one little dance

we learn the limits of all modes of strife
our hearts are set within one final zone
there is one thing that's valued more than life

the pain we feel cuts right down to the bone
and this is not what we are meant to find
the normal heart is simply turned to stone

each king of men finds that he is still blind
to what the normal soul desires and needs
while there's no limit to the human mind

there are clear boundaries to human deeds
and we've not yet the singular clear eye
that will see through the nonsense of the creeds

and penetrate the most well-varnished lie
to find the diamond hidden in the coal
that can't be covered though we might apply

the greatest effort and the most control
to keep our secret to the furthest end
but there's no hiding place no deepest hole

from that hard vision nowhere we can send
our cherished hearts this is the oldest tale
that any know and no one could pretend

that we have any older we can't fail
to tell our story in the open square
it is as classic as a bill of sale

these are not matters for the common air
but must be passed from hand to weary hand
until we at last come to those who dare

resist the pressure of the heavy band
and teach us how to take our place and dance
on the far shore on the clean golden sand

you say that there is only some small chance
that things will come out good and clear and right
and matters will be as in old romance

that may be so but we hope for the light

time of embarcation

a single moment and one little slip
not quite enough to hurt or leave a sign
we have been warned it's time to board the ship

we do not have the presence just to sip
but must gulp down all of the new-pressed wine
a single moment and one little slip

our answers seem too rapid and too flip
the enemy's right at the borderline
we have been warned it's time to board the ship

the questions come at far too swift a clip
we think the ones who ask them are such swine
a single moment and one little slip

this has turned out to be a complex trip
so many things we have now to combine
we have been warned it's time to board the ship

the worst response might be a short sharp quip
about the bounds of human and divine
a single moment and one little slip
we have been warned it's time to board the ship

an empty room

an empty room is creature of this art
yours to restore to please the glancing eye
but none can fill the needs of every heart

the actor knows that he's playing a part
and every word and gesture is a lie
an empty room is creature of this art

grey words a standard meaning might impart
yet hide the full import from any spy
but none can fill the needs of every heart

from shade to shade the hero has to dart
with no good means to hold his hope up high
an empty room is creature of this art

this was the message we heard at the start
no pearl that we had from its bed to pry
but none can fill the needs of every heart

we write the place down on the larger chart
and look up at the swiftly clouding sky
an empty room is creature of this art
but none can fill the needs of every heart

acrasia

show us a wall and we will start to wail
our hearts are weaker than the words we say
we do not think that we deserve the day

all of our honour has been put on sale
as if the whole palaver were a play
show us a wall and we will start to wail

our simplest purpose it seems is to fail
since we are made of an inferior clay
and cannot find even the easy way
show us a wall and we will start to wail

flyblown

those who devour the meek win at the game
but do not find the ending's all they wish
we do not always find that the best dish
is served up with a side-helping of shame
the hungry lion does not end up tame
and yet the loser may be fed to fish
while every winner goes out with a swish
nobody knows the price of instant fame
we see the rain as kind and do not wait
to wonder at the slower afternoon
that might have been we lay it down because
some might be forced to blame it all on fate
and yet we know that things happen too soon
and we can almost hear the angry buzz

The Media Mischief Machine

The Media Mischief Machine
John Maxwell
The very first cookbook I ever bought was a paperback, Plats du Jour, published by Penguin in one of the first postwar attempts to introduce French cuisine to the English. I was charmed by the names of the authors, Patience Gray and Primrose Boyd and the illustrator, David Gentleman.
It was a very good cookbook for a beginner, not least because of its memorable language. among gems I remember – someone 'borrowed' the book years ago, so I can't check – was the injunction to reduce a clove of garlic to an 'almost molecular state' with the point of a sharp knife.
I remembered this injunction as I've watched senior American TV personalities, clothed in the most sententious gravitas, attempting to slice and dice words attributed to the Reverend Jeremiah Wright in order to cook Barack Obama's goose or at least, make mincemeat out of the probable Democratic candidate for President. Artists in the genre like Lou Dobbs, Wolf Blitzer, Sean Hannity and Hank Scheinkopf have been busy condemning Obama for words allegedly uttered by the former pastor of Obama's church. These august honchos were joined by a mixed bag of newspaper writers like Pat Buchanan and Charles Krauthammer whose crude attempts at dismembering Obama's reputation resembled nothing more elegant than Jamaican goat thieves trying to butcher their prey preliminary to stuffing it into the trunk of their getaway car.
Barack Obama is not the only African American whose reputation came under media fire in the last few days.
The Los Angeles Times, one of the more important US newspapers, has had to apologise to Sean 'P Diddy' Combs, for a story which appeared to tie him into a felonious assault on rap star Tupac Skakur, later murdered by unknown killers in a lethal rappers' war that also claimed the life of 'Biggie Smalls, aka 'The Notorious Big'
The LATimes story was denounced by The Smoking Gun website, which said the newspaper had been the victim of a hoax, and by subjects of the story, who said they had been defamed.
"In relying on documents that I now believe were fake, I failed to do my job … I'm sorry". the LAT reporter, Chuck Philips said on Wednesday. The Times has also apologised and is preparing for expensive reparations to ‘P Diddy’.
I don’t expect any comparable apology from Fox, ABC and CNN or the other mainstream media who framed and defamed Jeremiah Wright and Barack Obama using forged – doctored – video excerpts to create seriously damaging 'evidence'. What these perpetrators of fraud did was to homogenise and blend snippets of sermons including quotes from other people,whipped into a sauce tartare to mislead people into swallowing the lie that the pastor had said hateful things about the USA and was not a person for a patriotic American to be friendly with.
We have had this sort of outrage happen in Jamaica when Mr Seaga, three decades ago, triumphantly produced what he said were tapes from a PNP closed meeting, which turned out to have been doctored to produce shame and scandal in the society.
What the media have done to Wright and Obama could accurately be described as felonious journalism, attempting to pervert the course of democracy and create alarm and panic in the hearts of those who believe that their national integrity is precious and worth protecting and enhancing.
It was not so much an attack on Wright and Obama as it was an attack on the idea of community in democracy itself.
I do not expect any of these bushwackers to apologise. Those who may claim to have been themselves taken in by the forgery are just as guilty as the forgers, because, if they are journalists, they owe a duty to the public interest to ensure that what they publish is, as far as is possible, the truth. They owed a duty to their own integrity and self respect to have made sure that they were not peddling malicious falsehoods or suppressing the truth. They owed it to their human dignity not to have joined a lynch mob but instead to have attempted as best they might, to protect and safeguard the public interest.
Respect for the public interest is the one guarantee we have against lawnessness and anarchy. As Pastor Niemoller pointed out, if we do nothing to protect our neighbours against lawlessness and tyranny we can hardly expect anyone to speak for us when our turn comes to face the enemies of a free society.

Just Desserts
Jeremiah Wright, in the sermon hijacked by Obama's enemies, was actually calling on the people of the US to examine their consciences, to understand that what happened on 9/11 was, however evil and horrible, explicable in the light of America's treatment of people in the world outside. He was not, as the doctored video appeared to show, celebrating with America;s enemies. He was calling for a kinder, gentler relationship with the rest of the planet. The line about chickens coming home to roost was a quotation from a serving US diplomat who in turn was quoting Malcolm X.
All the media's carving and slicing of the putrid forgery did not do Obama the harm that was clearly anticipated, or at least, none that the Wall Street Journal (WSJ) could detect. If the controversy did harm anyone, it was Obama's opponent, Hillary Clinton.
The WSJ/NBC News poll is conducted by two psephologists, one Republican, Bill McInturff, and one Democrat, Peter Hart. According to the WSJ, Peter Hart called their latest poll a 'myth-buster'. But, the paper said:
"… both Democrats, and especially New York's Sen. Clinton, are showing wounds from their prolonged and increasingly bitter nomination contest, which could weaken the ultimate nominee for the general-election showdown against Sen. McCain of Arizona. Even among women, who are the base of Sen. Clinton's support, she now is viewed negatively by more voters than positively for the first time in a Journal/NBC poll.”
What’s worse from ClInton's perspective is that her lead among white Democrats plummeted in two weeks by one third, from 12% to 8% “That seems to refute widespread speculation -- and fears among Sen. Obama's backers -- that he would lose white support for his bid to be the nation's first African-American president over the controversy …"
Compounding the grief is that the poll suggests that in the hypothetical match-up for November, while Obama still edges McCain by 44% to 42% almost the same as before the controversy, Clinton who had a similar lead, now trails McCain by two points, 44% to 46%.
Even worse news for Hillary is that her ‘positive rating’ has fallen 8 points in two weeks to a new low of 37% while Obama’s fell two points, to 49%. Clinton’s negative rating – at 48% – is now 11 points ahead of her positive rating.
When asked which candidate could unite the country if elected, 60 percent said Obama, 58 percent said McCain and 46 percent said Clinton.
The First Law of Holes
Before this campaign I would never have thought of Mrs Clinton as stupid. Her decision this week to revisit the now moribund Jeremiah Wright controversy casts serious doubt on her nous.
She has broken the First Law of Holes, to wit: When you’ve gotten yourself into a hole, stop digging!
Clinton was apparently hoping to deflect attention from her monumental booboo about her visit to Bosnia in 1996 where she said she was sent because it was too dangerous for her husband, then President! She’d had to run for cover on the Tuzla airfield after landing, she said, head down against sniper fire. This was easily proved to be a total fabrication and has brought ridicule down upon her head.
One blogger, having viewed the video of the arrival ceremonies at Tuzla airfield sarcastically commented that among Mrs Clinton's tasks that day was to "frisk a suicide bomber disguised as an 8 year old girl”.
Another, then a UN liaison officer in Bosnia, says “It’s one thing for Mrs. Clinton to ‘misspeak’. It’s more troubling — and a test of her true preparedness for office — for the candidate to totally ignore a major United States policy triumph that took years to broker and somehow claim involvement by inventing a story of sniper fire, while the truth is that she visited a peaceful airfield and met children on the tarmac.”
If Mrs Clinton survives the sniper fire of the Pennsylvania primary in three weeks, I, for one, will be very, very, surprised.
Copyright©2008 John Maxwell

