in trade is lies.

Richard Lawson 

24/7/2015

POSEIDON

  

They say I'm always changing.

Always, but never ageing

From hour to hour

From day to day I change

Yet of all things in the world

I am most constant.

I change from blue to grey

Purple to green

And back again

And when I'm torn or broken

My wound is white.

I'm quicksilver.

I am deep green,

Sometimes shot through with golden rays

Above, that silver window that is your life

Below you, only darkness

I made those rocks that wound me

And sharp sand scimitars that cut me down.

Laid them and mothered them

Over time so long, so vast, so stretched

There is no point describing it.

I laid them flat, 

Tidy and neat

Nice white and cream

But time got at them

Bucking and buckling every which way.

It's better that we start again. 

Grind these great cliffs

So fine, they are dissolved once more

Become alive 

And try again.

Don't call me God.

I'm only one of four

Great forces 

Who create the life

You love and love to hate so much.

This is all true.

I am to you 

Both life and death

You see my skin, but in my self

I hold a world you'll never see.

Don't make an enemy of me.

(c) Richard Lawson 

The Exmoor Valley's Answer

This valley, brilliant now in May sunshine
has raised generation after generation
of sturdy children, knowledgeable of
what is to be ate, and what is not.


Strong-legged along old winding lanes
each with some favourite corner
where in one bright and drowsy afternoon
Nature strikes their heart, and theirs alone

as one leaf, one stone,
one flashing grain of silica
captures their mind
anchors it in the One

until, unless they die, they grow to lusty adulthood
and chase and kiss and marry and
raise more, all feeding off
the soft rich valley soil

that's still there, thinner now maybe
maybe the buds and butterflies are less
and more and more needs feeding to the soil
to win the food, but still

Wave after wave; young, parents, old
and passed away. The rich green valley
churns them steadily; they're good folk
hard-working for their food, they dance and sing.


And every few years, the military come
and tell their stories, show off their uniforms
and spirit away, playing their pipes and drums,
some young men to the wars.


A few come back, that long look in their eyes
that absence; others more clearly missing
and arm, a leg, and eye, a mind.
Others do come back never.

They leave a dank cold shadow across their lover's life
someone who might have been; a husband,
one who does not flare up in nightmares
doesn't lash out for no good reason

one who was taken by the wars
and there are hot dark tears
and sadness clothes a young maid's life
and anger, always at the back


deep and unspoken. 'Why did he have to go and die?'
and always that wave of common sense,
chorus of voices everywhere
'There always will be wars'

Tearing at her still persistent inner voice
Why did he have to go and die?
And still the valley says
“I'll raise your young, over and over, wave after wave


I'll give enough for you to eat,
and what's left over, goes to market.
Won't that do for an answer?”

Maybe not

Richard Lawson

Exmoor 12/05/15

See also

Unless

Each Spring brings peace and hope.

The being of things points to coming times
and every thin green leaf
contains a crowd of meaning


each leaflet puffs itself to shape
just like an insect's wing unfurling
and within
assembles perfect latticeworks

each net contains one single jewel
perfect in size and properties
to resonate in just such a way
in sunlight. Transforms the energy

the energy spat from the single sphere of fire
transformed so that it can link gases to make sweetness
and sent its sugars out: some to the roots
to power their never ending search

through the dark earth feeling for tiny jewels
some to the wood, to bring it closer to the sun,
and some to fruit, so that the sweetness
promised by blossoms now, in Spring,

will feed its brothers, out of its fullness
graciously. And in return, we spread the seed 

and nurture it.
And so the Spring is good 

and all the codes for this sweet ritual
go forward (unless) clothing this valley, and the next,
clothing the hills (unless) wrapping the Earth
in a living cloud-like green protective mantle.


The promise is there. It's strong.
Things change. Wars end.
Pendulums swing. Waves rise and fall.
Phoenixes may arise.


Spring will return.


Unless

(c) Richard Lawson 10 May 2015

Dolebury

See laso

The Dodgy Dave Song

Brooks, Coulson, Cruddas and now Peter Green - it certainly seems that David Cameron has a weakness for dubious individuals. 

Here's a little song to celebrate Dave's charitable indulgences to the ethically challenged.

If you find you can't behave

Get a job with Dodgy Dave

If you give to Cruddas then

You can eat at Number Ten

If your papers done for hacking

Dodgy Dave gives you his backing

If you find you're in the sh*te

Dodgy Dave will see you right

If you find you can't behave

Get a job with Dodgy Dave

Now things have changed

We used to stand in awe of you

always the beggars

asking for this or that

Not any more, 

we've seen you fail. 

That brings us to a level ground

Just like that time when Tristan 

stepped onto a grassy island

to face the Morholt

And though it took him to the edge

the defender won against the powerful one

who came to take their children.

And now,

though argument has taken the place of war

and though you half control the word

Though you may put a few of us in jail

we are too many.  Though you may hide your crimes

you cannot hide their stench.

Do not forget

"Though you be never so high

the Law's above you".

(c) Richard Lawson

The Undercover Cop Song

When a greenie's not engaged in his employment
Or maturing his subversive little plans
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man's.

Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When undercover spying's to be done
We wouldn’t stop at selling our own mother
We Undercover Cops are dirty scum.

When constabulary duties to be done, to be done
We Undercover Cops are dirty scum.

When the hippy's finished saving our Earth Mother
He loves to lie a-basking in the sun
Taking one consideration with another
We Undercover cops are dirty scum.

When Mark Kennedy got outed by his missus
We realised the shit might hit the fan
But we hoped they'd never notice, that they'd miss us
That they wouldn't guess the real size of the plan.

When constabulary duties to be done, to be done
We Undercover Cops are dirty scum.

