The richest college in Britain is charging doley anarchists £3 to hear some poetry written about us ? I think you should waive the concession fee altogether or some of us might just attend equipped with molotovs - that I'd pay three quid for

Here is a poem for your night anyway, written about one of the greatest anarchists, Louise Michel aka Clémence, the red virgin of Montmartre. If Clémence herself was at your meeting she would 'execute every motherfucking last one of you'. Doubtless all of your in-bred audience will have been fluent in French since boarding school. It is by Victor Hugo - perhaps given your audience you would prefer another Hugo poem, 'To the Rich'.


Viro Major
Ayant vu le massacre immense, le combat
Le peuple sur sa croix, Paris sur son grabat,
La pitié formidable était dans tes paroles.
Tu faisais ce que font les grandes âmes folles
Et, lasse de lutter, de rêver de souffrir,
Tu disais : " j'ai tué ! " car tu voulais mourir.
Tu mentais contre toi, terrible et surhumaine.
Judith la sombre juive, Aria la romaine
Eussent battu des mains pendant que tu parlais.
Tu disais aux greniers : " J'ai brûlé les palais !"
Tu glorifiait ceux qu'on écrase et qu'on foule.
Tu criais : " J'ai tué ! Qu'on me tue ! - Et la foule
Ecoutait cette femme altière s'accuser.
Tu semblais envoyer au sépulcre un baiser ;
Ton oeil fixe pesait sur les juges livides ;
Et tu songeais pareille aux graves Euménides.
La pâle mort était debout derrière toi.
Toute la vaste salle était pleine d'effroi.
Car le peuple saignant hait la guerre civile.
Dehors on entendait la rumeur de la ville.
Cette femme écoutait la vie aux bruits confus
D'en haut, dans l'attitude austère du refus.
Elle n'avait pas l'air de comprendre autre chose
Qu'un pilori dressé pour une apothéose ;
Et, trouvant l'affront noble et le supplice beau
Sinistre, elle hatait le pas vers le tombeau
Les juges murmuraient : " Qu'elle meure ! C'est juste
Elle est infâme - A moins qu'elle ne soit Auguste "
Disait leur conscience. Et les jugent, pensifs
Devant oui, devant non, comme entre deux récifs
Hésitaient, regardant la sévère coupable.
Et ceux qui, comme moi, te savent incapable
De tout ce qui n'est pas héroisme et vertu,
Qui savent que si l'on te disait : " D'ou viens tu ? "
Tu répondrais : " Je viens de la nuit ou l'on souffre ;
Oui, je sors du devoir dont vous faites un gouffre !
Ceux qui savent tes vers mystérieux et doux,
Tes jours, tes nuits, tes soins, tes pleurs donnés à tous,
Ton oubli de toi-même à secourir les autres,
Ta parole semblable aux flammes des apôtres ;
Ceux qui savent le toit sans feu, sans air, sans pain
Le lit de sangle avec la table de sapin
Ta bonté, ta fierté de femme populaire.
L'âpre attendrissement qui dors sous ta colère
Ton long regard de haine à tous les inhumains
Et les pieds des enfants réchauffés dans tes mains ;
Ceux-la, femme, devant ta majesté farouche
Méditaient, et malgré l'amer pli de ta bouche
Malgré le maudisseur qui, s'acharnant sur toi
Te jetai tout les cris indignés de la loi
Malgré ta voix fatale et haute qui t'accuse
Voyaient resplendir l'ange à travers la méduse.
Tu fus haute, et semblas étrange en ces débats ;
Car, chétifs comme tous les vivants d'ici-bas,
Rien ne les trouble plus que deux âmes mêlées
Que le divin chaos des choses étoilées
Aperçu tout au fond d'un grand coeur inclément
Et qu'un rayonnement vu dans un flamboiement.