in the course of the day

a distant thunder tells us we should rest
this is no time for thought about what line
we must take or hard tasks we should assign

clamour of voices calls us to the test
though for a simpler moment we might pine
a distant thunder tells us we should rest

we face the evening with no infant zest
although the morning had turned out just fine
we don't yet know what factors will combine
a distant thunder tells us we should rest

a fairy tale

there are no magics left for us to fear
but it would never do to be so brash
to let the truth out to the common air

our choices have turned out to be too spare
and seem to lack both colour and panache
there are no magics left for us to fear

grief would not hold us and neither would care
we do not do a thing that would seem rash
to let the truth out to the common air

anger's enough to make each truly dare
and give the hero just a touch of dash
there are no magics left for us to fear

a classic moment to lay matters bare
and then the swords and daggers have to clash
to let the truth out to the common air

the bravest will collect she who is fair
the wisest will count up all of the cash
there are not magics left for us to fear
to let the truth out to the common air

freedom's gamble

when liberty was counted as true sin
our lives were valued down to the last cent
and every coin was tossed for loss or win

we knew that nothing good could yet begin
if every pin and nail had to be bent
when liberty was counted as true sin

a rule or measure no one there would spin
some sort of honesty might have been lent
and every coin was tossed for loss or win

divine displeasure hidden by a grin
we knew the signal that was truly meant
when liberty was counted as true sin

and still we throw a dollar in the bin
and hold the money had been truly spent
and every coin was tossed for loss or win

there is no reason now to feel chagrin
not one of us from off the scene was sent
when liberty was counted as true sin
and every coin was tossed for loss or win

the other (gitmo answers retamar)

i ask the question who has died for me?
on whose dead bones do my living ones stand?
whose fingers now inhabit my live hand?
and do i really want to look and see?
we call ourselves the happy ones and free
our enemies are but a savage band
we need to keep them from our noble land
while guarding silence on each abductee
let every answer make the matter clear
those folk are not part of some complex game
and we are not the innocents we seem
our lies have clouded what was once clean air
and put our enemies themselves to shame
but we treat the whole thing as just a dream

drift of signifieds

the absence of the mount's a giveaway
pegasus not just in pound but shot dead
and foolish notions now given their head
we find ourselves in a most dreary play
not knowing what to do or what to say
the dialogue has all the charm of lead
still we are silent and far too well-bred
even to think that this is no good day
words given voice by fools bounce on the wall
and have their echo in the ears of clowns
this is the force that breeds death in each street
such energy that when we hear the call
we are astonished that the very towns
turn into places where they store the meat

finding a small truth

no matter how the vision has to end
there are some consolations we must get
not only that we learn how to forget
or that we find a path we can defend
the road we climb is one we must descend
and we have paid enough to clear the debt
that journey's one that's made with no regret
we find those things on which we must depend
just so we earn our way to the first wall
what comes past that is normal desire
and empty voices on the forest air
there never was a garden nor a fall
no names were hidden from a primal fire
we learn only to see the what and where

nameless virtues

these are the virtues that we dare not name
honour and duty with fear must compete
against all hope we feed both pride and shame

we think we're wildest when we are most tame
and slowest when we are truly most fleet
these are the virtues that we dare not name

our silence keeps us from knowing our fame
a common kind of human self-deceit
against all hope we feed both pride and shame

to tell the truth our answers all are lame
nothing we have provides the soul with meat
these are the virtues that we dare not name

you'd think that we would simply take the blame
go out in anger let the fools just bleat
against all hope we feed both pride and shame

this it turns out is more than just a game
it takes so long we cannot taste the sweet
these are the virtues that we dare not name
against all hope we feed both pride and shame

the golden river

the golden river flows out through the arch
and all the hopes we had end at the gate
knowing that winter must at last abate

our last desires have set us on the march
knowing that we have little time to wait
the golden rive flows out through the arch

we want a little patience and some starch
with stiffer attitude and better gait
we wonder at the vagaries of fate
the golden river flows out through the arch

at the exit door

what we don't know is what we leave behind
doors have been closed and silences remain
this is the kingdom of the truly blind

the ones who do not speak keep soundest mind
for nothing in this realm has yet seemed plain
what we don't know is what we leave behind

we strip ourselves of all that might hope bind
no further need to stave off the old pain
this is the kingdom of the truly blind

for what we lacked not one of us had pined
we did not think we'd come to it again
what we don't know is what we leave behind

the processes that had been misaligned
have been corrected with a lot of strain
this is the kingdom of the truly blind

the name we have is of another kind
we struggle but we choose not to abstain
what we don't know is what we leave behind
this is the kingdom of the truly blind

hardest duty

the hardest duty which we have to face
is not the worst thing that might now befall
this is the final hardest sticking place

shadow and silence end in all disgrace
we could not any terror now forestall
the hardest duty which we have to face

the hero is the one who plays the ace
at the high moment of the trumpet call
this is the final hardest sticking place

no monster here has left a single trace
that would the smallest child's plain heart appall
the hardest duty which we have to face

we hide the ugliness in silk and lace
and think our planet is just a large ball
this is the final hardest sticking place

the sternest sergeant now must bear the mace
while lords and ladies prepare for the ball
the hardest duty which we have to face
this the final hardest sticking place

fragmentary

fragments of history become hard fact
your story is not told to set at ease
the ones who gave us our first guarantees
while laughing at the knowledge that we lacked
the force that could convey or just distract
a challenger who'd knock us to our knees
not listening to our most honest pleas
we come direct since we are not intact
not one of us who would not choose to fly
if we could lift our feet from this sad ground
knowing our hopes are set on one good throw
we catch our little glimpses of the sky
and wait to hear the cheering morning sound
that will permit us what we need to know

far past the line

these are the final bounds of hate and fear
an ocean crossed and many armies fled
yet all one asked was space to earn some bread
a little water and some cleansing air
those who remain might wonder at the care
that had been given by those who were dead
to cast off the last memories of dread
and teach the forms of which we are aware
one tastes the fruit of the most ancient vine
and does not wait to see the next sun rise
in order to learn what will not be news
one must discern just what is not a sign
not let the meaning vanish from one's eyes
for once remembered there is naught to lose

at end of empire

there are no reasons for the sky to fail
each heart explodes when bullet reaches goal
honour and courage are just up for sale

we wait as all the weathermen turn pale
no other good thing's written on the scroll
there are no reasons for the sky to fail

the marks of vomit lie upon the rail
and drops of water fall into the bowl
honour and courage are just up for sale

it takes but little to turn this small scale
the weight of what is quite a tiny soul
there are no reasons for the sky to fail

we won't mistake the sardine for the whale
only a little finger blocks the hole
honour and courage are just up for sale

from deadly calm we wait the saving gale
to cleanse our sorry world from pole to pole
there are no reasons for the sky to fail
honour and courage are just up for sale

a room in south london

your only job is setting the right theme
and having done that getting off the stair
all of our eyes are focused on the gleam

we value mote at greater than the beam
of light that bears it through the morning air
your only job is setting the right theme

upon each head there might fall a slight stream
of dusty particles that once were fair
all of our eyes are focused on the gleam

that tells us now just what we should esteem
out of the factors that deserved our care
your only job is setting the right theme

for our reception fill the bowl with cream
and tell us just how distant we must fare
all of our eyes are focused on the gleam

so much we learn from just a simple meme
leaving behind the ones who want to stare
your only job is setting the right theme
all of our eyes are focused on the gleam

humanity

we reach a perfect angle of the sun
and what is seen becomes part of our hope
not just the symbol for which lovers grope
and know they won't grasp long before they're done
but that one meaning which the world might stun
the single victory at end of slope
a reason for which any might elope
and which would tell us that we would have won
these are the choices that we were denied
before we learned to speak our proper piece
and now the field is open to our choice
not easy here to cast the old aside
but we must do so to win full release
and in the doing set free our true voice

clear and green

there are no words that come out clear and green
the aftermath of rain and hail and snow
so many people can't say what they mean

what we intend won't show up on a screen
we haven't gained the privilege to crow
there are no words that come out clear and green

we soon forget the wisdom of the bean
nor where the finer virtues have to grow
so many people can't say what they mean

we cannot learn to trust an honest mien
since all we see might turn out to be show
there are no words that come out clear and green