So we snooped on several groups of peaceful greenies
And we spied on Stephen Lawrence’ family too
But the best bit of the undercover scene is
No-one suspects we've infiltrated YOU.

When constabulary duties to be done, to be done
We Undercover Cops are dirty scum.

Richard Lawson

Churchill Feb 2014

In Bristol Centre

Two legged,  wrapped against  mild January air

Hurrying this way and that, we’re soft shelled insects,

Held in rapt conversation  with a friend  that is not there

Cold to each others' presence, except

For a clash of glances, where

He inspects, and she,   quiet lidded, checks.

One corner of a sprawled conglomeration

Bursting with life and with machines

Howling with flashing blue light consternation 

When over there, somewhere, a heart is beating,

Just, on the limit of its function

It's owner hard bedded in a cold street scene.

We live in fragile shells. No-one can tell

Looking, what pain exists at home.

Deep in, when layers of mental

Coverings are shed at night, deep in the bone,

When the last smiley face has just been sent,

The tears. Not every face can smile when home alone.

So many stories to be wrapped up and binned.

Even the young ones, wired, will some time lose the beat.

More hearts will stop than ambulance can mend.

All journeys will one day  achieve their   end.

© Richard Lawson

January, Bristol 

St Catherine of Brussels

Legend of shining beauty

Of sparkling intellect, deep learning

And perfect faith, the kind that leads to death,

Be with us now.

Although the house they built for you

Once gleaming white, is clothed in grime

With streaks of soot climbing the walls

Pray for us, Catherine

Even if your windows' ironwork

Is turning brown, and your great doors are locked

And heavy lorries pass you by,

Indifferent,

Adding their mote of blackness

To your walls, and to our soft grey lungs

Shaking our eardrums and your stones,

Pray for our filthy souls.

Although you never did exist

Save as a paragon of faith

Exemplar of the power of Truth

Pray for us, holy saint.

You whose keen wit cut through

The sentences of slaves of power

Those halitotic rantings of Maxentius’ priests

Until they bowed

Bowed to your sweeter reason

One by one, came over to your side

So that the tyrant, smelling treason

Issued two words

His own short sentence that would

Liberate their souls from servitude,

That simple way the tyrant has

To save his world,

Slicing through the Gordian knot

Of theologians' necks, where blood

Speaks the immeasurable mystery

Of life itself.

And how he scourged your silky back,

Imprisoned you, and when his wife

Came to you, and believed, she too

Was not spared death.

We know now that all this was

Myth making, legend, fairy tale.

We know you never broke the wheel he made

To break your spine.

No sharp sword sheared your beauty

And stilled your red persuasive tongue.

But we know too by their foul breath

That tyrants live.

We know that through we left your side

Escaped the confines of your church,

Broke free of dogma, saw through the myth

We're still not free

Of tyranny, that still has

Lethal power, but this time not just those

Who disagree with their world view

But all the world

Now all the world must suffer,

Suffer and die, at the dictators' whim.

Although they have no throne, no presence

Yet their rule

Is everywhere. Wherever

There is greed, they set up shop.

They've built their palaces

Within our minds.

So Catherine, though we left your side

Although your doors are locked

Although we treat you with neglect

Although you don't exist

Still pray for us.

© Richard Lawson

Brussels

15.11.2013

Solstice Ballad

Sun disc pale and white

at the low point of the year.

day gives way to night

and the wet branch drips a tear_

that holds a falling world

compressing all we see

into a tiny liquid globe

hung on a silent tree.

While Roman steel is hurting

and their armies make us bow,

from Mary’s belly bursting out

a child infused with power.

We listened for a while

to universal love;

he conjures up a spell

changed the eagle to a dove.

But the dove grew talons

and his song became a scream:

a Church bore down upon us

where the Roman boot had been.

So we traded Church for Market

and the donkey for a Ford

but there’s nowhere we could park it

and the children soon got bored

and the banks that gave possessions

are calling in their loans;

their smiles hide their aggression:

they want everything we own.

But the sun will rise beyond this death

And next year we shall find

Another way to shield the Earth

From the Roman soldiers’ mind.

© Richard Lawson

December 2006

The Baling Twine Song

Building the polytunnel, I was using baling twine to lash the poles together. In the course of this process, a song came to me, to the tune of Ken Dodd's "Happiness".

It goes like this:

Ah, balin' twine, balin twine'
Made from PolyPropyline
I thank the Lord this farm of mine
Is held together with balin' twine.


They'll sell you a belt up in the town 
To stop your trousers fallin' down
But my old kecks hold up just fine
With a couple of yards of balin' twine.


Balin' twine &c


A DEFRA man came to our yard
An' put on his brakes a bit too hard
He skidded in a pile of shit
And ended up in the slurry pit


- and how d'you think we pulled him out? Yes -  


Balin twine &c


We had a hippy on our farm
Who didn't mean to do no harm
H forgot to lower the tractor arm
An' broke the lintel on our barn*.


(And how d'you think we mended it?)-

Balin' twine, balin twine'
Made from PolyPropyline
I thank the Lord this farm of mine
Is held together with balin' twine.




You try singing it. You'll find it is easy to learn, a catchy number that lifts the spirits and captures the heart of rural England.

* True story

Sympathy for Death

To you
Whose head is red with stones
I bring you peace

To you
Whose lungs are filled with foetid water
I bring you peace

To you
Whose skin is licked with agonies of flame
I bring you peace

To you
Whose limbs and flesh are torn by energetic lead
I bring you peace

To you, small one,
Whose belly swells with lack of food
I bring you light and blessing.

To me
Met with a universal fear, there is no peace,
Just knowledge of the way things are.

© Richard Lawson