Poems written or selected by working class poet, Jim Sharp
.
On the electoral defeat of John Howard:
“Down with Liberty
Long live chains (and Workchoices).”
Yet workers said no.
[Thanks to ted riethmuller for the poem and the photo]
*****************
‘tis exploitive still!
‘tis exploitive still!
whence how we produce
and live week by week
forever mortgaged
‘tis exploitive still!
whence what we produce
be conceded to tea leafing
parasites whom thrive
******************
g’day comrades
humphrey mcqueen ended his revised & updated social sketches of Oz 1888-2001 with this sentence:
if the men & women did not refine bauxite, program computors, fly aircraft, tend vineyards, bake pizzas & keep on teaching, nursing or experimenting, there would have been no olympics, no midnight oil, no east timor task force, no high court: nothing at all.
as mary gilmore wrote:
shame on the mouth
that would deny
the knotted hands
that set us high
jim
“““““““““““““““
the future makers
shameless mouth prostitutes
every day practice psychobabble
whilst spinning their lies
lies which strive to deny
and obviate the class
against class divide
meanwhile those farming the land &
wage slave on production lines
and cyber proles glued to monitors
everyday produces of products
that’s higher than yesteryear while
exclusively being the future makers
*****************
summer scented flower
you are my muse beyond savour
a slender willow gliding on by
a summer scented flower in bloom
so delightfully seductive with your
twinkling dark deep alluring eye’s
awakening an old man’s amorousness
from his reconciled drying virility
washed-up by life & aging
*******************
i know what you’re counting
“boss”…
‘tis our surplus value
*******************
“divine imperial charity”
behind the shock & awe
behind the missiles begetting
“collateral damage”
’twas a mission accomplished
meanwhile measly they
offer their divine imperial charity
in the name of medical & civil aide
hypocrisy with a thin veneer
whilst behind all that stands
the unblushing gods of capital
capital! with much human blood.
dripping from its talon’s
— Jim Sharp
********************
“UPPER CASE’S“
dead voices
with deadpan faces
pollies & pinheads
speaking in the
“UPPER CASE’S“
voices of the living
dead wooden-heads
— Jim Sharp
|
lopsidedly…
paying bills is a whopping
struggle for existence
— Jim Sharp
|
********************
test the thrills of theory
[ a dialog with kippers ]
if you can score your every thought
and always practice & test the thrills of theory
and be an active listener through & through
both at the point of production
as well as in your theoretical abstractions
with no one-offs just more consistency
to make your comrades empowered tribunes
who’ll take on the bosses & the imperial vultures
thenceforth our chains will commence to rust
********************
Follower
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full-sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back,
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
Seamus Heaney
********************
Working man, I have faith in you
working man, I have faith in you,
Tho’ you’re such a damned fool in my eyes,
I know, full well, how they’ve wasted you,
And clotted your brain with their lies.
I’ve heard the sleek parsons preach to you,
I’ve studied the dope of the press,
And tho’ they have made such a mess of you,
I have faith in you, nevertheless.
For working man, there is none but you
Can think in the vital way,
Can look at life from the level of you,
And fight for equality.
There’s that which I find in the soil of you,
That brings the seed to flower,
And, working man, iI have faith in you
In this world’s most piteous hour.
by joe gorrie [1894-1968]
scots poet & dramatist. mostly about his life as a miner
********************
g’day comrades
2008! & it’s 10 years since the mua dispute, here are two poems i wrote at
the time to add to the poetry section. others poets out in cyberspace who
have a poem or three on the mua issue are most welcome to contribute.
jim
********************
wavin’ on the breeze
may day… the workers day nineteen ninety eight 
bringin’ ten thousand on brisbane city streets
twenty thousand dancin’ & marchin’ feet.
colours rallyin’ at albert park, for confab, joy & tears,
many varied flags wavin’ on the breeze
there’s the red alert, any number of eureka’s tru blu,
& onside! a zillion stylized union southern stars.
for an ‘oi polloi artist
portrayin’ that amphitheatre,
could well surpass claude monet’s 1878
“the rue saint-denis” paris streetscape celebration.
’cause those workers on that hillside,
were shakin’ off their torpor!
they had dared to fight!
they had dared to win!
they had dared to show some will!
it could ‘ave been a dream we’ve had?
it could have been we’re goin’ insane?
