Revolution Poems

Poetry Day Ireland: Thursday 28 April 2016 Revolution Poems

The theme for Poetry Day Ireland 2016 is Revolution, whether that be artistic, political, social, or personal. Poetry has always closely reflected social change and transformation. In 2016, we aim to bring that aspect of the written (and spoken) word to the forefront in every school, venue, café, and street corner in Ireland. The theme is more of a springboard than a rigid structure. We encourage organisers and collaborators to rebel against it, to revolutionize it and make it their own.

Song of Myself (part 18) by Walt Whitman With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums, I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer'd and slain persons. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!

I Am the People, the Mob by Carl Sandburg

I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns. I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget. Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget. When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision. The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.

Good morning Revolution by Langston Hughes Good morning Revolution: You are the best friend I ever had. We gonna pal around together from now on. Say, listen, Revolution: You know the boss where I used to work, The guy that gimme the air to cut expenses, He wrote a long letter to the papers about you: Said you was a trouble maker, a alien-enemy, In other words a son-of-a-bitch. He called up the police And told’em to watch out for a guy Named Revolution

You see, The boss knows you are my friend. He sees us hanging out together He knows we’re hungry and ragged, And ain’t got a damn thing in this world – And are gonna to do something about it.

The boss got all his needs, certainly, Eats swell, Owns a lotta houses, Goes vacationin’, Breaks strikes, Runs politics, bribes police Pays off congress And struts all over earth –

But me, I ain’t never had enough to eat. Me, I ain’t never been warm in winter. Me, I ain’t never known security – All my life, been livin’ hand to mouth Hand to mouth.

Listen, Revolution, We’re buddies, see – Together, We can take everything: Factories, arsenals, houses, ships, Railroads, forests, fields, orchards, Bus lines, telegraphs, radios, (Jesus! Raise hell with radios!) Steel mills, coal mines, oil wells, gas, All the tools of production. (Great day in the morning!) Everything – And turn’em over to the people who work. Rule and run’em for us people who work.

Boy! Them radios! Broadcasting that very first morning to USSR: Another member of the International Soviet’s done come Greetings to the Socialist Soviet Republics Hey you rising workers everywhere greetings – And we’ll sign it: Germany Sign it: China Sign it: Africa Sign it: Italy Sign it: America Sign it with my one name: Worker On that day when no one will be hungry, cold oppressed, Anywhere in the world again.

That’s our job!

I been starvin’ too long Ain’t you?

Let’s go, Revolution!

The Mother by Patrick Pearse

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge My two strong sons that I have seen go out To break their strength and die, they and a few, In bloody protest for a glorious thing, They shall be spoken of among their people, The generations shall remember them, And call them blessed; But I will speak their names to my own heart In the long nights; The little names that were familiar once Round my dead hearth. Lord, thou art hard on mothers: We suffer in their coming and their going; And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary Of the long sorrow - And yet I have my joy: My sons were faithful, and they fought.

I See His Blood Upon The Rose by Joseph Plunkett

I see his blood upon the rose And in the stars the glory of his eyes, His body gleams amid eternal snows, His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower; The thunder and the singing of the birds Are but his voice-and carven by his power Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn, His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea, His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, His cross is every tree.

The Foggy Dew by Canon Charles O’Neill

As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I There armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by No fife did hum nor battle drum did sound its dread tattoo But the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey swell rang out through the foggy dew Right proudly high over Dublin town they hung out the f lag of war ’Twas better to die ’neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sedd El Bahr And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through While Britannia’s Huns, with their long-range guns sailed in through the foggy dew

’Twas Britannia bade our Wild Geese go that small nations might be free But their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves or the shore of the Great North Sea Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha Their names we will keep where the Fenians sleep ’neath the shroud of the foggy dew

But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few Who bore the fight that freedom’s light might shine through the foggy dew

Ah, back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more But to and fro in my dreams I go and I’d kneel and pray for you, For slavery f led, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew

Easter, 1916 by WB Yeats

I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live; The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven’s part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse — MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

Connolly by Liam MacGabhann

The man was all shot through that came today Into the barrack square; A soldier I - I am not proud to say We killed him there; They brought him from the prison hospital; To see him in that chair I thought his smile would far more quickly call A man to prayer. Maybe we cannot understand this thing That makes these rebels die; And yet all things love freedom - and the Spring Clear in the sky; I think I would not do this deed again For all that I hold by; Gaze down my rifle at his breast - but then A soldier I. They say that he was kindly - different too, Apart from all the rest; A lover of the poor; and all shot through, His wounds ill drest, He came before us, faced us like a man, He knew a deeper pain Than blows or bullets - ere the world began; Died he in vain? Ready - present; And he just smiling - God! I felt my rifle shake His wounds were opened out and round that chair Was one red lake; I swear his lips said 'Fire!' when all was still Before my rifle spat That cursed lead - and I was picked to kill A man like that!

