Dark Dark Friday Of The Soul

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-30241459OK – I’d given up blogging. Then I re-discovered my joy in poetry. Then came Black Friday. I can’t hide from it. This is what we are. This is what I am.

I was a cop in riots. I lashed at hated unknown people. A mob pulled me to the ground and tried to gouge out my hated unknown eyes. The rewind button adds no gloss or control or retrospective courage or nobility of conflict.

Once I was a revolutionary. Then I saw a raging mob and felt the heat of fire. I learned my own terror. I learned other people’s terror. I got the close up breaking news sensational interview on rape. Her lip dripped blood onto the statement form.  I became a Christian Democrat but without the ballot box or Christ.

Then I saw Black Friday. Without something outside or within ourselves – we are ourselves. This is what we are. This is what I am. I can’t dress it up. Do you have some better clothes? Should I have snatched a bargain TV to channel hop for better news?

Let’s not be too harsh. The trampling mob are the powerless schmucks. How the ruling class love to see the consumer frenzy. The holders of true wealth and power have no need to dive for coins thrown in the mud. A gentle push on the one arm bandit button pays out every time when you’ve built the odds into the machine yourself.

I can’t avoid it. This is what we are. This is what I am.

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2 thoughts on “Dark Dark Friday Of The Soul

  1. Soo good to ‘see’ you’re back! Do all poets hate Black Friday? I think so, it breaks my heart to see the masses reduced to being slaughtered in whatever Coliseum becomes the stage for the Emperor’s entertainment. My only weapons are my words and staying in….

    • I’m not sure which is worst – the raging mob or the sneering media commentators. My sorrow is that both elements are equally part of me. At some depth I do believe that there is a poetry in Nature which transcends the prey/predator/self/tribe/ greed spiral. There is some symmetry of mercy or perhaps simple kindness which, if it could be expressed, would be THE poem regardless of its form or language. I do think that poetry can take us to some place where the words open a door into a wordless insight. The trick would be to snatch some of it and make it back out of the door in good enough shape to make a translation back into better words. All manner of men have come down from mountains, heard the hissing of springs, received voices of truth. Still the tanks roll in and over, the mob fights for TVs, the refugees drown and on and on. No message has hit the spot yet. Come on poets – nail dreams to clouds and let their rain wash at least a few words from our mud.

      Sometimes I go on a bit.

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