Thursday, 30 November 2017

Borders [2015]

Borders are just the boundaries of
Where sets of rules apply.

Where being different, for example,
You can live or you must die.

I don't want persecution
Of people like me
To wander free.

Neither do I want persecution of you.
______

Somewhere between
The far side of
The Middle East
And just over there

The rules change.

A transsexual stoned
In Seaside City
Is a
Recreational
Happenstance.

A transsexual stoned
In the Middle East
Is a
Public
Execution.
______

Especially,

I am wary of people
Who have been raised to
Believe it is their god's will to

Stone me.

Perhaps it
Is no surprise

I am wary of people
Who refuse to respect
Our bounded freedoms.

It is true,

You cannot see
Political boundaries
From the depth of space

But they are very real on earth,
This planet where we have to live.
______

Europe is an area of land.

It has hot bits and cold bits,
Flat bits and bumpy bits,
Bits that are dry and
Bits that are less so but,

It isn't the land that
Made Europe the magnet
For the disenfranchised
From elsewhere in the world.
______

Soil has no more or less problem than sand
With colour or gender or preference,
With who walks hand in hand
With whom or for why
They can't stand
Each other.
It's just
Land.
______

I am fifty-three, born
Only seventeen years
After World War Two.

When I was born a
European, peace was
barely old enough to
ride a motorcycle and
still too young to vote.

This year,
European Peace
Is seventy years old
And we take it for granted.
______

But it has taken people seventy years
Of tolerance, of understanding,
Education and co-operation
To get where we are,
To become where
Everyone else
Wants to
Be.

It didn't come for free.
______

We did not achieve this
Lasting peace in secret.

Our methods are in
The public domain.
______

Our methods are
The European public.

Our customs and practices,
Our rules and regulations,

Our laws and public behaviour
Are what makes Europe

And Europeans
Successful.

The peace
And calm,

The time
To think

Can no more
Be stormed

Or occupied
Than a pub's

Quiet ambience,
Its calm can be

Enjoyed
By anyone

If one
Pugnacious

Seeker
Of it destroys

The very thing

That drew them.

Wednesday, 8 November 2017

I heard a little girl sing a wartime song today [2014]