"Words are not enough, the deed alone sets you free."

 http://www.anarchistecouronne.com/anarchiste.htm#Go%20fuck%20yourself,%20you%20ass%20hole
 http://www.crownedanarchist.com/anarchist.htm#go_fuck_yourself_arsehole


Go fuck yourself, you ass hole

Alors, tu tournes dans ton petit univers misérable
Une planche à repasser, pas de lavage possible avant 23h
Pas de senteur de bouffe allouée ni de merde dans les toilettes en ta présence
Encore heureux que tu sortes tous les soirs
Essayant ardemment de ramasser quelqu'un pour embrasser ton gros cul
J'y mettrais le nez et je sais qu'il ne sentirait rien
Car ce n'est pas de la merde que tu chies, mais bien des fleurs
Et ton obsession, c'est la vérité
Eh bien, la vérité, la voici :
Je ne t'aime pas, je te méprise même
Je t'ai trompé avec la planète entière dans ton lit trop bien fait
Je ne regrette rien de tout le mal que je t'ai fait
Tu peux ravaler ta prétention, elle ne te sied pas
Ton humour plat, garde-le pour ta mère
(seule une mère qui aime son fils peut rire un tel ramassis de conneries)
Qu'as-tu trouvé encore dans mes tiroirs pour pouvoir ensuite me prendre en défaut ?
Tu veux souffrir, alors souffre, ça me rempli de joie de te voir souffrir
Sache que, si la vérité ne faisait pas mal, on ne la cacherait pas

Under the multiplications,
a drop of duck’s blood;
under the divisions,
a drop of sailor’s blood;
under the additions, a river of tender blood.
a river that sings and flows
past bedrooms in the boroughs-
and it’s money, cement, or wind
in New York’s counterfeit dawn.
I know the mountains exist.
and wisdom’s eyeglasses,
too, but I didn’t come here to see the sky.
I’m here to see the clouded blood,
The blood that sweeps machines over waterfalls
and the soul towards the cobra’s tongue.
Every day in New York, they slaughter
Four million ducks,
Five million hogs,
two thousand pigeons to accommodate the tastes of the dying,
one million cows,
one million lambs,
and two million roosters
that smash the skies to pieces

It’s better to sob while honing the blade
or kill on the delirious hunts
than to resist at dawn
the endless milk trains,
the endless blood trains
and the trains of roses, manacled
by the dealers in perfume.
The ducks and the pigeons,
the hogs and the lambs
lay their drops of blood
under the multiplications,
and the terrified bellowing of the cows wrung dry
fills the valley with sorrow
where the Hudson gets drunk on oil.

I denounce everyone
who ignores the other half,
the half that can’t be redeemed,
who lift their mountains of cement
where the hearts beat
inside forgotten little animals
and where all of us will fall
in the last feast of pneumatic drills.
I spit in all your faces.
The other half hears me,
devouring, pissing, flying in their purity,
like the supers’ children in lobbies
who carry fragile twigs
to the emptied spaces where
the insect antennae are rusting.

This is not hell but the street.
Not death, but the fruit stand.
There is a world of broken rivers and distances just beyond our grasp
in the cat’s paw smashed by a car,
and I hear the earthworm’s song
in the hearts of many girls.
Rust, fermentation, quaking earth.
You yourself are the earth as you drift in office
numbers.
What shall I do now? Set the landscapes in order?
Order the love that soon becomes photographs,
That soon become pieces of wood and mouthfuls of
blood?
No, no: I renounce it all.
I denounce the conspiracy
of these deserted offices
that radiate no agony,
that erase the forest’s plans,
and I offer myself as food for the cows wrung dry
when their bellowing fills the valley
where the Hudson gets drunk on oil.

"One hundred times this hall has rung with the crimes of egoists and knaves; you have always promised to strike the bloodsuckers of the people. The constitutional act is going to be presented to the sovereign for sanction: have you proscribed speculation there? No. Have you called for the death penalty against monopolists? No. Have you determined what freedom of commerce consists of? No. Have you forbidden the sale of minted money? No. Well then, we say to you that you haven’t done everything for the happiness of the people. Freedom is nothing but a vain phantom when one class of men can starve another with impunity. Equality is nothing but a vain phantom when the rich, through monopoly, exercise the right of life or death over their like. "


The Saffron Walden Town Hall librarian
drops empty words behind anarchist lines
Balloon mail invites to the high class butchers ball
Declaims from the stage 'end this slaughter, kill us all'
the crème de la crème
the vivisectionist dream
a mind cut away from free will
all sat in the hall for the kill
admission five pounds, concessions three.
a lecture on anarchy – isn't anarchy is free
obliging nobles, we are out there now
ask us onto the stage and we'll give you a bow

Person anally I think fitting words to rhyme or form is more puppetry of the penis than poetry.
Words as weapons though – now that I appreciate. Let me teach the teacher the meaning of the title as regards the post, as regrads the venue.

