Poems of the Days - Free Speech
These are song lyrics rather than poetry and as a relatively young, antiwar person living in the 21st century, it might seem strange for me to glorify it, but I've always been profoundly moved by this song, especially the lines I've put in bold.
Tear the Fascist Down by Woody Guthrie
There's a great and a bloody fight 'round this whole world tonight
And the battle, the bombs and shrapnel reign
Hitler told the world around he would tear our union down
But our union's gonna break them slavery chains
Our union's gonna break them slavery chains
I walked up on a mountain in the middle of the sky
Could see every farm and every town
I could see all the people in this whole wide world
That's the union that'll tear the fascists down, down, down
That's the union that'll tear the fascists down
When I think of the men and the ships going down
While the Russians fight on across the Don
There's London in ruins and Paris in chains
Good people, what are we waiting on?
Good people, what are we waiting on?
So, I thank the Soviets and the mighty Chinese vets
The Allies the whole wide world around
To the battling British, thanks, you can have ten million Yanks
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down, down, down
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down But
But when I think of the ships and the men going down
And the Russians fight on across the Don
There's London in ruins and Paris in chains
Good people, what are we waiting on?
Good people, what are we waiting on?
So I thank the Soviets and the mighty Chinese vets
The Allies the whole wide world around
To the battling British, thanks, you can have ten million Yanks
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down, down, down
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down
Tear the Fascist Down by Woody Guthrie
There's a great and a bloody fight 'round this whole world tonight
And the battle, the bombs and shrapnel reign
Hitler told the world around he would tear our union down
But our union's gonna break them slavery chains
Our union's gonna break them slavery chains
I walked up on a mountain in the middle of the sky
Could see every farm and every town
I could see all the people in this whole wide world
That's the union that'll tear the fascists down, down, down
That's the union that'll tear the fascists down
When I think of the men and the ships going down
While the Russians fight on across the Don
There's London in ruins and Paris in chains
Good people, what are we waiting on?
Good people, what are we waiting on?
So, I thank the Soviets and the mighty Chinese vets
The Allies the whole wide world around
To the battling British, thanks, you can have ten million Yanks
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down, down, down
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down But
But when I think of the ships and the men going down
And the Russians fight on across the Don
There's London in ruins and Paris in chains
Good people, what are we waiting on?
Good people, what are we waiting on?
So I thank the Soviets and the mighty Chinese vets
The Allies the whole wide world around
To the battling British, thanks, you can have ten million Yanks
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down, down, down
If it takes 'em to tear the fascists down
For today I'm offering
Harry Baker
Paper People
It's been my fave live poetry for years!
https://youtu.be/nQBzOfIAgXU
Enjoy!
Harry Baker
Paper People
It's been my fave live poetry for years!
https://youtu.be/nQBzOfIAgXU
Enjoy!
RevolutionAL said:For today I'm offering
Harry Baker
Paper People
It's been my fave live poetry for years!
https://youtu.be/nQBzOfIAgXU
Enjoy!
Herewith another Harry Baker Poem
-A love poem for lonely prime numbers called 59
https://youtu.be/3LYOTATI4TY
Harry Baker
Paper People
It's been my fave live poetry for years!
https://youtu.be/nQBzOfIAgXU
Enjoy!
Herewith another Harry Baker Poem
-A love poem for lonely prime numbers called 59
https://youtu.be/3LYOTATI4TY
RevolutionAL said:For today I'm offering
Harry Baker
Paper People
It's been my fave live poetry for years!
https://youtu.be/nQBzOfIAgXU
Enjoy!
Wow… that was… a lot on the ears 😂 Mad kudos for performing that tongue twister of words though. That can’t have been easy to perform.
Harry Baker
Paper People
It's been my fave live poetry for years!
https://youtu.be/nQBzOfIAgXU
Enjoy!
Wow… that was… a lot on the ears 😂 Mad kudos for performing that tongue twister of words though. That can’t have been easy to perform.