I heard a little girl sing a wartime song today, she sang
Words that resonate in me as a collective brave face,
As a desperate attempt at cheer in the face of death.
But that's not
How she sang it.
It was a song from the war after the one we remember
Having joined a hundred years ago today,
A song from the war fought by men whose fathers, uncles and
Elder brothers had fought the War To End All Wars,
Men who were under no illusions as to their likely fate.
But that's not
How she sang it.
______
______
The morning of Pride came to me slowly and slightly after noon.
An Eve of Pride Party had come to me hard and fast
Staying with me till some way after dawn.
It was fully light and already warm
When I fell to sleep beneath
The open window at the bed end
Of my just over bed-wide flat.
I slept soundly but only until the parade approached,
The crowd's enthusiasm rising and reaching its crescendo
As it passed along the road not seventy yards from where I lay.
______
My father, by now in generous old age,
Had been admitted to hospital a week before.
There an emergency tracheotomy had suddenly denied him
Both speech and the ability to feed except by tube for life.
______
I feel duty bound to experience the magical day
As proof of its existence and to have something to say
When I hospital visit my father, still twenty-four hours away.
______
I am hanging, a little stoned, it feels early and my mind is racing
At the finality of my father's situation and how desperately frustrating
And unsatisfying the remainder of his time will be, however long or short.
All the while I am making my way, against the flow of the crowd, toward the
Headspace I know I will find when I reach the sea and look out over what man
Has not since the dawn of time worked out how to colonise and fuck up like land.
It is my father's life that flashes through my mind while I dodge and weave through an
Oncoming shoal of unsubtly smuggled budgies and booty-shorts that shimmer in the sun.
I am not ashamed that I have tears on my cheeks at a carnival to celebrate the diversity of life.
______
I am head-wrestling my self.
It hurts as my emotions struggle
To take and hold my imagination,
Flitting as it always does between
Extremes of pleasure and of pain.
There is nothing more important in my world
Than my father lying uncomfortably in hospital.
I am today his eyes, his ears, his experience of
The world outside a sterile, single bedded room.
I cannot lie to him when I download as best I can my bedside head to his
So it is my bounden duty to make the truth of the day as entertaining as I can.
______
I have by now escaped the crowd and stand, battered sausage in hand, by the sea.
One pound and twenty pence invested in making a true story a little lighter to listen to.
My eyes are red with both tears and tiredness and the rings beneath are as puffy as puffy can be.
I am on my second convenience-store handy-pack of tissues as I now almost ignore the waves of
Sadness at projected imaginings of a time yet to be in a place or places unknown crashing against the rock
That is the reality of now, today, and all the days that have gone before to enable this one to be what it is.
______
I feel safe to lean against the railings above the beach
To look back at the land, to see how little has changed,
Then I think of the day and how much is very different.
I am hungry but can't face another battered sausage joke
So start walking back along the Promenade toward the pier.
I am thinking out now, looking around me, listening for detail
I can use to distract from my father's woes and maybe, just
Maybe, put a smile on his face when I see him tomorrow.
Three chrome-laden-Harley-boys rock up to the posing park,
Remove their helmets and as I pass by I hear them laughing,
About their bingo-wings billowing at speed on the motorway.
It’s the price of high bars and sleeveless vests and waistcoats
For all but the most Easy Rider scrawny of Peter Fonda wannabes.
______
Me, I like my arms.
They are not the finest, magazine grade
You might ever see
But you'd probably agree
They look right
With an all-over covering of skin
And that does it for me
______
I wear sleeves when I ride my bike
So as not to have to when I don't.
______
It's early evening and I am calm when I return to my one-bed wide flat.
My thoughts are still volatile but I have become used to cerebral bangs
And flashes of all the things I know not to write down in the moment.
I am not in the mood for an After-Pride Party but I will make the effort
Because that is what I have planned to do and I can't report back that I
Stayed in because I was miserable that one day soon my dad will die.
I shaved and showered, probably shat,
Making full use of all the facilities in the flat
I cooked myself something my father never would
Because he loved his son.
I never cared so much for me as did he.
I dressed and I walked the short road to the club
Where I drank and I smoked and danced to rub-a-dub dub.
It was long after dawn when I climbed into bed and
Set my alarm to leave just enough time to drive
Fifty miles into a summer Sunday afternoon.
To do my best at shutting out the shit
Of the whole sorry circumstance
And to ignore my yesterday
Insofar as I had mourned
The passing of much
Of what my
Father
Was
Yet
He was
Still there,
Albeit fragile.
______
I told my tale jokily
And raised a smile or two.
It was too soon to explain what I wanted,
That what I had witnessed the day before
With my own eyes, however blearily it was
And through however many tears of either
Sadness or of celebration, was proof positive
That he and his father had not lived in vain.
It isn't that they fought battles and won.
Instead, they demonstrated
How to do peace.
______
______
That is the key.
It's impossible to impose peace.
People have to notice how others achieve it.
If they amend their behaviour to match they achieve it, too.
It isn't about militarily suppressing revolt, anyone with firepower can do that.
Nor about scaring gullibles into brainwashed accord with outdated "divine" instruction manuals.
The best thing we can do to help those at war in far off lands is to keep doing exactly what we peacefully do.
Eventually they might notice, give it a go and discover how much easier peace is than war. If not it is their own loss.
______
______
It's not my job to save the world.
But if everyone behaved like me
There would be no religion or war.
Just saying.
_____
The song I heard the little girl sing was from my father's war.
It was his generation that wanted luck wished them
When their loved ones waved them goodbye.
______
My father was one of the very lucky ones,
He came home at the end of the war.
Having sung that song himself with
Friends and fellows who didn't,
A good few years before.
He will have sung it since in memory
Of those who were less lucky than he,
The chorus rising and rousing but empty
From those living in defiance for the dead.
But that's not
How she sang it.
The little girl sang the lyric with innocent enthusiasm,
With the broadest and happiest of smiles
She stripped it of all connotations,
She deleted its history files.
______
I wish my father had lived to hear it sung that way, too,
And that he had witnessed also Pride in Seaside City.
______
It is a hundred years since we entered the Great War
And nearly seventy since we emerged from the Second.
We have come a long way since Europe last fought.
A lot is said for the men, women and children who died.
Not enough is said for those who survived,
For those who made the changes
That enable us to enjoy
Our freedoms
Today,
That enable small children
To grow up here in peace
And in happiness
Without experience
Or knowledge of war.
Because that
Is how the little girl sang it
And because that
Made it special to hear.
© Po 2014