we name so many actors on the scene
and then forget the range of things they know
there are no words that come out clear and green
so many people can't say what they mean

a simple state

you think of peace as such a simple state
but all that's complex does not end in dark
we find that evil hides within the gate

words uttered by a fool will always grate
and leave on every mind a smudgy mark
you think of peace as such a simple state

the honest man is first to turn irate
when burned by what is not a little spark
we find that evil hides within the gate

we can't control the purpose nor the rate
at which you feed the chum unto the shark
you think of peace as such a simple state

you were the champ but now you are the bait
and not a single dog would dare to bark
we find that evil hides within the gate

it is so easy just to blame dumb fate
and say that the old world is no safe park
you think of peace as such a simple state
we find that evil hides within the gate

sea view

no clouds are moving under clearest sky
the ocean speaks to us of ancient woe
but we are trapped within the modern lie

those who have knowledge learn how to apply
the means to change most swiftly and most slow
no clouds are moving under clearest sky

we thought the meaning was so utter wry
all our words excellent and àpropos
but we are trapped within the modern lie

this is not something on which we rely
yet we must speak our piece before we go
no clouds are moving under clearest sky

granted the merest motion means we fly
into the greatest passion we could know
but we are trapped within the modern lie

and so we find the sweet baked in the pie
the greatest threat to what was status quo
no clouds are moving under clearest sky
but we are trapped within the modern lie

long-drawn pain

you hear the echo of the long-drawn pain
so much forgotten must now be rehearsed
the years of suffering are now disbursed

your duty's not to go against the grain
nor to recover what has been immersed
you hear the echo of the long-drawn pain

these are the remnants of the ones who slain
stood for a second while their bodies burst
and seemed to resist as the destroyers cursed
you hear the echo of the long-drawn pain

once more the spring

all those who fill the fields with empty dreams
are gone to view the morning free of cloud
we know their hope and know just how they're proud
as if they had by effort made those beams
had with a should made each one of the gleams
and done far more than would have been allowed
by any force with which we are endowed
along the banks of these fresh-rushing streams
red buds erupting mean an end to stark
winter and all passion that must return
gives us the hope that once more the freight
of what has built up during the long dark
will not in one short day blow up and burn
but show a light that will be worth the wait

after fourteen years

light shimmers on the waves in calmest mode
across the water the high bluff stands clear
this is the turning of a long hard road

lights on the bridge send out their hidden code
the structure seems to float in the bright air
light shimmers on the waves in calmest mode

each lets the years our memories corrode
and burns the dark to grey with pain and care
this is the turning of a long hard road

far to the east night's fallen and time's slowed
but where i sit the day and sun are fair
light shimmers on the waves in calmest mode

each change of life is a short episode
in what we learn and what we have to share
this is the turning of a long hard road

back to the hills and to the normal load
we joke but when we do it's on the square
ight shimmers on the waves in calmest mode
this is the turning of a long hard road

The Menace of the Market

The Menace of the Market
John Maxwell
Most of us have always known that what is good for bankers or shopkeepers cannot normally be good for their customers. Nevertheless, we have swallowed the nonsense that the market will be the engine of development although every day we get new evidence to dispute any such possibility.
Paul Volcker. perhaps the most universally trusted and respected financial expert in the US, told TV interviewer Charlie Rose on Tuesday that the markets operated on the fallacy that mathematical models and historical data could provide rational guidance to human affairs. The markets were being run by mathematicians who knew nothing about finance while human intelligence should be in control. Years ago George Soros said more or less the same thing except that he felt that those humans who were in charge should be recognised as ordinary people whose actions might be motivated by how their wives treated them the night before and not as infallible high priests of some arcane religion..
And Kemal Dervis, head of the UN Development Programme, (UNDP) laid the blame for the current financial crisis at the doors of rapacious super bankers. These people, herd-minded financiers profit hugely from the inflation of asset bubbles, but pay little personal penalty when the bubbles burst, he contends.
As we have reason to know here, capitalism has two phases, boom and bust. In boom times capitalists can do no wrong, can rack up interest rates take as much as they want, and stifle development at will, earning outrageous profits. When the bust comes, the ordinary consumer whose money they have gambled with and lost, becomes the taxpayer whose duty it is to rescue the system from disaster. “It is the super-bankers, hedge fund managers and owners of private equity firms that have become the new barons of 21st-century capitalism,” the former Turkish finance minister and vice-president of the World Bank said in India.
“It is almost unbelievable: 40 per cent of total corporate profits in the US in recent years went to the financial sector that in itself does not ‘produce' ... but intermediates and organises' the resources that do produce.”
According to Dervis it is these greedy men that caused the last three world financial crises, the Asian Tiger crisis of 1997, the dot com bubble which burst seven years ago and the current crisis founded in the American sub-prime mortgage debacle.
In this crisis, financiers went on lending sprees, inducing people to take mortgages which they were told they could afford, inducing a housing demand which artificially inflated housing prices so mortgagees thought that their equity in their houses was rising faster than their debt. Then the mortgage repayments rose out of their reach, demand for houses faltered and many hundreds of thousands were left owing more on their houses than the houses were worth.
In the meantime, these mortgages had been, as they called it, securitised, bundled and sold as if they were packages of government bonds and assigned risk values above those assigned for instance to Jamaican government bonds.
These 'securities’ – apparently blue chip investments, were in turn traded, auctioned and used as gambling chips in the great game of Free Markets. The financiers were all dancing on air and when they looked down, suddenly, their dancefloor had vapourised, sabotaged by the inability of the mortgagees at the bottom to pay. Houses were being foreclosed by the thousands whole neighbourhoods were devastated, and people who though they were part of the American dream found themselves in a tawdry nightmare.
The President of the United Stets, following his theology, feels it would be dangerous to help out ordinary people. He thinks the help should go to the poor unfortunate financiers. Fortunately in the United States there are many people who actually understand the problem and are seeking ways to rescue those at most risk.
These of course, happen to be the lower middle classes, most of them black but many whites and Hispanics too. While the recession or depression will last perhaps a year or two, their communities and families will have been gutted by the crisis, families scattered and hopes dashed. New cultures of frustration, injustice and violence will be created to bedevil the entire society for decades to come. And, no doubt, the incarceration rate for black men will rise from ten percent to …???
In all of this there is one ray of hope for Jamaica. Mr Joe Lewis of Tavistock which is threatening to capture a sizeable chunk of the Trelawny coast for casinos, hotels, etc, lost nearly 1 billion dollars in the collapse of Bear Stearns. I would hope that that might turn his attention from Trelawny and leave us some space to enjoy our country.


Jeremiah and the hypocrites
Like his namesake 2,600 years later, the Old Testament prophet Jeremiah was tormented by the hypocrisy of his audiences. The wouldn't listen to him and as a consequence, according to the Bible, the ruling classes, king and all were carted of to Babylon (in Iraq) and the common people driven out of Palestine to captivity in Egypt.
The modern Jeremiah, Jeremiah Wright, has had his words taken out of context and used to portray him as a violent, dangerous influence on Barack Obama.
It has long been my studied opinion that racism permeates the US media and as I watch cable TV and read newspapers, it becomes clearer that rather than subsiding, racism has developed in more sophisticated ways, more instinctive and more damaging. In almost any story on CNN about some not so happy development, it has become routine that a black person's is the first face seen,if it is a 'good' story, the opposite is often true, even if the story has nothing to do with race. This past week, another network did its eugenic duty in digging up some DVDs sold by Jeremiah Wright's church, Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago.
Jeremiah Wright was much quoted over the weekend as having said: ' "God damn America." As historian Ralph E Luker points out in Tuesday's Atlanta Journal Constitution

" the quotation comes not from Wright, but from the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr's first address to the Montgomery Improvement Association on December 5, 1955. Both African-American preachers have understood prophetic biblical preaching far better than those who feign shock at and condemn Wright's words.'
Martin Luther King was condemning then, as later, the bloody history of US intervention abroad and slavery at home. In this column I have repeatedly spoken about the savage brutalisation and exploitation of Haiti, of Panama, Guatemala and the rest of Latin America,the decapitation of democracy in the Congo, South Africa, Angola, Indonesia and dozens of other places. When he was murdered, King was condemning the American intervention in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, which eventually cost millions of lives
Had King been alive for either the military or economic assaults on Iraq, i don't believe anyone could imagine him not condemning them in the most forceful manner.
In his blog Mark Winston Griffith (an American who happens to be my nephew) succintly explains what Obama did:
"Barack Obama held the most sophisticated, mature, frank and insightful discussion of race offered by a politician in recent memory. It provided a historical context for Black (and white) anger, confronted the present-day circus passing for political debate, and presented a coherent vision of social change …"
"Barack did so much more than answer all those who have been parading images of Reverend Wright around like he was a modern day Willie Horton. Barack courageously told white folks that the stuff that Pastor Wright talks about is rooted in real pain and oppression. At the same time, he acknowledged resentment towards affirmative action and told Black folks that while it is expedient to retreat to a condemnation of white people and America, it can come at the expense of our own humanity and socio-political evolution." -http://www.dmiblog.com/archives/2008/03/post_32.html
Barack Obama has replied to his mealy mouthed critics. He has not abandoned Wright and he has tried to move the debate about race in America to a rational plane.
The reviews of Obama’s speech are so far, overwhelmingly favourable. But nothing Obama does or says will ever convince the formidable phalanx of pimps and prostitutes that constitutes so large a proportion of American frontline journalism. Obama, wisely, is speaking to the people, trusting in their goodwill and rationality and talking over the heads of the mainstream media.
The Press does not yet realise how much it has marginalised itself or how irrelevant it is becoming in the making of public opinion.
Copyright©2008 John Maxwell
jankunnu@gmail.com