'Wishes For My Son, Born On St Cecilia's Day, 1912' by Thomas McDonagh

Now, my son, is life for you, And I wish you joy of it,- Joy of power in all you do, Deeper passion, better wit Than I had who had enough, Quicker life and length thereof, More of every gift but love.

Love I have beyond all men, Love that now you share with me- What have I to wish you then But that you be good and free, And that God to you may give Grace in stronger days to live?

For I wish you more than I Ever knew of glorious deed, Though no rapture passed me by That an eager heart could heed, Though I followed heights and sought Things the sequel never brought.

Wild and perilous holy things Flaming with a martyr's blood, And the joy that laughs and sings Where a foe must be withstood, Joy of headlong happy chance Leading on the battle dance.

But I found no enemy, No man in a world of wrong, That Christ's word of charity Did not render clean and strong- Who was I to judge my kind, Blindest groper of the blind?

God to you may give the sight And the clear, undoubting strength Wars to knit for single right, Freedom's war to knit at length, And to win through wrath and strife, To the sequel of my life.

But for you, so small and young, Born on Saint Cecilia's Day, I in more harmonious song Now for nearer joys should pray- Simpler joys: the natural growth Of your childhood and your youth, Courage, innocence, and truth:

These for you, so small and young, In your hand and heart and tongue.

Comrades by Eva Gore Booth

The peaceful night that round me flows, Breaks through your iron prison doors, Free through the world your spirit goes, Forbidden hands are clasping yours. The wind is our confederate, The night has left her doors ajar, We meet beyond earth’s barred gate, Where all the world’s wild Rebels are.

Sixteen Dead Men by WB Yeats

O but we talked at large before The sixteen men were shot, But who can talk of give and take, What should be and what not While those dead men are loitering there To stir the boiling pot?

You say that we should still the land Till Germany’s overcome; But who is there to argue that Now Pearse is deaf and dumb? And is their logic to outweigh MacDonagh’s bony thumb?

How could you dream they’d listen That have an ear alone For those new comrades they have found, Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone, Or meddle with our give and take That converse bone to bone?

Imperial Measure by Vona Groarke

The kitchens of the Metropole and Imperial hotels yielded up to the Irish Republic their armory of fillet, brisket, flank. Though destined for more palatable tongues, it was pressed to service in an Irish stew and served on fine bone china with bread that turned to powder in their mouths. Brioche, artichokes, tomatoes tasted for the first time: staunch and sweet on Monday, but by Thursday, they had overstretched to spill their livid plenitude on the fires of Sackville Street.

A cow and her two calves were commandeered. One calf was killed, its harnessed blood clotting the morning like news that wasn’t welcome when, eventually, it came. The women managed the blood into black puddings washed down with milk from the cow in the yard who smelt smoke on the wind and fire on the skin of her calf. Whose fear they took for loss and fretted with her until daylight crept between crossfire and the sights of Marrowbone Lane. Brownies, Simnel cake, biscuits slumped under royal icing. Éclairs with their cream already turned. Crackers, tonnes of them: the floor of Jacobs’ studded with crumbs, so every footfall was a recoil from a gunshot across town, and the flakes a constant needling in mouths already seared by the one drink – a gross or two of cooking chocolate, stewed and taken without sweetener or milk. Its skin was riven every time the ladle dipped but, just as quickly, it seized up again.

Nellie Gifford magicked oatmeal and a half-crowned loaf to make porridge in a grate in the College of Surgeons where drawings of field surgery had spilled from Ypres to drench in wounds the whitewashed walls of the lecture hall. When the porridge gave out, there was rice: a biscuit-tin of it for fourteen men, a ladleful each that scarcely knocked the corners off their undiminished appetites; their vast, undaunted thirst.

The sacks of flour ballasting the garrison gave up their downy protest under fire. It might have been a fall of Easter snow sent to muffle the rifles or to deaden the aim. Every blow was a flurry that thickened the air of Boland’s Mill, so breath was ghosted by its own white consequence. The men’s clothes were talced with it, as though they were newborns, palmed and swathed, their foreheads kissed, their grip unclenched, their fists and arms first blessed and, then, made much of.