Saturday, 21 October 2017

The System

My most recently FB-encountered proponent of dismantling the current "system", that which has evolved over many thousands of years and which has made life gradually easier for all those who engage with it than it would be for them to scratch a living from the earth with their bare hands, was a city-dwelling DJ, one who was pictured on their profile page living in a modest but softly furnished flat, fully clothed and smoking a suspiciously large, hand-rolled cigarette.
Were it not for the current "system" they would have no electricity, food, water, flat or furnishings, they would be naked and the only psycho-active substances available to them would be mushrooms and toadstools unlikely to be found growing nearby, and if they wanted to go anywhere else they would have to walk barefoot to get there.
They really haven't thought it through. Unless, of course, what they really want is for everyone else to continue to operate the current "system" and for themselves just to freeload.

Friday, 22 September 2017

We are all of us enlightened

Anyone who has discovered or re-interpreted something in such a way that it is their genuine belief that it is of unselfish benefit to humankind will have a link direct to the text of it from their FB page (if they have one) and not to a site charging upfront for downloadable copies of it.

A person who says they will make you feel better about yourself but who implies your guilt for the deeds of others or uses unpleasant or upsetting imagery as a tool in any part of their process is a manipulative git, not a guru.

And, of course, no sage worth their salt goes around quoting other people.

So, please, do not go looking for spiritual advice from anyone who either derives or intends to derive income [or elevated status] from giving it. 

The longer they can keep you from discovering that you already have what you seek, and that it is only the looking for it that is preventing you from finding it, the more they earn.
______
We are all of us enlightened
Unless we let some body
Convince us otherwise.
(© John Barrow (Po))
______

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Three Little Piggies 2017

Three Little Piggies 2017
[Only the president's name has been changed]
_____
Across Europe houses are built of brick, stone, concrete and other durable materials.
Mediaeval houses had the stoutest of timber frames with solid infills. The timbers were connected with simple push fit joints and held in place with wooden pegs.
Even in the changing climate, at least for now, Europe does not suffer destructive typhoons and hurricanes.
Yet, in almost every photo of the aftermath of a seriously destructive storm in the USA I see a pile of wood, a bank, a pile of wood, maybe a hotel, a pile of wood, a gas station, a pile of wood etc..
I suspect even Donald Trump could be explained to that it isn’t just when big bad wolves huff and puff that houses of sticks and straw offer little protection.
Surely it is cheaper for the taxpayer to subsidise the building of strong houses that will last for generations, even in such vulnerable areas, than it is to deal with emergency evacuations and the constant rebuilding of homes just as fragile as those they must replace.

© John Barrow (Po) 2007 & 2017

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

7th Century Wiltshire Stand-Up


A traveller reaches a town and notices there are two people fastened at height to the outside wall of a Worship Clubhouse, one is dying and the other long dead. A grave is being dug in the Clubyard below. He asks a local standing nearby what has happened and is told:
“A month ago the dead man refused to pay to the Club his grain as tax and then just last week the dying man stole grain from the Club to feed his family.”
And the grave?
“The grave is for every man who pays his tax and who does not steal grain.”
[Raucous laughter erupts at the inn]
Anyway, ... The traveller is just about to continue on his way when the clouds burst and he and the local take shelter in the Worship Clubhouse.
After a few moments being dazzled by the blingtastic splendour of the building’s unexpectedly lavish interior, the traveller notices there is a dying man fastened at height to the inside wall of the Clubhouse, too.
As his eyes adjust to the glare he sees it is a statue of a man frozen in perpetual pain and quite intentionally denied death for all time. He asks the local what particular crime the poor fellow had committed that justified such savage and permanent reminding of it to all who enter the building.
“Him? He is the last guy who dissed the Club.”
[The inn was then raided by Heresy Squad officers and a number of arrests were made]
©2012 John Barrow (Po)