en la playa

there are no shadows in this deeper blue
names run together at the edge of space
each egshell's crushed by lightest touch of mace
and one must understand just what is due
not for each cause that one man might pursue
but for the reasons that transcend your grace
and willingness to give up right and face
taking instead the things that are most new
none go beyond the shores that all folk know
and blame the ones who think that we should dare
to set our sail and seek hope without rest
still we reach out to grasp all that can grow
each heart desires to love and hold and care
and looks beyond the ocean to the west

not the highest view

we move from vision to the plainest sight
our minds are tightened round the central pole
and all we do is move from soul to soul

this is the bird that fell down in midflight
when pain extinguished the last living coal
we move from vision to the plainest sight

the pawn promotes to queen never to knight
we never reach what we think is the goal
ground between what is part and what is whole
we move from vision to the plainest sight

a larger garden

each of the shadows hides a secret name
joy in the morning changes to long doom
all of the moments focus in a flame

you are the one who makes it a great game
and thinks the world is just one great big room
each of the shadows hides a secret name

you want to make things remain just the same
and hide the torment in one silent gloom
all of the moments focus in a flame

return from anger right into the frame
you find that nothing fits within the zoom
each of the shadows hides a secret name

others have made the same dumb futile claim
you know that nothing will the past exhume
all of the moments focus in a flame

there are no demons left to praise or blame
the universe is both a hell and womb
each of the shadows hides a secret name
all of the moments focus in a flame

my left foot

you feel the pain and it won't go away
it's not enough to make a baby cry
still such a thing can ruin the best day

others have better wiser words to say
you listen and the meanings pass you by
you feel the pain and it won't go away

the darker kingdom succeeds to the grey
no brighter omens appear in the sky
still such a thing can ruin the best day

what might have shattered even refined clay
turns out to please your not-so-noble eye
you feel the pain and it won't go away

march turns to april april turns to may
the year continues till the well runs dry
still such a thing can ruin the best day

each takes a step to drop out of the fray
and knows that saying it makes it a lie
you feel the pain and it won't go away
still such a thing can ruin the best day

'I saw my land in the Evening …'

'I saw my land in the Evening …'
John Maxwell
"…and, Oh! but she was drear,
Hope, vision and courage gone, fear and failure everywhere"
–(Apologies to M.G.Smith)
We have given up, it seems. Drunk on greed and obsessed by money, most of us seem ready to accept anything preceded by a dollar sign.
We are the foolish virgins, swooning at any temptation, ready to choose ethanol over food and the blandishments of any fool with a gimmick over our own commonsense, willing to discard everything we have learned and accomplished to go whoring after snake oil salesmen with perpetual money machines.
When the next disaster befalls us we will blame everyone but ourselves. It does not occur to anyone that the next storm -- not necessarily a hurricane -- could make the Palisadoes into what it used to be --a series of islands, reachable only by boat . It does not occur to us that if recession=hit Americans cannot afford cruises we will have destroyed half Jamaica for nothing
We could protect Palisadoes if we wanted, by banning sand mining at Yallahs but we prefer to choose expensive sea defences that will be destroyed if a Hurricane Allen were to make landfall where the 1980 storm was forecast to strike.
We could preserve our beautiful country and its rich heritage if we chose.
We could. We could.
But who will speak and work for Jamaica?
Teenagers and STD
It has has always been more dangerous being a teenager than being anything else. Scientists know that the human brain doesn't become fully mature until about age 24 which is why gangs, war, fast cars and reckless behaviour of all kinds is so seductive to young people.
Sex always sees to take us by surprise, and none of us more so than those least prepared. .At a stage where all of life is an experiment, nothing is as intriguing as sex. Which is why children need parents, guides, role models and confessors. But our Christian and some other religious beliefs combine with poverty and ignorance to ensure that most children are abandoned at the time in their lives when it is most crucial for them to be among friends.
The Americans have learned that one in every four teenage girls has already contracted at least one sexually transmitted disease. Among black girls, African-Americans, the figure is one in two.
A virus that causes cervical cancer - HPV - is the most common STD, followed by chlamydia, trichomoniasis and herpes.
The survey was not screening for syphilis and gonorrhea. What would those results tell us, one wonders.
In the United States for more than ten years the fight against the lethal pandemic of HIV/AIDs has been founded on preventing the more common STD. It's been found that any STD potentiates the HIV virus, making people more vulnerable to infection and making those infected more productive of the virus and therefore more dangerous to their partners.
Here, we fight HIV through education and propaganda. Our children are experts in HIV but illiterate abut all other STD. It might make more sense if we concentrated on finding and wiping out all STD instead of spending millions on surveys which tell us that the propaganda is received but the condoms aren't being used.
I am puzzled by the fact that American researchers in Uganda are now hailing as a great new discovery the fact that circumcised men are several times less likely to transmit HIV or any other STD to their partners. This fact has been known for generations. Jewish and Muslim women, whose men are routinely circumcised, have been for generations known to have a lower risk of cervical cancer and other STD. The first papers on the effect of circumcision on HIV transmission is at least twelve years old.
So I do not understand why the Third World is nor ablaze with neon signs telling men to get themselves circumcised in their own and their partners' protection and that the state does not offer free circumcision to all comers. .
Sometimes I feel that the current anti HIV/AIDS campaigns are a modern equivalent of the notorious Tuskegee study, when black men with syphilis were regularly examined by federally paid doctors but not treated until 30 years after penicillin was known to cure the disease.
Obama and Racism
One of the more surprising features of Hillary Clinton’s campaign is its racism. While she was ahead all was sweetness and light. When she started losing primaries people in her campaign began to reveal their true feelings about black people. Bill Clinton himself tried to downplay Barack Obama’s importance – just another black making a sectarian statement, like Jesse Jackson 20 years before. Clinton herself and other surrogates have embarrassed themselves by other snide, racist references including attempts to smear Obama as a Muslim and, by inference a friend of terrorists.
Another serial denigrator of blacks is Geraldine Ferraro, who twenty years ago – then an obscure Congresswoman, was selected to be Walter Mondale’s vice presidential running mate against George H.W. Bush and Dan Quayle.
Last week, Ferraro, now a member of the Clinton election team, delivered herself of the judgment that “if Obama was (sic) a white man, he would not be in this position. And if he was a woman – of any colour – he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept."
Does she mean that Obama is the beneficiary of some national pro-black hysteria ?
Ben Smith points out in the Politico blog that Ferraro said the same thing 20 years ago – about Jesse Jackson
Smith quotes from a story written by Howard Kurtz in the Washington Post in 1988
“… President Reagan suggested Tuesday that people don't ask Jackson tough questions because of his race. And former representative Geraldine A. Ferraro (D-N.Y.) said Wednesday that because of his "radical" views, "if Jesse Jackson were not black, he wouldn't be in the race." In 1988 Jesse Jackson dismissed Ferraro (and Reagan) saying “while I’m making history some are making hysteria.”
Obama can’t say the same thing of course. Hillary would accuse him of felonious plagiarism. And when the Obama campaign accused the Clinton campaign of racism, Ferraro came roaring back. Defending herself, she accused Obama of twisting her words: . 'Every time that campaign is upset about something, they call it racist,' she said. 'I will not be discriminated against because I'm white.….'"
Ferraro exposes her existential racism, raising up a whole panoply of racist spectres going back to the Civil War. This seems ingrained in the Clinton campaign, betrayed, as Orlando Patterson points out by the racist symbolism embedded in the Clinton TV commercial asking who would Americans want picking up the red phone in the White House when something dangerous was happening in the world
(See ‘The Red phone in Black & White’ http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/11/opinion/11patterson.html
The Clinton campaign has no intention of playing by the rules, elastic as they are. Clinton like every other candidate, accepted the Democratic National ?Committee’s decision to discount the primaries in Michigan and Florida, because the state parties broke the rules. Clinton’s name was the only one on the ballot in Michigan. In Florida Obama and other candidates were on the ballot only because it was impossible to remove them. In both states, however, Clinton’s surrogates campaigned while the others didn’t. Hillary herself made strategic fund-raising appearances in both states including a ‘Thank You’ appearance in Florida on the night of the discredited primary. In Michigan where hers was the only name on the ballot she claims that Obama did campaign. The reason: when Obama spotted the Clinton strategy he told his supporters to vote ‘uncommitted’ .
Clinton has been claiming that she ‘won’ Michigan and Florida where no valid ballots were cast for anyone. People did go to vote on ‘primary’ day in order to vote for various state initiatives. Many didn’t bother believing that rules were rules.
Clinton has been joined by elements of the press, who, determined to sow as much confusion as possible, continue to report that she “won” primaries that never took place.
As I said last week, this Presidential campaign will be the dirtiest in history.
I’ve been wondering whether Hilary realises that she is in danger of making her corner of the Democratic party into a modern version of Strom Thurmond’s Dixiecrats. With a little help from Ralph Nader, Clinton may guarantee an opening for Jeb Bush as John Mc Cain’s running mate and an opportunity to to secure the American monarchy left vacant since George III.
jankunnu@gmail.com

