BSH1 MEMORIAL PROFiLE PiC PiCK of the WEEK Nos. 2 and 34- REMEMBER, REMEMBER

Author: oromagi

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Remember, remember!
    The fifth of November,
    The Gunpowder treason and plot;
    I know of no reason
    Why the Gunpowder treason
    Should ever be forgot!
    Guy Fawkes and his companions
    Did the scheme contrive,
    To blow the King and Parliament
    All up alive.
    Threescore barrels, laid below,
    To prove old England's overthrow.
    But, by God's providence, him they catch,
    With a dark lantern, lighting a match!
    A stick and a stake
    For King James's sake!
    If you won't give me one,
    I'll take two,
    The better for me,
    And the worse for you.
    A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,
    A penn'orth of cheese to choke him,
    A pint of beer to wash it down,
    And a jolly good fire to burn him.
    Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!
    Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!
    Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray! 

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THE HOLLOW MEN

"Mistah Kurtz-he dead"

            "A penny for the Old Guy"


                       I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
   
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
   
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

   
                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
   
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
   
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

   
                   III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
   
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

   
                     IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
   
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
   
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

   
                           V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.
   
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                   Life is very long
   
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
   
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.

-TS Eliot

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LISTENING WIND

Mojique sees his village from a nearby hill
Mojique thinks of days before Americans came
He sees the foreigners in growing numbers
He sees the foreigners in fancy houses
He thinks of days that he can still remember... now
Mojique holds a package in his quivering hands
Mojique sends the package to the American man
Softly he glides along the streets and alleys
Up comes the wind that makes them run for cover
He feels the time is surely now or never... more
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
The dust in my head
The dust in my head
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart (come to)
Drive them away
Drive them away
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
The dust in my head
The dust in my head
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart (come to)
Drive them away
Drive them away
Mojique buys equipment in the market place
Mojique plants devices in the Free Trade Zone
He feels the wind is lifting up his people
He calls the wind to guide him on his mission
He knows his friend the wind is always standing... by
Mojique smells the wind that comes from far away
Mojique waits for news in a quiet place
He feels the presence of the wind around him
He feels the power of the past behind him
He has the knowledge of the wind to guide him... on
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
The dust in my head
The dust in my head
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart (come to)
Drive them away
Drive them away
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
The dust in my head
The dust in my head
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
-David Byrne
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Here comes the helicopter -- second time today
Everybody scatters and hopes it goes away
How many kids they've murdered only God can say
If I had a rocket launcher...I'd make somebody pay

I don't believe in guarded borders and I don't believe in hate
I don't believe in generals or their stinking torture states
And when I talk with the survivors of things too sickening to relate
If I had a rocket launcher...I would retaliate

On the Rio Lacantun, one hundred thousand wait
To fall down from starvation -- or some less humane fate
Cry for guatemala, with a corpse in every gate
If I had a rocket launcher...I would not hesitate

I want to raise every voice -- at least I've got to try
Every time I think about it water rises to my eyes.
Situation desperate, echoes of the victims cry
If I had a rocket launcher...Some son of a bitch would die
-Bruce Cockburn
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Favorite Iraqi Soldier 

Into his kit when sent to the front he had tucked
his black three-piece suit and through night
after night of the frightful bombing, which
not only wiped out but pragmatically entombed
his luckless comrades in a marvel of technological
decadence, he had kept the suit protected
so that at the surrender he had stripped naked
and slipped it on.  This is when the photographer
caught him, that among thousands of defeated
there walked on Iraqi in a three-piece suit
who tried to express by his general indifference
that he had stumble into all this carnage simply
by accident and was now intent on strolling away.
I am a modest banker tossed on the wrong bus.
I am a humble stockbroker who took a wrong turn.
And he passed through the American lines
and began hitchhiking south.  Did he elect
to relocate in Kuwait? Fat chance! Did he
want the lovable Saudis as new neighbors?
Quite unlikely!  What about the opportunities
offered by the Libyans, Tunisians, Egyptians?
Truly hilarious! Was there any place in Africa
where he hoped to lay his head? Decidedly
not! What about Europe where he could start
as a servant or chop vegetables in the back
of a restaurant but work his way up? Completely
crazy! Or North America where he could dig
a ditch but with the right breaks might buy
a used car? Too ludicrous! What about South
America where he could pick fruit or Asia where
he could toil in a sweatshop? You must be nuts!
In his black suit he is already dressed for the part
and hopes to hitchhike to one of those Antarctic
islands and stroll around with the penguins.
Good evening Mr. White, good evening Mrs. Black,
your children swim quite nicely, they look
so hardy and fit.  No one to give him orders
but the weather.  No one to terrify him
but the occasional shark.  No one to be mean to
but the little fish, who were put into this ocean
to serve him and who he praises with each bite.
Thank you, gray brother for the honor you have bestowed
on my belly.  May you have the opportunity
to devour me when my days on earth are done.
-Stephen Dobyns
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The Travail of a Child Who Has Left the Land of the Holy Shrines

''Father, where is the way out [of all our troubles]?
When are we to have a settled home?
Oh, father, do you not
See encircling danger?
Long have you made me travel, father,
Through deserts and through settled lands.
Long have you made me travel, father,
In many a sloping valley,
So I forget my kinsfolk,
My cousins, and all men.
How is it our house has vanished
From our sight, leaving no trace?