Jesus Christ Super Toaster by Omar Holmon
https://youtu.be/pSPALGADd_Y
My favourite piece of humour uplift spoken word poetry today
https://youtu.be/pSPALGADd_Y
My favourite piece of humour uplift spoken word poetry today
Northern_Soul said:Jesus Christ Super Toaster by Omar Holmon
https://youtu.be/pSPALGADd_Y
My favourite piece of humour uplift spoken word poetry today
I've watched it five times in a row...
you're a beautiful MF! for sharing that!
https://youtu.be/pSPALGADd_Y
My favourite piece of humour uplift spoken word poetry today
I've watched it five times in a row...
you're a beautiful MF! for sharing that!
Langston Hughes is one of my favourite poets. His poetry is deceptively simple and based on the sensual rhythms of jazz music that was popular in his time and place: the Harlem of the interwar years in America, He wrote what's referred to as jazz poetry, during the so-called Harlem Renaissance.
Cross
My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?
Cross
My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?
Casted_Runes said:Langston Hughes is one of my favourite poets. His poetry is deceptively simple and based on the sensual rhythms of jazz music that was popular in his time and place: the Harlem of the interwar years in America, He wrote what's referred to as jazz poetry, during the so-called Harlem Renaissance.
Cross
My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?
Aaah...
So in the period of the early 90's, before Nelson Mandela was let out of prison, I got into shit for reciting this poem in a "white supremist" school's English class. Strange part was only 5 odd years later I was invited to read at the school prize giving. I felt much like the narrator at the time... confused AF!
Cross
My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?
Aaah...
So in the period of the early 90's, before Nelson Mandela was let out of prison, I got into shit for reciting this poem in a "white supremist" school's English class. Strange part was only 5 odd years later I was invited to read at the school prize giving. I felt much like the narrator at the time... confused AF!
RevolutionAL said:
Aaah...
So in the period of the early 90's, before Nelson Mandela was let out of prison, I got into shit for reciting this poem in a "white supremist" school's English class. Strange part was only 5 odd years later I was invited to read at the school prize giving. I felt much like the narrator at the time... confused AF!
That’s a fascinating story, and so revealing of the culture... thank you for sharing it, Al.
Aaah...
So in the period of the early 90's, before Nelson Mandela was let out of prison, I got into shit for reciting this poem in a "white supremist" school's English class. Strange part was only 5 odd years later I was invited to read at the school prize giving. I felt much like the narrator at the time... confused AF!
That’s a fascinating story, and so revealing of the culture... thank you for sharing it, Al.
My morning read 😊
What I Learned From the Incredible Hulk by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
When it comes to clothes, make
an allowance for the unexpected.
Be sure the spare in the trunk
of your station wagon with wood paneling
isn’t in need of repair. A simple jean jacket
says Hey, if you aren’t trying to smuggle
rare Incan coins through this peaceful
little town and kidnap the local orphan,
I can be one heck of a mellow kinda guy.
But no matter how angry a man gets, a smile
and a soft stroke on his bicep can work
wonders. I learned that male chests
also have nipples, warm and established—
green doesn’t always mean envy.
It’s the meadows full of clover
and chicory the Hulk seeks for rest, a return
to normal. And sometimes, a woman
gets to go with him, her tiny hands
correcting his rumpled hair, the cuts
in his hand. Green is the space between
water and sun, cover for a quiet man,
each rib shuttling drops of liquid light.
What I Learned From the Incredible Hulk by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
When it comes to clothes, make
an allowance for the unexpected.
Be sure the spare in the trunk
of your station wagon with wood paneling
isn’t in need of repair. A simple jean jacket
says Hey, if you aren’t trying to smuggle
rare Incan coins through this peaceful
little town and kidnap the local orphan,
I can be one heck of a mellow kinda guy.
But no matter how angry a man gets, a smile
and a soft stroke on his bicep can work
wonders. I learned that male chests
also have nipples, warm and established—
green doesn’t always mean envy.
It’s the meadows full of clover
and chicory the Hulk seeks for rest, a return
to normal. And sometimes, a woman
gets to go with him, her tiny hands
correcting his rumpled hair, the cuts
in his hand. Green is the space between
water and sun, cover for a quiet man,
each rib shuttling drops of liquid light.
Cherish by Raymond Carver
From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes
given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish—
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling—scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried
petal
can still find her.
* https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2005%252F07%252F11.html
From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes
given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish—
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling—scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried
petal
can still find her.
* https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2005%252F07%252F11.html