a truer sort of freedom

only my hand has right to shape define
the bounds within which heart and hope reside
no alien mind or outer thought applied
the force to hold in place the final line
with whom and when i shall choose to align
is secret vision and my own to hide
not for your speaking nor your blasted pride
i speak my piece and what i mean is mine
not as a child but as adult i learn
all of the pains that built the ship of light
that bore us all across the deepest sea
and for that journey each of us will burn
not in the daytime but in peace of night
knowing just how each new waking must be

hidden dragon

there is a beast beneath each human skin
you find that out when you reach that odd ground
where each of us finds out that we could win

a kind of monster whose nerves are most thin
and ready to break out at the least sound
there is a beast beneath each human skin

this is a creature of the dragonkin
moving with haste towards the sacred mound
where each of us finds out that we could win

the sky above us seems with speed to spin
what we have learned is wisdom most profound
there is a beast beneath each human skin

we throw all hesitation in the bin
the past in all its foolishness is drowned
where each of us finds out that we could win

the hero learns to take it on the chin
and let the villain fall before the hound
there is a beast beneath each human skin
where each of us finds out that we could win

the secret game

you want to understand the secret game
but not to play it by the usual rule
no one must know you by your given name

all that i say must be for your acclaim
so much is clear and plain and very cool
you want to understand the secret game

no one who does this speaks a word for shame
the thread's been let out to the end of spool
no one must know you by your given name

what we have faced no longer seems so tame
no aging toothless lion on its stool
you want to understand the secret game

the proper shaping of the world's your aim
you fear a monster lurks within the pool
no one must know you by your given name

an ending comes even to brightest flame
who would claim otherwise is just a fool
you want to understand the secret game
no one must know you by your given name

at the parting

these are the gates through which the rivers pass
all of our hopes are focused on one place
enough to know that we might have the grace
but yours the choice to be divine or crass
only one eye may see right through the glass
and one alone may the great light embrace
yours is the one last honest open face
and you must go through to the land of grass
each pilgrimage returns to one last fane
an empty temple with an absent god
and what we find there is not set out clear
the measure of our journey is in pain
each step is taken with a single prod
and no one knows why any wants to dare

the seal is melted

the seal is melted under the red fire
no interlude to mark the end of cold
no one in ages has leave to inspire

the sea and shore fight for the world entire
their battle was not settled by the bold
the seal is melted under the red fire

to no great sentiment could you aspire
the meaning was not set nor uncontrolled
no one in ages has leave to inspire

in all the shallows no one could perspire
we saw that all the papers were tight rolled
the seal is melted under the red fire

the cow and pig have piled dung at the byre
not one has cared that they have all been sold
no one in ages has leave to inspire

this message that i leave will turn out dire
i speak right now before i turn too old
the seal is melted under the red fire
no one in ages has leave to inspire

the expedition

we leave behind all that is calm and green
out in the complex world we measure hope
not knowing if or how our hearts may cope

there are so many actors on the scene
and little time is left to weep or mope
we leave behind all that is calm and green

what is to come is measured by what's been
the highest mountain by the gentle slope
each knows we have the full supply of rope
we leave behind all that is calm and green

from the hilltop

we watch the distant ships head out to sea
to unseen destinations stranger strands
we are the dwellers in the normal lands
and in our limits think ourselves most free
but no one speaks of what we hope to see
the workings of our parents' minds and hands
that in the end will break the oldest bands
and let us learn all that we're meant to be
nor bird nor fish need pause beside the shore
there are no bounds that any need to know
some shining marvel lies far past the wall
this and this only we cannot ignore
that each day's message is more than a show
and no one rises who won't risk a fall

victory

aching remembrance of what's not all past
vision fades once you are through the door
leaving behind all pains that once you bore
nothing remains but signs of burn and blast
to show just where the heavy bombs were cast
no walls and towers can stand here anymore
we come on no force that we could abhor
and none of those that hate us could stand fast
where we have been is broken and unmade
those places where we go are to become
from waking dream the longed-for darling form
what we know rising out of deepest shade
on rhythm of the hearts slow beat of drum
all brought together despite weight of storm

facing the eldest gods

so dark that stars must scream out of the sky
these are the nights our ancestors had known
against that vision no room for the lie

we note the pallor of those now on high
in every heart the secret is a stone
so dark that stars must scream out of the sky

sharp is the blade that makes the tongue comply
and rough the face on which the wind has blown
against that vision no room for the lie

eager to please and to survive thereby
those who awake into this world have grown
so dark that stars must scream out of the sky

your normal viewer has turned out so shy
that all he does is bend his head and moan
against that vision no room for the lie

there's no place left to which the good may fly
each of us faces that hard fact alone
so dark the stars must scream out of the sky
against that vision no room for the lie

phone call

you are right there across a measured space
your voice at call each time i touch the phone
your ready smile the warming of your tone
but what i can't have right now is your face
there's nothing i can do time to erase
and you'd be first to tell me not to moan
but still i miss you right down to the bone
the day's more torpid than a slug's slow pace
each of us has our tasks and has to wait
until the clock has turned and journey's made
our time together's paid in hours apart
and this is just the normal working fate
of those who have to sweat and make the grade
but still the rose is born within each heart

backyard

yesterday has passed
wind slowly moves the branches
into tomorrow

a shake of the head

there's little profit in drawing the map
those who have knowledge don't forget the way
and only fools won't learn it in a day
you stand aside and simply praise and clap
let those who understand now bear the cap
and leave such matters to those who essay
not to attempt the difficult in play
and who won't fall into the first plain trap
wisdom's the course that only few can find
for older heads have got the sense to know
what youth discovers without any plan
that no door opens merely to the mind
and not all force is there simply for show
what's in the rear counts more than in the van

waiting for spring rain

given a choice you have to make it plain
no pleasant pastures lie beyond the wall
each of us has to wait for the spring rain

your duty's never to remove the stain
others may wish our charges to enthral
given a choice you have to make it plain

so many gods were worshipped at this fane
so many supplicants have made the crawl
each of us has to wait for the spring rain

the absent never find out what was slain
nor are the early always on the ball
given a choice you have to make it plain

you took the option and would not abstain
there is no feeling that would be too small
each of us has to wait for the spring rain

we slap a label on the normal pain
and do not listen to its mournful call
given a choice you have to make it plain
each of us has to wait for the spring rain

unclear on the concept

you give it up as your claim is but slight
still only you could know just how to speak
it does not matter if you're in the right

pressure befalls from those who have the might
silence the place of those who know they're meek
you give it up as your claim is but slight

no one reports on what's a common plight
since all can see the situation's bleak
it does not matter if you're in the right

each waits for what will come at dead of night
and not a one would dare outside to peek
you give it up as your claim it but slight

the villain has forgotten how to write
and to the hero all has turned to greek
it does not matter if you're in the right

not one thing's left that's either black or white
each weapon falls from the hands of the weak
you give it up as your claim is but slight
it does not matter if you're in the right

no secrets left

there's never any secret in the dark
you find the journey's one that many make
the resolution so easy to take

dogs when well-fed have no reason to bark
and there are many ways their fast to break
there's never any secret in the dark

your feet are not the ones to find the mark
they know already just which path to take
and what the purpose is and for whose sake
there's never any secret in the dark

kingdom of the angry sheep

this is the kingdom of the angry sheep
where no one has a choice about the rant
and many promises are still to keep
a sage could pause before he must incant
and let the process of itself enchant
the ones who needed most to feel such ire
as would make even the most bold inquire
regarding just why we needed such a rule
or how pressure could go even higher
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

the truth of power goes not very deep
and turns out to be a most shallow plant
yet is not something that we can get cheap
its makings are not things we just decant
upon a fertile ground there is no cant
only for chanting on guitar or lyre
to which the simplest stripling might aspire
it takes much more than just going to school
we have to struggle hard out of the mire
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

all of our efforts end up on the heap
as victims of the termite and the ant
and nothing's bettered by some hours of sleep
nor is there anything we might recant
or any older mode we could supplant
these failings mark the end of all desire
no different for the seller or the buyer
we load the backs of every willing mule
it does not even moan or once perspire
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

prince you'll discover right across the fire
that there's no difference save in the attire
matters take little time to reach their cool
and you learn swiftly just what we require
the one who finds the answer's not a fool

the vocal ones

those who give voice to their unreasoned hate
have not the chance to see the changing day
we know too well the angry things they say

it's not enough to sit and watch and wait
while all the foolish keep on at their play
those who give voice to their unreasoned hate

the wise no longer guard the broken gate
nor are there signs upon the open way
there's not one thing you do that could delay
those who give voice to their unreasoned hate

resurrection

we let the flame take in the dying bird
and watch the ashes stir and phoenix rise
the whole thing does not draw from us a word

the centuries of waiting all are blurred
each time it happens it is a surprise
we let the flame take in the dying bird

the cost of immortality incurred
all proper calculation still defies
the whole thing does not draw from us a word

we had for long paused delayed even deferred
until the message was clear in the skies
we let the flame take in the dying bird

