Friday, December 18, 2015

Support Ashraf Fayadh, a Palestinian poet who has been sentenced to death by the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia..

for Apostasy for christ sake.. in this day and age...
..in Islam (Arabic: ردة‎ riddah or ارتداد irtidād) is commonly defined as the conscious abandonment of Islam by a Muslim in word or through deed.

Islam really does need to get its act together and drag itself into this century or at the very least stop killing people for such a flimsy thing called belief / faith

..imagine if the catholic church started to do the same here... and they did to an extent with ostracisation / denunciation - thankfully 'The Struggle' helped break the back of their power.. particularly here in the north..

Anyway.. and most crucially..
please support Ashraf Fayadh, a Palestinian poet who has been sentenced to death by the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia:

Worldwide reading 14.01.2016 - Worldwide Reading of selected poems and other texts in support of Ashraf Fayadh


http://www.worldwide-reading.com/archiv-en/14-01-2016-worldwide-reading-of-selected-poems-and-other-texts-in-support-of-ashraf-fayadh


Saturday, June 13, 2015

William Butler Yeats

On this day in 1865..

No doubt many have many favourite WB Yeats poems...


When You Are Old
       
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.











William Butler Yeats
Born: June 13, 1865, Sandymount, Ireland
Died: January 28, 1939, Menton, France


Saturday, February 28, 2015

Poem - It’s Autumn Already


It’s autumn already, the wind says.
The golden golds and the swirl of leaves,
a mad wind up rushing up to you
on it’s way to somewhere else.
Imagine living in a series of autumns,
being like a tornado chaser,
running the globe after falling leaves.
Living in that rhythm of life, it full of endings,
like an Ireland far away, 
her easy rain and death in the trees soft moan.
All the while, us, on our hands and knees
in some form of stupor, poverty or obeisance.
What better bitter drama to have on one’s own doorstep,
so far away from the arrogant sterility of London or New York.
Autumn an almost perfect match for the Irish psyche,
the endings, the depression, the dark things unspoken.
Yet around the fire in a pub the craic and the happy smiles,
soup coming in off the range, the place full of mad ones.
All of us gathering in close, 
circling in our own camp of strange uniqueness,
brothers and sisters in that moment, 
blow-ins not understanding any of it,
how a stranger could be a long lost sister
or why just one word could be funny, 
or sad.
The mood rising and falling,
as the wind says.