Why has my mother not returned?
How strange! Has she taken a taste to travel?
And my dear brother -- may I be his ransom!
Understand the Taliban Takeover in Afghanistan

Time has passed and he does not appear.
Why in our area do we see
Nothing but parapets and pits?
Is it because America has come
Manipulating funds and media?
You, father, do not crave
An easy living from mankind.
It is eternity that awaits us
If God should will us to prevail.
Tell me, father, for I find
No brief, enlightening explanation.''
''Forgive me, son, for I am struck
Both powerless and speechless.
My tongue is tied. My eyes are flowing springs.
My consciousness is hell.
What can I say when living in a world
Of contention and of recklessness?
What can I utter to a world bereft
Of physical and moral vision,
Where nations are bought and sold
In an inflationary and speculative trade?


Forgive me, son, for nothing do I see
In our terrain but a declivity.
A decade has passed, whose years were spent
In homelessness and wanderings.
Of whom do you enquire? Of a people
Reduced to stupor?
I have migrated westward
To a land where flows the Nile.
Of Khartoum I love the character,
But I was not permitted to reside.
So then I traveled eastward
Where there are men of radiant brows.
Kabul holds its head up high
Despite the hardship and the danger.
Kabul, with a smiling face,
Offers all-comers shelter and help.
Sheik Yunus there appears
A lion who strikes terror when he roars,
As, marked by manliness and pride,
Does our commander, Mullah Omar.''
''Why, father, have they sent
These missiles, thick as rain,
Showing mercy neither to a child
Nor to a man shattered by old age?
Father, what has happened
So we are pursued by perils?


Father, what has happened
So your likenesses are on placards?
Is your redeeming of an ancient house
A crime that cannot be forgiven?
Here are we, [locked] in tragedy:
All safety gone -- it does not show itself.
It is a world of criminality, my son,
Where children are, like cattle, slaughtered.
Zion is murdering my brothers,
And the Arabs hold a congress!
They are America's henchmen,
Blinded and devoid of vision.
[Nothing but] ink on paper. They neither
Are truthful, nor have they made a difference.
Why have they not equipped a force
To shield the little one from harm?
This, by your Lord, is a major brand
Of shame to be recorded,
A treachery being pieced together --
Is our defense to come from traitors?
I swear by God the great
That I shall fight the infidel.''
-Osama bin Laden
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VICTORY PARADE

My girlfriend is a miracle.
She’s so young but she’s so beautiful.
So is her new bikini trim,
A waxed-to-neatness center strip of quim.

Now there’s a word you haven’t heard for a while.
It makes me smile.
It makes me think of James Joyce.
You hear his Oirish voice.

It’s spring on Broadway, and in the center strip mall
The trees are all
Excited to be beginning.
My girlfriend’s amazing waxing keeps grinning.

It’s enough to distract
From the other drastic act
Of display today—Osama bin Laden is dead!
One shot to the chest and one to the head,

SEAL Team 6 far away from my bed
Above Broadway—in Abbottabad, Pakistan, instead.
Bullets beyond compare
Flew over there,

Flew through the air
To above and below the beard of hair,
A type of ordnance that exploded
Inside the guy and instantly downloaded

The brains out the nose. Our Vietnam
Is now radical Islam.
I tip my hat and heart to the lovely tiny lampshade
Above her parade.

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Oh! Take me back to dear old Blighty,
Put me on the train for London Town,
Take me anywhere,
Drop me anywhere,
Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham
'Cause I don't care,
I should like to see my...

By land, by sea.

Farewell... to this land's cheerless marshes
Hemmed in like a boar between archers
Her very Lowness with her head in a sling
I'm truely sorry but it sounds like a wonderful thing

"I say, Charles, don't you ever crave
To appear on the front of the Daily Mail
Dressed in your Mother's bridal veil?"

And so I checked all the registered historical facts
And I was shocked into shame to discover
How I'm the 18th pale descendent
Of some old queen or other

Oh has the world changed or have I changed?
Oh has the world changed or have I changed?

As some 9-year old tough who peddles drugs
(I swear to God, I swear)
I never even knew what drugs were

So I broke into the Palace
With a sponge and a rusty spanner
She said: "Eh, I know and you cannot sing!"
I said: "That's nothing, you should hear me play piano!"

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But when you're tied to your Mother's apron
No one talks about castration

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
Like Love and Law and Poverty
These are the things that kill me

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But the rain that flattens my hair
These are the things that kill me

All their life, they make love and then pierce through me

Pass the Pub who saps your body
And the church who'll snatch your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb

Pass the Pub that wrecks your body
And the church - all they want is your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb

Life is very long when you're lonely

-Morrissey
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God save the queen
The fascist regime
They made you a moron
Potential H-bomb

God save the queen
She ain't no human being
There is no future
In England's dreaming

Don't be told what you want to want to
And don't be told what you want to need
There's no future, no future
No future for you

God save the queen
We mean it, man
We love our queen
God saves

God save the queen
'Cause tourists are money
And our figurehead
Is not what she seems

Oh, God save history
God save your mad parade
Oh, Lord, God have mercy
All crimes are paid

When there's no future how can there be sin?
We're the flowers in the dustbin
We're the poison in your human machine
We're the future, your future

God save the queen
We mean it man
We love our queen
God saves

God save the queen
We mean it, man
And there is no future
In England's dreaming

No future
No future
No future for you
No future
No future
No future for me
-Sex Pistols