a staring cat might have just stretched and purred
who knew the facts and told them now denies
the whole thing does not draw from us a word

this is the truth that all good folk have heard
never to hate and not once to despise
we let the flame take in the dying bird
the whole thing does not draw from us a word

pole to pole

your feet have fallen through the larger hole
made by the force of years of steady rain
day after day it goes from pole to pole

not one to understand the higher goal
but eager all the same for greater gain
your feet have fallen through the larger hole

you alone know just what it was you stole
but others cannot understand it plain
day after day it goes from pole to pole

thinner the meaning that we could control
but thicker than the warning in the main
your feet have fallen through the larger hole

not one to think it might have turned out droll
yet happy that there was no ugly stain
day after day it goes from pole to pole

we left our boat wrecked on the final shoal
and took the path that we could ascertain
your feet have fallen through the larger hole
day after day it goes from pole to pole

no long time

those are the angles at which light appears
you wait for time to tell which will mean more
for the last reveller to close the door

the meaning is not known through all the tears
and was not told to us by you before
those are the angles at which light appears

so each one waits and waits all the long years
and what was pleasure slowly turns to chore
until the thing's worn right down to the core
those are the angles at which light appears

maggiore vita

the world will not long mourn the humble dead
those who have built the cities we don't see
we barely thought that they deserved their bread

so easy to class gold right in with lead
we praise in turn each sacred appointee
the world will not long mourn the humble dead

those long defeats they met without much dread
and bowed before both kings and bourgeoisie
we barely thought that they deserved their bread

instead we lie back in our soft warm bed
and laugh at those who have to bend the knee
the world will not long mourn the humble dead

not long enough to know just who had bled
and fallen just so far as to agree
we barely thought that they deserved their bread

the answers are kept hidden in each head
by minds that have been lost in the dark sea
the world will not long mourn the humble dead
we barely thought that they deserved their bread

before first leaf

fractal images hope of future spring
buds braving winter's end and the last snow
not in these tones will come the harsher blow

those who desire know best what words to sing
against the empty sky to bring fresh glow
fractal images hope of future spring

we wait for echoes to pause in their ring
some processes are just a little slow
and what occurs requires a proper flow
fractal images hope of future spring

lost voyager

there is a hope that keeps us on this shore
not one who knows but shows a happy face
what has been given is what we adore

desire unbidden always seeks for more
than has been shown by nature's noble grace
there is a hope that keeps us on this shore

those who live long are not accounted poor
since they are winners in the longest chase
what has been given is what we adore

germane or not the message that we bore
was what permitted each a little space
there is a hope that keeps us on this shore

enough that all the terrors we abhor
have left in memory no single trace
what has been given is what we adore

another seeker will search out the spoor
that's left behind in this most happy place
there is a hope that keeps us on this shore
what has been given is what we adore

mossy stone

a bit of nature broken off and dried
but what we hear is not the whole sad tale
if we were ever not to let the scale
alarm us were we not so dignified
it would not be so hard to set aside
those things that error and sorrow entail
allow the little ship to set full sail
and watch it leave upon the rising tide
the greener waters of this warming sea
contain no hope for us this winter day
but this is not our land and we must go
to stranger places where the things we'll see
are not imagined yet in work or play
but those are not the words we have to know

not quite a paradise

within tight bounds a merry hopeful land
you want to ask just how we reached this shore
but words do not avail us anymore

what was those days a well-supported band
had turned into the best of all the corps
within tight bounds a merry hopeful land

so few the boats that wind up on this strand
and there is much we need now to restore
before we can make this what we adore
within tight bounds a merry hopeful land

live lion

we hide our faces underneath a mask
all that we know is covered by the dark
life just becomes another weary task

on some warm shore we have the time to bask
the world we find is just another park
we hide our faces underneath a mask

your choice to fill the bucket and the cask
and load them one by one in the last ark
life just becomes another weary task

if one of us had merely thought to ask
just what would lift the last ignoble mark
we hide our faces underneath a mask

we do not wear fine silk here or damask
this is a place where matters are most stark
life just becomes another weary task

you find that there's no drop left in the flask
and nothing will take fire from this last spark
we hide our faces underneath a mask
life just becomes another weary task

fracture

you come at last to the resistant rock
hour after hour you've pushed down through soil
not knowing how to measure all your toil
nor counting time only by sweat and clock
until you hear the one confirming knock
and through your body sense the hard recoil
no time to let the motion spin or spoil
the value's in the fact more than the shock
you gild the rose and there is no more scent
but duty means that under all the pain
you have to tell the truth and not to shirk
the task on which your whole purpose was bent
and so you lie and say there was no strain
and claim as easy that which was hard work

Drive-by 'Development'

Drive-by 'Development'

John Maxwell



About forty years ago when I lived in London and worked for the BBC, I strolled one day into the Victoria & Albert Museum to view an exhibition of the arts of 'Primitive' and indigenous cultures of the world.
I was brought up short at the very entrance to the museum by the sight of a small figure I had last seen at the museum of the Institute of Jamaica. It was a small, black carving of a human figure with a bird's head – one arm uplifted and the other outstretched, resembling the attitude of a policeman directing traffic.
It was a zemi – an Arawak (as we called the Tainos then) representation of a demi-human demigod or ancestral spirit.
Going into the museum I discovered that the zemi at the door was the original of the carving in Jamaica, and what I thought was the original Jamaican zemi on East Street was the copy.
The V&A is part of the British Museum and the British museum was founded by the bequests of Sir Hans Sloane,who was personal physician to the Governor of jamaica, the Duke of Manchester. Sloane spent his time in Jamaica collecting all manner of curiosities, including natural history specimens. He did not however, collect the zemi; that was stolen later.
As Lord Mahon's history of England put it, "the museum has ever since continued to thrive and grow, sometimes by accessions liable to censure, as by the Elgin spoils of Athens …" – a notorious example of the Imperial looting of foreign cultures for the greater glory of Britain. This imperial pillage was not confined to Britain. Museums in the United States, Germany, Austria, France, Spain and the Netherlands, among others contain some of the finest collections of stolen national treasures from other nations. A few years ago the Italians were forced to return to Ethiopia the sacred obelisk of Axum (1700 years old, 180 feet high and weighing more than 150 tons) and testimony to the greatness that was Ethiopia's before the Europeans turned their attentions to conquest, genocide and slavery.
The looting of artefacts of ancient civilisations continues, the most recent and spectacular being the rape of Iraq's 8,000 years of history and culture by armies of looters directed by rich men in the western world – 'eminent collectors' who, if not so rich, would be described as criminal – receivers of stolen property. It was all done under the benevolent gaze of Field Marshal Donald von Rumsfeld, then the self-appointed Caliph of Baghdad. "Stuff happens" he said.
Here in Jamaica we have been avid participants in what may be described as consensual rape, in which ignoramuses posing as public servants have been giving away or selling priceless patrimony to all sorts of freebooters,
Long Mountain, for instance, is not only a priceless hotspot of biodiversity – the site of one plant (albiflora portlandia) known from nowhere else in the world – but also the site of several Taino – and possibly much older – pre-Columbian settlements. Mr Patterson handed much of this treasure over to Mr Robert Cartade for the construction of a gated community on state-owned land. No one knows how much the deal was worth. All we know is that we have lost forever, records of civilisations which may have been superior to ours at least in their respect for human dignity.
It may be useful to remember that Schliemann excavated six levels of ancient Troy, one under the other.
Right now, further depredations are afoot. Falmouth, that gorgeous if neglected Georgian masterpiece, is about to be Botoxed and cosmetically altered in the interest of the cruise shipping industry and its attendant gimmick 'attractions' while various unsavoury bean counters hold options to destroy the Cockpit Country and to sequester the entire Trelawny coast from public access.
One part of this storied coast, Stewart Castle at Carey Park near Duncans, is an archaeological and biological treasure which is even now being explored by people from the University of Kentucky who have found artefacts of slavery, both of the masters and the slaves, and of the Tainos, about all of which we remain totally ignorant.
That may not be as bad as it sounds, because they may find objects of interest which would otherwise have been covered by one of three (count 'em – three!) golf-courses together with housing for foreign elites which are due to be approved in the interest of drive-by 'development'. The golf courses will use lmost aas much water daily as all the people of Kingston.
These developments may finally bring to a head the resource conflict between tourism and its host country. The people living just outside these developments depend on a water supply for which my father and others agitated eighty years ago but is now inadequate for the native population. Even Silver Sands and Duncans itself, have serious water problems because the Dornoch water supply from the Rio Bueno, is just not sufficient.
In a lunatic example of the boobocracy's not knowing its right hand from its left, the Patterson government was proposing to let loose the bauxite companies on the Cockpit Country, destroying not only one of the world's most precious biological hotspots, but also the limestone aquifers supplying the water for most of the county of Cornwall.
At the same time it was inaugurating the unfortunately named Leakey water supply, a development meant to provide carrying capacity for hotels, casinos and condominiums on the arid seacoast and beautiful beaches of Trelawny.
What our boobocrats do not understand is that JAMAICA IS THE ATTRACTION. We don't need to import camels or design other idiot 'attractions'. Do we reallyneed to import foreigners to sell in-bond goods imported from abroad to classy dudes imported from abroad to splash their money around in Prada and Gucci shops and casinos which are washing machines for money before it is re-exported to its natural habitats in Liechtenstein, Cayman and other places where the hearts of our elites are resident.
Soon, Jamaica will resemble the Palestine West Bank, a collection of Bantustans of penury embedded in an ever expanding matrix of 'development' for which we will supply the manpower for domestic service, sanitation and security, armies of the low paid cut off from real development by the imperatives of the 'Bell Curve"
Irrelevant Patrimony
I was fortunate enough to be on visits to Amsterdam in 2002 and 2004 when by pure coincidence each time there happened to be a major exhibition of ancient culture, the first from Egypt, the second from Mexico. These countries are foremost among those which have seized control of their archaeological patrimony in the national interest, both cultural and financial. Even so, some of the most important exhibits came from museums outside the host countries. In Mexico there dwelt nearly two thousand years ago a people known to us as Olmecs.
The Olmecs invented the essential mathematoical concept of the zero, a few hundred years before Ptolemy in Egypt. The Olmecs, if their statuary is any guide, looked remarkably African. Ethnologists don't want to believe that these guys were African because they refuse to believe that Africans could have been so advanced and that they made it to the western hemisphere before Europeans. They must have come from Asia!!! Like the Maori, perhaps.
So Asians sat down and carved portrait sculptures of people they had never seen and made them 2 to 3 meters high and weighing six to twenty tons each. And they got their sculptural rock from fifty miles or more away from where they put them up. Talk about Vision!
In the Egyptian exhibition, I remember particularly the statue of an Egyptian queen which I, and many others more expert than I, consider to be one of the most beautiful man made objects in the world. It also seemed fairly clear that most of the Pharaohs must have been ethnically African and that despite all the ethnographers to the contrary, the Egyptian civilisation was home grown in Africa and not imported from anywhere else.
For Egypt and Mexico, history and archaeology are potent attractions, pulling in millions of visitors. Here in Jamaica we build roads over sites believed to be Taino, although we don't know if they may be even more ancient.
Between Moneague in St Ann and Point Hill in St Catherine at a place called Union Hill, there is what appears to be a pyramid of stone stone which some people say is a idiosyncratically designed coffee barbecue. Of course it can't be a pyramid! Jamaica has no prehistory worth considering!
So. although we don't know wheyther Union Hill really is an Olmec pyramid as I think, we may soon allow the bauxite companies to level it in the interest of foreign exchange, as they have been unleashed to savage and maim the landscape surrounding the birthplace of Norman Manley at Roxburgh in Manxhester..
If, as I suspect, Jamaica is much more archaeologically and (palaeontologically) interesting than most people suspect, we may, in the most fundamental and shameful sense, be swapping our patrimony for a putrid mess of pottage.
COPYRIGHT©2008 John Maxwell
jankunnu@gmail.com

