Buchenwald
Buchenwald
Buchenwald
There is a beech wood, silent now
The birds don’t sing, they don’t know how.
The dead are gone, we can but follow
To the rim of that quiet hollow
Underneath the gate a flame
Incinerates a nation’s shame
Above the gate ‘To each his own’
Immortalised in skin and bone
There is a road between the trees
People died here, on their knees
They lived by numbers, whips and shouts;
They wore a star, which then burned out
I cannot cry, I have no tears
To wash away the empty years
There is a stain upon my soul
A rip, a tear, a gaping hole
There are no words, there is no song
I cannot speak, I’m not that strong
I know no names, no history
But this was you, and this was me.
Requiem for America
Requiem for America
The Devil danced upon the stage
A dance of ruin, rape and rage
A waltz that pissed upon the page
Of virtue, truth and reason
He stole the souls of easy men
And promised they would live again
He bled their intellect and then
He spat upon their honour
He wove a web of lust and lies
He blinded logic in both eyes
And when he’d won his final prize
He called his legions to him
Now they murder dignity
Tell us who we have to be
Fornicate with charity
And kill us while we sleep
And you have danced the Devil’s jig
You’ve drunk the blood and stuck the pig
Just ask yourself whose grave you dig
It’s your own.
War Child
Refugee
Refugee
Should I wear a yellow R
Embroidered on my shirt?
A number tattooed on my arm
Beneath the blood and dirt?
I am Muslim, Catholic, Jew,
I’m child of every time
I run from famine, rape and war
Displacement is my crime.
I’m faceless, stateless, of no worth
A number on a screen
I am a victim of my birth
I’m black, red, white, pink, green
I’m turned away from every door
My hunger is obscene
My father is a genocide
My mother is a drought
My lover dare not speak their name
My motives are in doubt
But I am every one of us
In every history
Your conscience is my DNA
For I am Refugee.
This is not my land
This is not my land
Toddler washed up on the beach
Refuge is now out of reach
Invasion is the word they preach
This is not my land
Sally will not eat today
Her children won’t go out to play
She can’t afford it anyway
This is not my land
Refugees put on a plane
Exporting their grief and pain
‘They won’t be coming here again’
This is not my land
Food-bank photos for the press
Sound-bites sanitise distress
People voted for this mess
This is not my land
Prices rising more and more
Income falling through the floor
But rich is richer, poor is poor
This is not my land
And this winter, we are told,
People may well die of cold
But that’s OK, it’s just the old
This is not my land
These things were not done in my name
I will not accept the blame
I’m sickened by this country’s shame
THIS IS NOT MY LAND
Redemption Song
My banner is a spiritual
My weapon rock and roll
I can feel sedition's beat
Vibrating through my soul
Rise up and breather rhythm
It's talking to your feet
Resistance is our rhapsody
Let's sing it in the street
Let's sound our rebel trumpets
In every single town
And dance the death of bigotry
As walls come tumbling down
Let's trample on the gravestones
Of complacency and sneers
Of lies and lost morality
Of jamborees and jeers
Our music is an energy
Our rhythm is a power
Let's turn themdial to maximum And fell the ivory tower
Townland
Ghosts are belching in the brickwork
Lovers lost behind the plaster
Bullet holes and names on woodwork
Diesel dance the drug of choice
Reynard rusts amidst the rubbish
Death by dog shit in the park
Crumpled concrete blows its kisses
Sunset bold behind the bins
Flats and splats of faceless wonder
Dusty rumblings in the veins
Wordless windows blinking blindly
Rains and drains in whispered worship
Poetry of pubs and piss-heads
Messaged mantras on the walls
Urban beauty on the downbeat
'Hearing secret harmonies'*
*Anthony Powell, 'A Dance to the Music of Time'
Brother
Your Mona Lisa smile suggests
A joke that only we will get
Your stubble speaks of Sunday hides
While sofas danced to Bollocks Bartok
Backseat bandits staged rebellions
Plotting plague on every village
Partners in imagined crimes
But Tommy always went to bed
You were bowler, I was wicket
You were football, I was goal
You were taller, bigger, faster,
I was smaller, shorter, slow
But then you said my risks were better
You'd not do what I had done
You would never have the courage
You were not a number one
But you were always my first phone call
You were wisdom, conscience, calm
We shone lights on clouds and dark
But I was 'widdy' to your 'wheel'
Now you're lying on that table
Singing silent melodies
I alone know you've become
The punchline to your favourite joke
Bojo was not a good man
With apologies to AA Milne:
Bojo was not a good man
And sometimes he would lie and cheat
For days and days and days
And when he went to meetings
And tried to shake the hands
Of clever, tidy people
From lots of other lands
They turned their backs upon him
As if he wasn’t there
And Bojo stood and looked confused
And shook hands with thin air
Bojo was not a good man
And no good friends had he
Except the ones who drank champagne
And supped illegally
And when he stood and blustered
Infront of the MPs
More and more and more of them
Said this is all just sleaze
Bojo was not a good man
Yet he had his hopes and fears
They’d let him spout his nonsense
For years and years and years
But when he compared Brexit
To people fleeing war
No-one shouted ‘we agree’
And no-one asked for more
And when he wrote his Christmas list
He didn’t ask for candy
He wrote ‘a massive cover-up
Would really come in handy’
But what came in his stocking
Did not come from the shops
Instead he got a questionnaire
‘With love from all the cops’
Bojo is not a good man
He isn’t good at all
He bounces out excuses
Like an india-rubber ball
And when the other leaders
Leave him standing on his own
It seems perhaps once and for all
His cover’s truly blown
They know he’s not a good man
They do not need to try
From start to finish, top to tail
Bojo is just a lie.
(image by James Mylne from GThe Independent, 11th October 2019)