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

(I'm thinking not to write) Three Films. [2012]

The first is a fiction set in a Market Town at a remote intersection of trading routes across a wild 7th Century Wiltshire landscape, a town where merchants grow rich and pay their taxes to The Club, which in return keeps order, suppressing revolt among the underclass using collective threats so fantastic no one person dares test them for emptiness.
Officers of The Club make a point of demonstrating their violent capability on any member of the underclass who fails to achieve a safe distance as they pass. Random brutality, just common enough that everybody knows someone who has been a victim of it, is considered key to keeping the underclass afraid and obedient.
Most of the first reel is taken up by showing everyday life in the town, highlighting the relationships between the merchants, the underclass and The Club. Only at the beginning of the second reel do we meet the principal character, Steve, young and unmarried, a member of the majority underclass, who devises a plan to overthrow The Club.
Carefully and as quietly as possible, Steve begins recruiting members to his Rival Club. His manifesto promises an end to random brutality and a start to the sharing of the town's wealth more equally between its citizens such that all could be proud that no one in their town need starve or want for shelter. To the underclass this would be undreamed of luxury.
By the end of the second reel, though there are still only a handful of actual members of Rival Club, there is an uncustomary excitement among the underclass as word spreads of the hope being offered them for a brighter future.
The third reel is faster paced as news of Rival Club's existence and rapidly increasing popularity reaches The Club and its officers immediately carry out a spectacularly violent and unusually brutal, even by their own standards, demonstration of their continuing authority within the town, randomly selecting men to kill and women to rape as they set fire to houses in which children still hide.
The few who joined Rival Club stand, fight and are promptly despatched by officers of The Club. Hundreds of others are killed, too, many of them while helping their families to escape the town, leaping for their lives from its walls. Steve is nowhere to be seen.
Gradually those who have escaped gather together, just out of range of the arrows that every now and then still overfly the town walls. The camera pans across a dark sea of empty eyes and blank expressions, not one person yet able to comprehend what they have all witnessed, their fleeting dream having so suddenly become a reality more terrifying than their worst nightmare.
Orphaned infants wail, the luckiest in the arms of older siblings. The newly widowed hold tight to their children or grieve their loss alone. Few men have survived to follow their loved ones to freedom. Steve stands anonymously at the edge of the crowd, unharmed.
With the sky over the poorest quarter of the town glowing red with flame and with the air still filled with the screams of those unable to escape, one young mother recognises Steve near her. Her eyes lock to his and she asks him coldly, "Now what?" Steve says nothing, turns from the small crowd and walks slowly into the darkness of the Wiltshire night.
The survivors cannot return to the town. The wild landscape is vast and as poor townspeople who have never travelled they know nothing of its geography. As their adrenaline levels begin to fall they feel cold and resign themselves to having little choice but to all walk off into the darkness together, following the footsteps Steve left in the soft ground. Roll Credits.
______
The second fiction starts on the morning after the massacre, the sun rising slowly on a dishevelled band of cold, tired and hungry people, huddled together against the wind in silence. All are traumatised by what they have seen. None are yet able to speak of it.
The story is played out like a lightly comic road movie. Steve, no fleeter of foot than average, is patently unable to shake off his univited followers so he decides to organise them into a functional, self sufficient unit, making up rules for them as problems arise, often having to revise them later on when circumstance has changed.
It isn’t long before followers begin to realise Steve is just leading them round in circles and start openly questioning his wisdom. Each time a challenge to his authority arises, the camera follows Steve as he disappears off for a think before returning with a masterful piece of spin to keep his followers on side regardless of what has happened. As the challenges become greater, so Steve’s spin becomes more fantastic to counter them.
Steve’s masterplan is to grow his band of followers into an army with which to exact revenge upon The Club. Looking at those he has with him, it may take a while before they are ready.
Decades are skipped through with only significant events being shown. Battles are won and battles are lost. Many followers die in a single battle and Steve’s spin convinces only the few who remember the massacre in Market Town to remain loyal to him. For if they stop believing in his wisdom now they must accept they need not have believed it then and their loved ones need not have died.
Too few in number now to wage war on his behalf, Steve leads his handful of followers to the village of Other Market, only a few days travel from Market Town, hoping to settle into quiet obscurity.