lower form of fire

somewhere is the lower form of fire
each heart beating in time to make the tune
we move towards the nobler and higher

our tools are founded on what must transpire
we pass the realm of jester and buffoon
somewhere is the lower form of fire

you cannot think to question or enquire
on matters happening beneath the moon
we move towards the nobler and higher

the thing we kept right here whole and entire
in effort to maintain and to commune
somewhere is the lower form of fire

yours is the goal to which we must aspire
but we can't see it as a kind of boon
we move towards the nobler and the higher

now every winner turns out a liar
the golden prize completely picayune
somewhere is the lower form of fire
we move towards the nobler and the higher

severe recollection

yesterday becomes more than a pain
given the choice we shoulder guns and march
drums echoing as we pass through the arch
no one expects us only to abstain
but feet and shoulders seem to bear the strain
the desert's dry enough our throats to parch
and drain the last of our stern mental starch
but we were not in this only for gain
give us a place to stand and earth will move
not only those who shout have got to speak
their words will falter when they see us rise
and they will find we have not much to prove
our greatest weapons show that they are weak
and we have only time to take the prize

such a shame

monsters and demons hide out in the shades
that's what we're told by those who live for hate
we must accept commands with no debate
only the coward and the fool evades
while fearless leader crows in all parades
we have to do what urgencies dictate
open our mouths and swallow all the bait
and watch as all we value just degrades
replace the honest smile with steady frown
and do not let the stroke matter a fart
bend your back and do your fucking duty
obey the one who turned out one more clown
another master of the worthless art
and never say that once we had beauty

limited wisdom

each of the flowers exists only for day
your eyes may feast on them but that is all
in a small time they wilt and fade away

we think the garden is just there for play
but with no beauty we'd decay and fall
each of the flowers exists only for day

night is no time our feelings to betray
we hide such things behind a sudden wall
in a small time they wilt and fade away

all is for glory under the bright ray
however large it is or else how small
each of the flowers exists only for day

we make excuses without much delay
and hasten when we hear the others call
in a small time they wilt and fade away

you tell us all the words we have to say
and laugh so hard when we forget to crawl
each of the flowers exists only for day
in a small time they wilt and fade away

the truth of the tale

so every pirate's just another thief
you find the story not very well told
glorious treasure is just boring gold

from all this torture there is no relief
we find the year is once more turning cold
so every pirate's just another thief

the story's noble but it ends in grief
the hero cannot ever be consoled
it ends as it has done since days of old
so every pirate's just another thief

error may win

there are no reasons why the tears should fall
but if we do not crouch beneath the eaves
no bodies leave their warmth upon the wall

day after day our hearts fail to recall
what was once written plainly on our sleeves
there are no reasons why the tears should fall

you'd think that after waiting none would stall
instead we groan and wait for the proud thieves
no bodies leave their warmth upon the wall

ours was the watch that was not on the ball
what we have done is what the will achieves
there are no reasons why the tears should fall

what had to happen no one could forestall
he who was silent now most loudly grieves
no bodies leave their warmth upon the wall

those who had nothing gave to us their all
and count right now no more than fallen leaves
there are no reasons why the tears should fall
no bodies leave their warmth upon the wall

vir marginalis

you walk the borderline through day and night
these are the duties you cannot reject
fear of rejection forces you to fight

defection from each cause is not your right
you'll face the reasons liars must confect
you walk the borderline through day and night

the problem's always that you are too bright
to know the horrors that you must connect
fear of rejection forces you to fight

the choice is never that of simple flight
a lie's the thing that others will reflect
you walk the borderline through day and night

out of the shadow come the teeth that bite
you learn from birth to fear their dire effect
fear of rejection forces you to fight

this is the law that you have learned to write
that you alone must find marks of respect
you walk the borderline through day and night
fear of rejection forces you to fight

incomprehension

if in your journey you find time to pause
you may not recognise your halting place
nor understand the reason nor the cause

of all the terrors that have subdued laws
instead you blame them on the wrong embrace
if in your journey you find time to pause

the vision is through solid wood not gauze
and so we may not see our own disgrace
nor understand the reason nor the cause

all that we are say you is wrongs and flaws
you would our presence from this world efface
if in your journey you find time to pause

your greatest fear is ending in guffaws
not to hear the the loud and booming chase
nor understand the reason nor the cause

grief so unsettling that it wins applause
you may not understand an open face
if your journey you find time to pause
nor understand the reason nor the cause

looking slightly upwards

branch fractal budding
spring comes not so calmly
storm is on the wing

waking

it is your absence that triggers alarm
the sudden knowing that you are not there
in that one moment of coming aware
and then i hear your voice and i disarm
it's that one second's fear that causes harm
my mind uncertain coming up for air
your warmth is absent that one thing is clear
and then i hear your laughter and your charm
i look outside and know you're on your way
and still my thought is waking all alone
and hearing you and knowing i'm secure
you are the anchor of my every day
the heart of all that's certain and that's known
my centre and my stronghold firm and sure

in the tropics

each tale is just another stinking lie
we fall into the trap and hate the day
nothing but pain falls out of the blue sky

there are no heroes to whom we may fly
no child is now allowed to sing or play
each tale is just another stinking lie

the vision was just daubs of paint and dye
your name was always in the dossier
nothing but pain falls out of the blue sky

these are the best illusions we could buy
you'd think we used a higher class of clay
each tale is just another stinking lie

watch round the corner for the snitch and spy
any who smiles might just as easy slay
nothing but pain falls out of the blue sky

the truth hides well from every normal eye
the honest man gets out of power's way
each tale is just another stinking lie
nothing but pain falls out of the blue sky

major miracle

it is a marvel that i know this place
but so much has been said about the chore
we do not speak of what we must abhor

so little has been said right to your face
that i might say just what i should adore
it is a marvel that i know this place

the king must lose just so we play the ace
the difference is that we know the score
enough that others think they could say more
it is a marvel that i know this place

a cost of liberty

live under the machine and pay the bill
that's all that anyone need have to know
your obligation halts before the thrill

you and the others listen to the shill
someone will figure out the grift too slow
live under the machine and pay the bill

the best solution is to take the pill
everyone says you must go with the flow
your obligation halts before the thrill

nine out of ten times no one climbs the hill
and none mistakes the silence for the blow
live under the machine and pay the bill

this explanation always seems too shrill
but there's no other way to make things go
your obligation halts before the thrill

each action turns on thought and not on will
we find out early that the way is low
live under the machine and pay the bill
your obligation halts before the thrill

praise bastet

the cat just watches and it's judgment's sure
out of all wars and conflicts of our age
only the ones that know the beast endure

there's no disease for which hate is the cure
but your deportment leads us all to rage
the cat just watches and it's judgment's sure

all of our elders threw out the brochure
and did not find the secret on the page
only the ones that know the beast endure

your heart was hardened against the allure
of the small magic we saw on the stage
the cat just watches and it's judgment's sure

mean what you say and avoid the detour
that is the way each fever to assuage
only the ones that know the beast endure

the winner is the one who's least impure
and finds the means to open the locked cage
the cat just watches and it's judgment's sure
only the ones that know the beast endure