The cellars of the Four Courts were intact at the surrender, but the hock had been agitated, the Reisling set astir. For years, the wines were sullied with a leaden aftertaste, although the champagne had as full a throat as ever, and the spirits kept their heady confidence, for all the stockpiled bottles had chimed with every hit, and the calculating scales above it all had had the measure of nothing, or nothing if not smoke, and then wildfire.

* From Flight (2002) by kind permission of the author and The Gallery Press.

a remix for remembrance By Kristiana Rae Colón

This is for the boys whose bedrooms are in the basement, who press creases into jeans, who carve their names in pavement, the girls whose names are ancient, ancestry is sacred, the Aztec and the Mayan gods abuela used to pray with

This is for the dangerous words hiding in the pages of composition notes, holy books, and Sanskrit This is for the patients who wait for medication, for the mothers microwaving beans and rice at day’s end

This is for the marching bands and girls at quinceañeras, the skaters and the writers whose moms are eloteras, laughing “Cops don’t scare us, we sag so elders fear us We will rewrite our textbooks in our own language if you dare us”

This is for the Sarahs, the Angelicas, and Shawns, the Beatrices, Paolas, Danielas, and the dawns we scribble sunlight in the margins of horizons with our songs, for all the voices tangled with the silence on our tongues

Rivals in the parks, fireworks at dark, tired shirts that sweat your scent on hangers in the closet For the boys who fix the faucet while their sister fixes coffee ’cause mommy had to leave for work at 6 AM and laundry isn’t folded yet: you don’t have to hold your breath

You don’t have to behave: stage your own rebellion, paint canvases with rage and religion and prayers for pilgrims sleeping in the train cars at the border and their children Filibust the Senate and bust markers on the Pink Line, stain the prosecution’s case and force the judge to resign, force the crowd the rewind the lyrics you invented

Speak away the limits to heights of your existence Be a witness, be a record, be a testament, a triumph Set your poems flying in the glitter of the planets Feed open mouths with truth, the truth is we are famished The Universe is starving for the symphonies you play Clarinets and thunder and the syllables you say are the instruments: you are infinite. Stretch your hands to heaven Let your throat throttle the rhythms of all your fallen brethren Your legacy is present, your history is now You are the tenth degree of sound You are the nephews of the sky You are the bass line and the hi-hat and the snare drum and the cry of red Septembers. You’re the architects of winter You are the builders of the roads that you’re told you don’t remember You are the builders of the roads that you’re told you don’t remember You are the builders of the roads that you’re told you don’t remember

Cast poems in the river and tell them you remember Skate City Hall to splinters and tell them you remember Send diamonds to your islands and tell them you remember Find your God inside your mirror and tell Her you remember * First published in Poetry (April 2015)

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may tread me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

Hymn to the Reckless (For my Brother) by Erin Fornoff

Third Place in the 2013 Strokestown International Poetry Awards

Together we throw flame into orbit. The frantic patter, the volley, the hit. From afar it’s just stars come down to flit. We bend quick to the flame and pull coals into flight Delirious sleight of hand with a teaspoon of light Once one caught between my fingers and seared and that night I wrapped my aching hand around cold beer.

We’re boozy folk heroes performing incredible feats craft exquisite trajectories with arms full of heat Look! the arc as he sends it hurdling toward me bending with some eccentric choreography-

We burn. Our power, to drag a new comet trail across the evening a hymn to the reckless, so breathless it falls to earth, the air singeing– we smolder. Gods of our own solstice, and solace, there’s solace in this insane game; in being the wild ones who manhandle coals from the flames and make them dance.

Oh! he catches behind the back, he’s a one-man eclipse of the sun, lays cursive lines across your eyelids even once you’ve closed them With a tap-tap-tap it comes flying to me oh God–I got it! Lightning quick layup, i shot it–always skyward. We marvel at our savage skill, at what we’ve harnessed. Sleep hard with sooty hands, flames peel us unvarnished.

One night in the smoke with his throat full, he turned, stilled, confessed: You know, I always thought they loved you the best.

How long has he held that pressed tight in his palm as it scorched him? Brave in the dim to de-clench that fist from the ember within; to admit what forges us. The gentle soul who can cast flame to the rim of the sky. And the ember. Exposed to air it glows, it catches, it dies, it passes. Toss it here. We’ll pass it back and forth until it’s ashes.