______
The third and final fiction in the series begins in Other Market, where the quiet obscurity Steve by now craves is impossible to achieve. Other Market is a small village where no one goes unnoticed and through which many travellers pass en route to Market Town and Steve is soon identified and hauled before a public inquisition on the village green, the arrival of his reputation having preceded that of his physical being by a good many years.
In the eyes of the villagers, Steve’s attempt to settle anonymously in their midst is proof enough of his personal ambition alone being responsible for the massacre at the end of the first film and for all the deaths and woundings in battle his followers have suffered since.
Facing a lynching and already in the hands of the mob, Steve spins a speech to save his life and by the end of it has vowed his intent remains as ever it was and that he has not come to their village to hide but instead to raise and inspire a new army with which to drive The Club from Market Town.
After a few unsuccessful battles and some very creative spin to keep the momentum of his campaign up after each expensive loss, Steve does eventually raise an army of sufficient size and skill to carry out his original Rival Club manifesto promises, to liberate the underclass of Market Town and improve their lot.
While grateful at being liberated, there were many in Market Town who still carried scars from the last time they had placed their trust in Steve and they demanded an explanation as to why, if he believed in the infallibility of his mission as much as he had convinced everybody else to, he had run away at the first sign of trouble, as he had been witnessed by a number of survivors to have done. Steve has a very long think before spinning another speech to save his life again before a very uncertain crowd.
To those who don’t remember the massacre, Steve is their liberator, their rescuing hero. To those who do, rich or poor, Steve is a cowardly liar. Demographics have it that Steve becomes Mayor of Market Town and he immediately makes challenging his authority an offence punishable by death and demonstrates its enforceability.
Steve’s regime is no less brutal than that in any other town in England at the time but the brutality is less random in its delivery to members of the underclass than it was The Club. Now a law has to be broken and there is a punishment to fit each crime.
Steve’s laws are strict, and public punishment is always painful, often permanently damaging and sometimes fatal. When Steve is discovered to have failed to follow his own law he spins yet another speech to save his life, inventing new detail in the law as he goes to permit his own transgression to go unpunished and to enable any such future trangressions to go undiscovered. No one challenges his authority so to do.
It isn’t long before the law has been detailed as much as it needs to be for Steve and those close to him to enjoy freedoms denied to others under the same law and the practice of re-detailing law all but dies out.
The office of Mayor of Market Town and the associated absolute authority within the town walls is passed down through generations of Steve’s family until a period of unrest in the wider county brings the peaceful stability of Market Town under threat again from the latest incarnation of The Club.
On learning of the threat, the incumbent Mayor takes the town's cash and flees to the hills, promising to return with a mercenary army as soon as he can and leaving the town gates open so The Club won't need to break them down to get in.
Roll credits over images of decades passing with no sign of the promised rescue as poverty and oppression under The Club re-establish themselves with a vengeance in Market Town. Cut in shots of the missing Mayor growing old and dying in a comfortable, distant palace.
______
But I just know that many years from now, when my trilogy has all but faded from memory, when everybody knows the names of my films and considers them classics but everybody who ever saw them has died, someone will revive Steve’s legend, selectively amending it to suit their time and intent.
By gifting Steve with as many superpowers as the person revising my script considers their audience will have to swallow to cover the gaps created in its sense by their heavy handed approach to abbreviation, a new story will emerge, quite different from mine.
Of course, once SuperSteve has been given magic powers it will be implied that his descendents would naturally be similarly blessed and that it would therefore be perfectly possible that the missing Mayor, the cowardly liar who died behind the credits of my original film, could yet come back with his promised army of liberation.
Then the Market Town PR machine will kick into high gear and the gullible poor will give their hard earned money back to the rich for the privelege of waiting, exactly as instructed to in SuperSteve’s rewritten dialogue, for the missing Mayor to return to free them from poverty and oppression rather than challenge whichever Mayor it is who is keeping them poor and oppressed at the time.
For safety reasons, I remind you that my trilogy of fictions is set in a wild 7th Century Wiltshire landscape and that my principal character is called "Steve".
Hundreds of years will pass before the fourth film is made and the trouble really starts.
© 2012 John Barrow (Po)