Billionaire Bangarang

Billionaire Bangarang

John Maxwell

There are basically two kinds of people in the world: those with too little money and those with too much. Those with too much between them control nearly half the world’s wealth, could;d fit comfortably in two or three jumbo jets.
According to Forbes magazine, the global stock of billionaires increased from 793 in 2006 to 946 in 2007 – a comfortable audience for the Ward Theatre. According to figures from the United Nations University/WIDER, the richest 1% of the world’s population — about 37 million people own 40% or nearly half of the world’s people, while the bottom half — nearly two billion people, together own just about one percent of the world’s assets.
In these computations, wealth does not include houses, however grand, nor transportation Rolls Royces or personal jets.
Th world — or at least some parts of it is in the throes of a billionaire problem; A Wall Street journal columnist reported last October on a visit to the super rich ski resort of Aspen Colorado and says he was struck by the number of rich people in town and by the number of locals who complained about the number of rich people in town.
Since our new tourism thrust is premised on the attraction of the super rich I decided to do little research into possible problems.
The rich do have one nasty habit: they keep on getting richer while the rest of us get poorer. In Aspen that causes problems. Natives can’t afford houses in their own town anymore. The price for a single family unit begins at US$ 5 million (about J$ 350 million) Not even doctors can afford to buy houses in Aspen any more. People are worried that there are too many Prada and Gucci stores in town and I would hate to imagine the price of a bottle of Perrier water or a Blue Mountain coffee.
I can just imagine it. I am the guest of some billionaire in Aspen and the party is on her. So, to impress her a little bit I take her to the nearest Starbucks (or the billionaire equivalent) an order two coffees. I then discover that I have to pawn my plane ticket to pay for them.
The rich grow richer effortlessly, but some of them, of course, like to grease the skids even though they know the lolly is coming down in floods anyway As we have seen in the united States, the middle class of that country, particularly the black middle class is undergoing a painful process of wealth extraction, taken to the cleaners by mortgage brokers and their outlaw in-laws in the derivatives business.
This has created a small problem, because though billions have been sucked out of the middle-class, some of it has almost literally vaporised into the high altitude world of sophisticated financial products, or derivatives, in which sub-prime mortgages were valued by eminent bankers as better than sovereign bonds issued by Jamaica or Venezuela or even the US itself.
‘Wealth creation’ depends eventually on the players finding a great number of what they call ‘Greater Fools’ willing to come in at the zany end of the market. The theory is that if millions of naive punters lose their shirts the loss will be spread over wide areas and no one will take too much notice.
But the ‘wealth creation’ game depends on a high velocity of circulation, with each hand retaining a smidgen of the gold dust that attaches to the securities which zip through the system like pork fat through a goose. Wealth cannot be created or destroyed. I have no intention of going into the theory of surplus value but you can take it from me that there is sweat is the real currency of the world and the source of all wealth. The transmutation of sweat into money and profit is what makes the world go round, but while the Earth may appear to be a perpetual motion machine there is no human system which can duplicate its effects for more than a moment.
So while wealth is extracted from middle class Americans and workers all over the world, eventually, classical economics and common sense all tell you that sales and profits depend on markets and markets depend on people and people depend on earnings and the whole structure collapses when the working class is gutted, as is happening at this moment.
Greed is the frictional element. If capitalists could be satisfied with ‘rational’ profits, all would be well. But they are not. Which is why the take home pay of the American workers has stagnated at 1973 levels and the wealth of his masters has expanded exponentially meanwhile.?
As Professor James Petras points out in an article (www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=viewArticle&code=PET20070323&articleId=5159) published last year, the rise of the billionaires was accompanied by serious social problems. Mass uprisings became commpnplace in India and China.
“In India, which has the highest number of billionaires (36) in Asia with total wealth of $191 billion, Prime Minister Singh declared that the greatest single threat to 'India's security' were the Maoist-led guerrilla armies and mass movements in the poorest parts of the country. In China, with 20 billionaires with $29.4 billion net worth, the new rulers, confronting nearly a hundred thousand reported riots and protests, have increased the number of armed special anti-riot militia a hundred fold, and increased spending for the rural poor by $10 billion in the hopes of lessening the monstrous class inequalities and heading off a mass upheaval.”
IT may surprise you to discover that in the United States, one in every 100 adult Americans is in jail. That amazing statistic includes one in every nine black men between 20 and 34 and one in every hundred adult black women behind bars.
Mind boggling.
Disparity in Growth
Petras said the total wealth of this global ruling class grew 35% per year while income levels for the lower 55% of the world’s people declined or stagnated. While General motors and Ford lay off thousands of workers the Federal Trade Commission is besieged by reports of millions of toxic toys from China flooding the market and Lou Dobbs on CNN is pathetically demanding action against Mexican and other illegal immigrants and some drastic surgery perhaps, on NAFTA.
Petras also deals with the “the newest, youngest and fastest-growing group of billionaires, the Russian oligarchy stands out for its most rapacious beginnings. Over two-thirds (67 per cent) of the current Russian billionaire oligarchs began their concentration of wealth in their mid to early twenties. During the infamous decade of the 1990s under the quasi-dictatorial rule of Boris Yeltsin and his US-directed economic advisers, Anatoly Chubais and Yegor Gaidar the entire Russian economy was put up for sale for a 'political price', which was far below its real value. Without exception, the transfers of property were achieved through gangster tactics ­ assassinations, massive theft, and seizure of state resources, illicit stock manipulation and buyouts. The future billionaires stripped the Russian state of over a trillion dollars worth of factories, transport, oil, gas, iron, coal and other formerly state-owned resources.”
Globalisation, it is clear, does work for some.
The Obama Charisma
The fact that it doesn’t work for most of us is one of the factors behind the steamroller effect of Barrack Obama’s charismatic appeal. People see in him an answer to their frustrations with a government that does not seem connected to their concerns, their lives and their welfare.
The press, bless their hearts, are in a state of total confusion, incessantly parsing language and producing every day some new piece of intelligence which would a few years ago, have had the American electorate in a flutter. The problem is that the electorate is paying almost no attention to the conventional media or to their delegates in politics, the John McCains and the Bill Clintons.
An almost unnoticed development last week suggests that the American political system, like the economic structure, is in for a seismic shock. In the rock-ribbed Yankee Republican region of Upstate New York, in a seat held by Republicans for a century, a Democrat beat the wealthy Republican candidate in a special election. It was a seat with nearly 80,000 registered Republicans nearly twice as many as the 47,000 Democrats. The New York State senate has been controlled by Republicans for all but two years since 1939.
The prospect of Obama is scaring the Republicans silly. The one thing preventing an unprecedented flood of money for John McCain is that when his campaign seemed all but dead some six months ago, he entered into a deal with the Federal Elections Commission for public financing. Now that the Obama heat is on and billionaires are waiting in line to give him money, he wants to get out of the arrangement, but the FEC can’t even vote on his request because it has no quorum.
The result is that the real Republican campaign will be effectively financed from outside McCain’s purview by the kind of people who financed the Swift Boat campaign against John Kerry in the last election. That means that this election campaign, despite the civility and sophistication of Barack Obama and Mr McCain’s pious burblings, is going to be by far the dirtiest in the history of the United States.
You read it here first.
Criminal Libel and Hate mongering
The campaign to loosen our libel laws does not have my complete sympathy, which might seem odd for a journalist who has been sued unsuccessfully or threatened with more writs than any other in Jamaica. The problem is not really with the Defamation Act which has been broadly expanded by case law judgments in which the concept of privilege has been expanded and responsible journalists are given some real protection. The problem is with the procedure, which allows vexatious complainants to issue writs which have no chance of success in the hope that the writs will intimidate the publishers and perhaps the journalists.
But there is another point. People want to abolish the offence of criminal libel, which mainly consists of imputing criminal conduct or behaviour to someone. People are up in arms against criminal libel because some halfwits in the Southern Caribbean are using it to attack journalists. That clearly should be made impossible.
But criminal libel is also the only defence we have against hate speech, and in Jamaica the homophobes and xenophobes are having a field day inciting violence against homosexuals and Haitians. The reason is quite simple: hate sells newspapers. The criminal libel law is meant to deal with statements that are likely to lead to serious breaches of the peace, and if inciting people to murder homosexuals or anyone else is not such a piece of obnoxious wickedness I don’t know what is.
I believe that the ‘incitement’ section of the criminal libel law should be left intact, because I believe that certain newspaper editors should be forced to explain and answer for their outrageous and uncivilised behaviour. They should not be allowed to profit from it.
Copyright © 2008 John Maxwell
jankunnu@gmail.com