Martyn Everett, you are certainly brave, let me concede that to you in recognition of your concessions to me. Let me introduce myself. Inside me I have anarchy and poetry and cancer and a barely rational hatred of Oxbridge. You should maybe be more concerned with what I have on me though. I am armed with words, words like shotgun, the same as 'a pistol I bought at a black market' is a almost a meaningful sentence. I not only know why Molotov's are called Molotov's, and who actually invented them, it's open knowledge these days but I have devised a safer method for throwing them – safer for me course, I take an interest in my education.

I also have half a brain, so I speak to people. You are a person. Here is me speaking to you.
I might just be in Cambridge the night of the event you posted, coincidentally. I'm unwaged – but not intentionally so so I would never ask for any concessions. I find that term unbecoming given the event title. I wouldn't pay it even at an anarchist event, I am so slippery security don't see me.

If you reduce your £3 concession to a £0.30 unwaged, and increase your standard rate accordingly, then I won't make an example of you, sorry I won't make an example for you. In that case you can be assured it wasn't me who looked up the census for your address ( UK-ICD comes free for the basic version, which is no use if you don't know both the name and the town) , nor me who blocked the fire-doors of your venue.

It is only brave to resist irrational threats. It may seem irrational to bargain violently for a cheaper entrance at any event, but for someone looking for a one-man situation, 'Words As Weapons - the Poet as Anarchist' at Trinity College is irresistible, thank you kindly for the open invite here.

That is the end of lesson one, 'Words As Weapons - the Poet as Anarchist'.
Aren't all words empty without action ? The poets are anarchists fill the front-lines.

If you really are an anarchist yourself, and you don't have any influence over the pricing of this event, now is the time you will learn the secondary skill of anarchists, negotiation. Just don't try that with me, I have to judge you from now on, I'm your tutor. If you survive to the next stage you will have me to thank, I'll see you in the next few days – not that you will know that from now on. I hope I've not bored you to death, too many words sometimes.

Kidspoem/Bairnsang

it wis January
and a gey driech day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu'ed oan ma pixie an' my pawkies
it wis that bitter
said noo ye'll no starve
gie'd me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum
and sent me aff across the playground
tae the place A'd learn to say
it was January
and a really dismal day
the first day I went to school
so my mother wrapped me up in my
best nay-blue top coat with the red tartan hood,
twirled a scarf around my neck,
pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens
it was so bitterly cold
said now you won't freeze to death
gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom
and sent me off across the playground
to the place I'd learn to forget to say
it wis January
and a gey driech day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood,
birled a scarf aroon ma neck,
pu'ed oan ma pixie and' ma pawkies
it wis that bitter.

Oh saying it was one thing
But when it came to writing it
In black and white
The way it had to be said
Was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead.

I don't think I've ever been accused of being rich before - as I am certainly anything but. I am currently unemployed - and as for education I went to the local Secondary Modern. I've been invited to take part in an independent event which is located in University buildings - it is not an event run either by the College or the University. This is quite usual in Cambridge. I agreed to talk at the conference because I believe anarchists should take the opportunity to talk about anarchism to non-anarchists.

I listed the event on Indymedia because I wanted attendance to be as open as possible to anyone who wants. The charge is the charge set for the event by the organisers who have to cover their costs - such as the hire of premises and publicity. I think it worth noting that not everything that carries an anarchist tag is free - as you can see from the cover prices on anarchist magazines and books by anarchist authors - and this is not a specifically anarchist event. I've talked to anarchist groups and non-anarchist groups, and I have never been paid for doing so - and this event is no exception - the most I've ever got for doing so is a bottle of wine.

I chose not to hide behind a pseudonym for the talk because I don't see why anarchists should be afraid to admit their beliefs. Same with the posting on Indymedia.

>I chose not to hide behind a pseudonym for the talk because I don't see why anarchists should be afraid to admit their beliefs. Same with the posting on Indymedia.

Do you now ? You really shouldn't, whatever your politics.

I was just winding you up, after a Saturday night April Fools self-indulgence while reading about Jaques Roux all day - 'words as weapons' is my favourite academic subject and it was an excuse to get away with posting poetry on IM without it getting hidden. If Trinity College often open their doors to the great unwashed then I'll terrorise one of their future events instead. I hope you like the Hugo poem, feel free to make use of my empty threat in your talk.

