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THE GOAL: ONE POEM PER WEEK . |
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Wednesday, September 24, 2003 This one is definitely gonna need some background. It's inspired by the song "Dark Moon, High Tide" by the Afro Celt Sound System (the song used when we first see Cameron Diaz in the movie Gangs of New York), which is a powerful, inspirational, uplifting sort of song. I was listening to it and thinking of it and "Gangs of NY" and it suddenly seemed to me to be a sort of call to arms, something that would be used to inspire action among the downtrodden, poor, and outcast. The same people who are featured in "Gangs," poor Irish immigrants and the like.So, while listening to the song, I've written a poem that might describe the kind of context that this song would be used in: A gathering of poor Celtic immigrants (either in the U.S. or Europe) who decide to wage a street war against the wealthy classes who keep them down. And the song I described above is just the sort of thing that would get the people inspired and ready to finally take what they feel they deserve. But enough talking, here's the poem! (before the poem, however, just a little warning that I tried to write this in Irish/Scottish slang. It may not be all accurate or easy to read, but bear with me) -------------------------------------- The War of the Common Man Do ye hear the drums a poundin'? Do ye hear the pipes give roar? Gather around and get your weapons, me lads 'Tis time to go to war We who hae been spit on We who hae no home We, the poor and dirty and wild We who use this land to roam Let's go take what's ours to take Let's go make what's ours to make Can ye hear the bagpipes callin' out? Let's go tear the bastards down Gather up, gather quick Grab your knives and bones Let's march to war and make 'em pay For kickin' us out of our homes The pipes they are a'wailing We march on through the mud Let's show those bastards what we're made of Let's spill their wealthy blood For today, we won't take it any longer For today, the tides will turn Let's march to the sound of the pipes and drums And let these houses burn posted by:Russ at 11:52 PM | Post Page | 0 comments Sunday, September 21, 2003 For the pregnant daughter of a friend . . .For Sarah If you're feeling lonely tonight And you struggle to stay in the light Just look up, way up above Past those walls And to the hearts of those you love If you wonder what's in store for you And lose faith in the face of all you must do Think of your mother And the sacrifices she's made And think of your lover If you get scared because the little girl is gone Open your eyes and welcome the dawn Your childhood is over, maybe But you'll get to see a new one begin The childhood of your baby If you get bored and everything sucks Remember the kindness of one little duck When you despair, here's what you must do Take out this piece of paper And read over these words I've written to you posted by:Russ at 8:43 PM | Post Page | 0 comments For two special people . . . The Butterfly and the Raven I have a little butterfly Her wings are black and red I see her in my sweetest dreams I feel her in my bed My butterfly flutters in my heart She's there to comfort me When she flies to me she makes me happier Than I could possibly ever be I have a little raven Black as 3 A.M. Her words of wisdom ring in my head She's my lovely spirit friend My raven loves me very much And, yes, I love her too She is my inspiration She helps me to be true My raven and my butterfly Fly to me every night When they are here, I feel so strong They help me see the light Me, my butterfly, and my raven Will always be together I love them more than anything I'll love them both forever posted by:Russ at 1:41 AM | Post Page | 0 comments Wednesday, September 17, 2003 The Goth QueenThe Goth Queen straps her leather boots and pulls her stockings up She drinks the bitter wine of loss from the ancient lordly cup The Goth Queen grabs her purse and fills it with her pills They take away the pain and help to solve her mortal ills The Goth Queen turns the music up The speakers push and pound The Queen forgets her sorrows in the screaming, soaring sounds The Goth Queen cuts her arm The blood riseth to her skin It doesn't hurt that much, but it heals the pain she holds within The Goth Queen cries a tear of black It falls onto her glove Five years ago today she lost Her Gothic Prince of Love posted by:Russ at 12:31 AM | Post Page | 0 comments Sunday, September 14, 2003 I'm writing this very late at night. It's for a friend of mine who's going through some stressful times and I want to give her this poem as a gift, a prayer, a promise . . .-------------------- My arms, your home My tears, your blood My blood, your soul My soul, your love My love, your jewel My hand, your grace My kiss, your breath My breath, your life posted by:Russ at 2:03 AM | Post Page | 0 comments |
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