’cause a six pack we scored,
from the full bench today!
o! how the workers yelled,
o! how we hugged & cried,
o! how we loved this day,
’cause neath a noon red sun,
we’ve cracked the “power” of our despair.
“““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
down the road
as an autumn moon casts its shadows
shady legal & civil storm troopers
furtively navigate brisbane river.
and born is a new industrial tradition
wi’ chemical sprays & drilled savage dogs
& union bustin’ armed thugs… g’day!
“all hail!” little johnny hit-liar, & his
shady conspirators… al corrigan speers,
joe reith goebbels… ’stralia’s imperial fascists.
marchin’ jack-booted all o’er this country
creatin’, worker against worker competition
wi’ world’s best practice wage reductions.
so comrades! come shake off our torpor
we’re on the edge of chaos & preggers
wi’ immanently complex creativity
’tis class against class so light our candles
we’re locked in a life & death struggle
labour opposin’ capital… down the road.
TO A WORKERS REVOLUTION!
““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
**********************
It is Deep
—(don’t never forget the bridge you crossed over on)
Carolyn Rodgers
Having tried to use the
witch cord
that erases the stretch of
thirty-three blocks
and tuning in the voice which
woodenly stated that the
talk box was “disconnected”
My mother, religiously girdled in
her god, slipped on some love, and
laid on my bell like a truck,
blew through my door warm wind from the south
concern making her gruff and tight-lipped
and scared
that her “baby” was starving.
she, having learned, that disconnection results from
non-payment of bill (s).
She did not
recognize the poster of the
grand le-roi (al) cat on the wall
had never even seen the books of
Black poems that I have written
thinks that I am under the influence of
“communists”
when I talk about Black as anything
other than something ugly to kill it befo it grows
in any impression she would not be
considered “relevant” or “Black”
but
there she was, standing in my room
not loudly condemning that day and
not remembering that I grew hearing her
curse the factory where she “cut uh slave”
and the cheap j-boss wouldn’t allow a union,
not remembering that I heard the tears when
they told her a high school diploma was not enough,
and here now, not able to understand, what she had
been forced to deny, still–
she pushed into my kitchen so
she could open my refrigerator to see
what I had to eat, and pressed fifty
bills in my hand saying “pay the talk bill and buy
some food; you got folks who care about you . . .”
My mother, religious-negro, proud of
having waded through a storm, is very obviously,
a sturdy Black bridge that I
crossed over, on.
http://www.3quarksdaily.com/
************************
My mother can sew up a storm …
My mother can sew up a storm on her trusty Singer machine. Add a box of Butterick’s paper patterns with their strange hieroglyphics, cloth and tape measure and that’s all she needs to create. And create she did when we lived in a country town where you couldn’t find a decent clothes shop (let alone a cheap one) to keep up with four growing girls.
All manner of material was used. I felt and smelt and rolled their names around my tongue - satin, organza, cotton, chenille and chiffon, seersucker, lurex, tartan and taffeta, lawn, flannelette, gingham and gauze.
Not only were dresses, shorts and shirts of every size coming from her home factory, there were fancy dress costumes for school, dolls’ clothes and ballet class tutus. There was even a fancy dress Bo-Beep costume sewn in crepe paper. Not a good idea in the humid north - my sister’s legs stained yellow for days.
I learned an enduring lesson in those early years - you could make anything you wanted if you put your mind to it.
trapped in midnight blue
She cuts, pins, adjusts, trims,
we stand in turn on the kitchen stool,
sisters-in-revolt while she,
pins in mouth, hisses
‘Keep still for heaven’s sake’.
Intricate papery patterns float
like sheets of dried brown skin, tattooed
with mysterious codes – bodice, nape, hemstitch, baste,
as skilled hands conjure garments from
cheap cotton, muslin, seersucker, crepe.
One year, I stand high above the kitchen floor, swirling,
enchanted, trapped in Midnight blue,
tiny red silk rosebuds sprouting,
full-skirted, organza party dress.
Delight cuts to despair.
This dress is not for me, but
destined for my cousin,
who’s clever, bossy, and sure
in an adult-speak world.
I’m just a mannequin to fit, cut and pin.
Pins take revenge.
I whinge and squirm.
The kitchen, now a battlefield
of female wills.
How I hate that dress.
Intriguing shapes spread under the tinsel branch.
Bright package torn open reveals
Midnight blue with red silk rosebuds
and a card
With love from Mum.