The Immortals by Rita Ann Higgins

The boy racers quicken on the Spiddal road in Barbie Pink souped-ups or roulette red Honda Civics. With few fault lines or face lifts to rev up about only an unwritten come hither of thrills with screeching propositions and no full stops - if you are willing to ride the ride.

Hop you in filly in my passion wagon. Loud music and cigarette butts are shafted into space. We'll speed hump it all the way baby look at me, look at me I'm young, I'm immortal, I'm free.

Gemmas and Emmas stick insects or supermodels regulars at 'Be a Diva' for the perfect nails eyebrows to slice bread with and landing strips to match.

They wear short lives they dream of never slowing down-pours while half syllable after half syllable jerk from their peak capped idols lips. Their skinny lovers melt into seats made for bigger men Look at me, look at me I'm young, I'm immortal, I'm free. The boy racers never grow older or fatter.

On headstones made from Italian marble they become 'our loving son Keith' 'our beloved son Jonathan,' etcetera etcetera. On the Spiddal road itching to pass out the light they become Zeus, Eros, Vulcan, Somnus

Veracity and other Stories by Sarah Clancy for Alice Kennelly

I’ve lived in four different decades today stepped onto three continents I took no visas no tickets no passports I wrote my own bill of passage I forged it and what of my fraud if it served us?

I inhabited flesh that wasn’t my own I scratched it kneaded stiff shoulders with hands that emerged from some other wrists some forearms some oxters then I left it

I walked from it and encountered new bones new ligaments new eyes with which I saw what I wanted I decided you were an abstraction so I tried to walk through you but couldn’t I put my palm on your chest but it met with resistance I got caught in your substance then fuck it I lied about it said you meant nothing that your whole existence was a blip a pot-hole that no-one was fixing and I burst a tyre or might have I buckled my wheel rims in it didn’t I? but then I gunned it and drove on

I read my old diaries as page turners with no idea what might happen from one page to the next I took guesses blind stabs at historic events to see if it seemed like they’d happened me then whatever I remembered what I wanted even if I had to invent it I swore it as fact rose to my feet to defend it it was my truth in that moment and there wasn’t a chance I’d let it be rebutted and as a result I found myself heartless my past cast off all reinvented and I liked it I was made light by it and as to the future all those futures I’m writing I’m telling you I’ll inhabit several actions at once and believe what I want I’ll pay no dues to this fiction this tyrant this actual bastard reality? I’m over it.

Self Belief Poem (Ha Ha) by Caoimhe Lavelle

I use a simple system; it’s silent, and I keep my eyes clean.

While my cat is consistently kind and… seems to seriously share my skinny policy.

(“Sure she must have just dropped out of her Momma.

Because she is still so small”).

Something has driven the anthropomorphized film away.

And you my dear, will start off as a starlet.

Evolving eventually into

A ROLLERSKATE.

As you become invincible, immovable to all jokes, catcalls, barefoot strokes and post kiss-rejection ice storms.

Pity the Mothers by Elaine Feeney

Pity the mothers who weathered their skin to raise their sons to die.

Pity the routine, the daily stretching table ferociously making meet ends.

Pity the mothers who told sons the world was tough and wild-

To have them sold out in the early hours of mornings’ immutable stage fresh and stung.

Brave the world They should have said Brave its bold beauty Brave the world my brave sons And be beautiful Because fear is a choking kite string in a storm.

Fear is a punctuating dictator

Fear will drive you half insane and there’s no spirit in half a cup of anything.

Fear will wake your sleep and damn your first born nerves.

There is no fertility in fear no function, no performance.

Be a kite Be yellow Be bold Be mad

Don’t step at the edge of it all and send your body half-way forward to the sea-froth.

For there you will find the headwinds.

Pity the bags, shoes, boots, hurls mothers left by the door.

The endless soups and syrups The forever effort The long lasting kisses they left on young jaws

To send them to the world fearful And then feared. To send them to the world with pity And then pitied.

Pity the mothers with their strong elbows worn from effort.

Struggling against headwinds- sanding the grain in the wrong direction.

Pity the mothers Who weathered their skin just to raise sons to die.

Core by Kerrie O’Brien

you need to be very still to hear the concert of your body to think about what you contain salt and water knows what it’s doing renewing itself back to earth it is a quiet thing this is where our riches are we are all red inside brimming with love all fluid and quiet and fire.