"The stock-jobbers get possession of the factories, of the seaports, of every branch of commerce, of all produce of the land, and they cause the friends of justice to die of hunger, thirst and exposure, or else force them into the arms of despotism." Jacques Roux

Unfortunately I've only read extracts of Hugo's poem in English - my French isn't good enough to read the whole thing properly. I have to rely on friends to translate short extracts. Have you read the new Douglas Oliver book on Louise Michel - Whisper 'Louise"? It is a remarkable book - but then she was a remarkable woman whose own writing was (in translation at least) rich and romantic - I wish more of her own work was translated into English, or that I wasn't so crap at learning French - in particular the stuff she wrote in New Caledonia. I've been trying to find out more about her school in London - its mentioned briefly in John Shotton's book - No Master High or Low - and in a piece by Matthew Thomas - but there is a lot more than either of them have published so far.

>Unfortunately I've only read extracts of Hugo's poem in English - my French isn't good enough to read the whole thing properly.

Next time I am in Paris I will get my best friend there drunk and we will translate it for you and email it. He is a poet, a 68er and a Sorbonne lecturer. He speaks virtually every language except English. Last time I had toothache this bad (14 years ago) we translated Jibran Khalil Jibran from the arabic over a bottle of malt, a good form of pain relief.

>I have to rely on friends to translate short extracts. Have you read the new Douglas Oliver book on Louise Michel - Whisper 'Louise"? It is a remarkable book - but then she was a remarkable woman whose own writing was (in translation at least) rich and romantic - I wish more of her own work was translated into English, or that I wasn't so crap at learning French - in particular the stuff she wrote in New Caledonia. I've been trying to find out more about her school in London - its mentioned briefly in John Shotton's book - No Master High or Low - and in a piece by Matthew Thomas - but there is a lot more than either of them have published so far.

I haven't heard of that book but I have a £50 amazon gift voucher gathering dust and it is a great recommendation. Recommend another two to use up the voucher. Oh, sorry, the rest of you, I'll email this to Martyn to save the newswire from further distraction.

Try and get hold of the 3 back issues of Drunken Boat...I will suggest some other reading later

Martyn

Isn't that a Rimbaud poem ? I take it there is a magazine that stole the name. I've never even read Rimbaud, he reminds my prejudice of Eric Saties music, nice and interesting but uninspiring, dinner party poetry for what that is worth. I'm probably mistaken on both counts. Okay, I'll check out Rimbaud later if you promising to stop educating me, it's too late.

The book by the poet on Clemence yes, it sounds like a factual Jose Saramago novel, I will buy that if I can't steal it any other way. I've been reading books for 32 years but I still only remember the colours of them, the odd line here or phrase here and there. I never had an academic education, I was taught how to build, fix and break things, especially computers. It would be nice if you could teach me all things that you have ever learned on this thread, but I doubt it would passed by the IM volunteers. Part of their quest is to save us all from 'information-overload'.

However, Malatesta was right, an anarchist is built on deeds rather than words however pretty and necessary the text. There is a worthy action coming up next week in England, if you commit to it blindly I'll come to your next poetry recital on anarchy - and more importantly, you will be talking with more swagger. It is of course primary to be able to see the flaws, but awareness is nothing without action.

'The Good Fairies of New York' by martin millar isn't a great book, certainly not intellectual, but I have bought 5 copies of it to give to friends previously who I knew would like it. I thought I'd use that as a filler for your recommendations but it is out of print and is seeling for $156 dollars. I am shocked. Any book that is out of print ever should be out of copyright forever. As soon a books go out of print, we should distribute them for free. If that is your talent rather than actions, then go to it, but don't specialise if you don't have to.

I found your email address, but I won't email you until the IM volunteers delete this thread. Perhaps they are hoping for you to enlighten the rest of my uneducated anarchist comrades too. Unlikely though, given the time that'd take, the ignorant swine ! Again, once you are on a lock-on outside a military base then you can talk about poetry to your hearts content and everyone has to listen to you, they can't just leave, you should try it - it makes the books come alive !

If you want to contact me don't use the hotmail address its been defunct for a while ...........
I've been trying to work out which action you meant - but haven't got it so far...e-mail me about it. I would like to know more.......
Martyn