The Grapes

The grapes
don’t die
in the vineyard
with the harvest
in the summer.

 

They transcend
and translive
victorious
in the wine,

 

like the poem in the song,
like our talent in discoveries,
like parents in their children,
like a nurse in our health,
like a friend in our strength,
like teachers in our wisdom,
like rebels
and activists of the Common
in ordinary
endeavours
and achievements.

 

But our labour,
our paid labour,
is taken away
in corporate cloaks
to private shrines
far in some islands
for cultural worship
(our cultural worship)
and power,
the power hoarded by few
that is used against the many.

 

And the soldier,
poor soldier,
is sent to kill and die,
sacrificed for national pride,
(or political reasons
reserved for great minds)

 

sacrificed
for whose mother?

 

sacrificed
for mother-what?

 

The wine
of the grapes
of the land
of the peasants
is a miracle of humanity.

 

Copyright © 2016. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

Inspired in the poem “La transvida” (“Translife”), published in Spanish in Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess). Murcia. Diego Marín. 2015..

 

Image from Æsop´s Fable 2, “The Stag and the Vine”, in John Ashton (1882) Chap-books of the Eighteen Century (p.465). London. Chatto and Windus, Picadilly. 1882. Found in Flickr.com

A rendition of the Fable:

A Stag, pursued by the huntsmen, concealed himself under cover of a thick vine. They lost track of him. Supposing all danger to be over, the Stag began to browse on the leaves of the Vine with the intention of eating them. The movement drew the attention of the returning huntsmen, and one of them, supposing some animal to be hidden there, shot an arrow at a venture into the foliage. The unlucky Stag was pierced to the heart, and, as he expired, he said, “I deserve my fate for my treachery in feeding upon the leaves of my protector.” (adapted from translation by happychild.org.uk)

My Olive Breasts

My olive breasts are covered
In Western urine and sweat,
In Russian vodka and vomit,
In mustard from Asad the chef,
Who bakes with toxic dribble
Iranian and Turkish bomb cakes.

Nations of hate,
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!

Rebels trained by the CIA
Launch infidel lethal grenades
Paid with Saudi lazy gold.

A million Goliaths from Israel
Enforce an embargo in Gaza
On crackers, slings and stones.

Hyenas fathered by Blair
Behead innocent people.
May sharpens their swords.

Priests of hate,
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!

In the streets of Ankara
Dozens begged my return
But perished in Gladio attack.

Eloquent porters in Europe
Feed the masses with fear
Shutting borders and hearts.

Traders of hate
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!

Doctors brutally killed,
By silent fighter jets
Sent by Peace Nobel Prize.

Rivers and rivers of Syrian blood
Desperate flow through humble canyons
Carved in mountains of media lies.

Gods of hate
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!

As my mission in this world is to wait,
Nude and simple as I came here,
For a big testosterone eruption
To wash down the power of states
And all the filth that their leaders
Splashed on my olive breasts.

Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
Poem started in the night of the 9th of October and completed in the afternoon of the 10th, following the Ankara bombings.

Refugees welcome?

Malcolm Rifkind (not sir, sir), the prominent Tory MP who was caught on camera by Channel 4 allegedly trying to sell his political favours to a Chinese investor, has treated us all today in the BBC, which is increasingly biased towards their new Conservative Masters, to a refined, yet disgusting, distinction between refugees worth protecting and the rest.

To summarise his position, for this man of grave voice and dubious ethics, refugees are welcome in our Disunited Kingdom only if they flee from war zones. He claims that once they are “safe” in a refugee camp in a neighbouring country, like Lebanon or Turkey, their desire to travel to Europe is an indication of other issues at play.

Let’s make it clear, Malcolm, in a language that power people like you can understand better than no one else: why don’t you piss off to Jordan to live in a tent in the desert? You have had already a good free ride as a member of the elite all these years, so it is only just that you start picking up the slack. You have made loads of money, for you and all the faceless corporations you have “served”, which I am sure you can use in the refugees camps for all sort of good deeds. Ah, and you advocated military interventions in Libya and Syria. Perhaps you would like to say sorry in person to some of the victims of your political “errors of judgement”.

It would be unfair for Malcolm to omit a reference to all those smug inhuman beings who will certainly support his views. I saw some of them last night in Twitter and on TV saying they didn’t want to have refugees in Britain. They are the same lot who do not want migrants, or anyone different to them, nearby. I propose to have a public register where these individual can indicate, by posting their postcode, that they are not willing to have refugees and migrants in their neighbourhood. That way we can spare the poor victims of war and the global crisis of capitalism of the undesirable company of these uncivil members of society.

Everyone has the right to escape from poor living conditions. The aspiration to live and work in peace and good health is legitimate. At this time in history the question is not whether we bring down borders but how we do so. It is urgent.

Picture from Foreign and Commonwealth Office used under the Open Government Licence v1.0