See Sheryl’s poems at http://sherylgwytherauthor.blogspot.com/
- ***********
- g’day comrades
here’s a worker poem by e.p.mead’s from Condition of the Working Class in England, by Engels, 1845
- ’tis a poem which as never failed to move politically class conscious prolies over the past 150 years or so & with the intensification of globalisation today & the transfer of heavy industry to developing nations, ’tis as relevant again for universal class comrades.jimAt the close a few stanzas of a poem which voices the sentiments of the workers themselves about the factory system. Written by Edward P. Mead of Birmingham, it is a correct expression of the views prevailing among them.
There is a King, and a ruthless King; Not a King of the poet’s dream; But a tyrant fell, white slaves know well, And that ruthless King is Steam.
He hath an arm, an iron arm, And tho’ he hath but one, In that mighty arm there is a charm, That millions hath undone.
Like the ancient Moloch grim, his sire In Himmon’s vale that stood, His bowels are of living fire, And children are his food.
His priesthood are a hungry band, Blood-thirsty, proud, and bold; ’Tis they direct his giant hand, In turning blood to gold.
For filthy gain in their servile chain All nature’s rights they bind; They mock at lovely woman’s pain, And to manly tears are blind.
The sighs and groans of Labour’s sons Are music in their ear, And the skeleton shades, of lads and maids, In the Steam King’s hell appear.
Those hells upon earth, since the Steam King’s birth, Have scatter’d around despair; For the human mind for Heav’n design’d, With the body, is murdered there.
Then down with the King, the Moloch King, Ye working millions all; O chain his hand, or our native land Is destin’d by him to fall.
And his Satraps abhor’d, each proud Mill Lord, Now gorg’d with gold and blood, Must be put down by the nation’s frown, As well as their monster God.
— Condition of the Working Class in England, by Engels, 1845
*********************************
Given the probability of an imminent recession, this draft poem without a title might be worth developing collectively?
we’ve sold our tomorrow
and future tomorrow’s
swayed by wallets full of…
plastic credit cards
we’ve sold our tomorrow
and future tomorrow’s
without knowing…
who stole our surplus value …
by Jim Sharp
**********************
Streets of Our Town
words and pictures by Ian Curr
These are the streets of our town
Golden darkness at dusk
We await the storm
No shelter, rain riven
Rivulets run the gutters
Cold freezing passage
Cleansing lives
While darkness awaits
Fresh light sings
We can only hope
Gone are the battered wives
There are diamonds on Brisbane river
Diamonds floating free
Rain falls once more
Seasons change, clouds come
Over gum tree silhouettes
We march together along our streets, our town
The sun does look good today
And let us hope
Butchers sharpen knives no more
Down and round
Battered streets of our town
************************
A Lemon
by Pablo Neruda
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth’s breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit.
g’day comrades
here’s a worker poem by e.p.mead’s from Condition of the Working Class in England, by Engels, 1845
’tis a poem which as never failed to move politically class conscious prolies over the past 150 years or so & with the intensification of globalisation today & the transfer of heavy industry to developnig nations, ’tis as relavent again for universal class comrades.
jim
““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
At the close a few stanzas of a poem which voices the sentiments of the workers themselves about the factory system. Written by Edward P. Mead of Birmingham, it is a correct expression of the views prevailing among them.
There is a King, and a ruthless King; Not a King of the poet’s dream; But a tyrant fell, white slaves know well, And that ruthless King is Steam.
He hath an arm, an iron arm, And tho’ he hath but one, In that mighty arm there is a charm, That millions hath undone.
Like the ancient Moloch grim, his sire In Himmon’s vale that stood, His bowels are of living fire, And children are his food.
His priesthood are a hungry band, Blood-thirsty, proud, and bold; ’Tis they direct his giant hand, In turning blood to gold.
For filthy gain in their servile chain All nature’s rights they bind; They mock at lovely woman’s pain, And to manly tears are blind.
The sighs and groans of Labour’s sons Are music in their ear, And the skeleton shades, of lads and maids, In the Steam King’s hell appear.
Those hells upon earth, since the Steam King’s birth, Have scatter’d around despair; For the human mind for Heav’n design’d, With the body, is murdered there.
Then down with the King, the Moloch King, Ye working millions all; O chain his hand, or our native land Is destin’d by him to fall.
And his Satraps abhor’d, each proud Mill Lord, Now gorg’d with gold and blood, Must be put down by the nation’s frown, As well as their monster God.
Condition of the Working Class in England, by Engels, 1845