gallinello

Bosch

Huguenot - your disingenuousness knows no bounds! Futility refers to the pointlessness of the catastrophic, imperialist '14-'18 war, and not 'armed revolution'. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs Bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. Wilfred Owen From Dulce et Decorum Est, absolutely not a poem about armed revolution!

Death or Glory - The Clash

Job done!

Huguenot, came across this in T.S Eliot's The Wasteland: A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc'd. Tereu Class(ic) poem!

Where the Street(s) Have no Name - U2

Human

Reaction

Street Fighting Man - The Rolling Stones

I don't necessarily see the Commune(s) as a 21st century solution to our current crisis, but I'm all for more democratic participation by the citizenry; if this causes a belly laugh then chuckle away or, better still, rebut my political naivite' in lyrical form, for this is, after all, Poetry Corner!

Fury!

In Memory Of The Paris Commune, Born March 18, 1871, and Died In June The Same Year What wing?d shape, with waving torch aflame, Wild with winds of March, and streaming hair Above the storm clouds, doth to men declare What message, and a memory doth claim? A star through drifting smoke of praise and blame - The toilers' beacon, still to re-appear With spring-tide hopes new quickening year by year Since bright in Freedom's dawn the COMMUNE came. Maligned, betrayed, short-lived to act and teach, Whose blood lies still upon the hands that slew: E'en now, when Labour knocks upon the gate That shuts on Privilege, He thinks of you, And what men dared and suffered, and their fate Who ruled a City, once, for all and each. Walter Crane

volume

worm

Ruler