12 October 2008

Singer-Man


John Maxwell

Crackle! pop! snap!

I’m not talking about cereal. That would be snap, crackle, pop. Everybody knows that.

Crackle! pop! Snap!

Watching John McCain in action reminds me of Tom Paxton’s sixties song about the marvelous toy that

“…went "Zip" when it moved,

And "Pop" when it stopped,

And, "Whirrr" when it stood still.

I never knew just what it was

And I guess I never will.

Coupling McCain with Alaska’s toxic termagant presents a fairly terrifying vision for the rest of the world. It’s a far way from John Kennedy’s promise four decades ago that the US would be a friend of  people seeking freedom, a friend to the poor and weak. McCain and Palin present a fundamentalist and revanchist face to the world, promising an even rougher ride than George Bush as the Haitians are already aware.

As I said eight years ago, when the United States elects a president they are also electing a kind of chief spokesman for much of a world with aspirations light years away from the parochial vision of civilisation imagined by Bush, Cheney, McCain and Palin. For the rest of us, the US president we hope will be a singer-man for the world, one who embodies, expresses and guarantees the deepest aspirations of people for liberty and dignity. That it is why an English worldwide poll has found that the world wants Obama to win. The preference is almost 100% across countries as disparate as Norway and Saudi Arabia.

Almost all the public opinion surveys conducted in the US over the past few weeks show the Republican ticket steadily losing ground to the Democrats, Obama and Biden. One website is devoted entirely to analysing electoral polling by all the reputable pollsters. (http://www.fivethirtyeight.com/) According to them, the odds on Obama being the next president were better than  90% as of this last week, and their projection was that he would win nearly 350 electoral votes with at least  52% of the popular vote

In elections for the Senate the projection was that the democrats would win at least 56 seats – not filibuster proof but close, with the probability of an overwhelming majority in the House of Representatives.

Major reasons for these perceptions are the toxic unpopularity of President George Bush whose approval rating is now below Nixon’s just prior to his resignation, the feeling that the US is on the wrong track (more than 80%)   and the catastrophic declines in employment, living standards and economic security.

Adele Polk, a 90 year old woman in Akron, Ohio, shot herself twice in the chest when sheriff’s deputies came to evict her from the house she and her late husband had called home for decades. Mrs Polk’s mortgage has now been forgiven while she is being treated in hospital and is expected to recover.

The bankers and financiers are now among the best hated people in the United States. One sign displayed on Wall Street a few days ago  exhorted the occupants of the office blocks to “JUMP YOU F**KERS” .

Popular opinion is turning savagely against the people FDR called “Malefactors of great wealth”  – the saboteurs of the American dream, con-men whose Ponzi schemes hollowed out the productive centre of American capitalism until the very people they  had defrauded were being asked to come to their rescue, because they were “too big to be allowed to fail” and no one but the taxpayer had the resources to save them. The bailout means the US taxpayer will end up owning huge segments of the financial industry. Will they want to give it back?

 In Illinois’ Cook County –  effectively, Chicago –  the elected Sheriff has decided that his officers will no longer carry out evictions unless he is guaranteed by the mortgage companies that the people he evicts actually owe money on the houses they inhabit. Sheriff Thomas Dart says his officers have been evicting tenants from rented houses, people who have paid their rents to owners who have defaulted. He doesn’t think that’s fair.

All over the US resentment is rising against the injustice of it all, while the Republicans are intent on blaming the victims for the mortgage meltdown. According to the GOP orthodoxy, it was the Democrats in Congress and the federally backed mortgage wholesalers who were responsible along with the poor people who borrowed to buy houses they couldn’t afford.

What really happened is that the Democrats did exert pressure on mortgage companies to lend to minorities and others traditionally segregated outside the mortgage market. The companies responded by inventing mortgages which seemed affordable, but which rapidly morphed  out of the reach of working class and middle class  borrowers who had not read the fine print on their contracts. It was a scam and a highly profitable one which might have worked longer  had it not been so all pervasive that it collapsed of its own over-reach. It extracted billions in savings from the poorest layer of Americans and financed the ability of the scammers to speculate on the basis of ‘securities’  with values notional at best and fictitious at worst.

As in all Ponzi schemes, the crunch had to come when the scam ran out of ‘greater fools’. While the black and Hispanic communities knew they were in trouble two and three years ago, their predators remained blissfully unaware, wheeling and dealing as if there would never be a reckoning.

Now, even John McCain realises that no matter how much he and his cohorts have blamed the working class borrowers, it is important to help them out of trouble. This is one more flip-flop of McCain, who has been boasting about his reformist record, even while his real history is of a serial deregulator, a rule smasher, whose fondest ideals have been for freeing up everything in the interest of the unrestricted market –a man who never met a rule he approved of.

Now, faced with the increasing disapproval of the US electorate it doesn’t seem that even the best efforts of Republican bureaucrats will be able to sabotage the election to the extent where it can be stolen as were the last two.  The disapproval is too wide, too deep. Today, polls show Obama preferred as being a better likely leader, a more compassionate leader and a more able president. McCain is still preferred as a warrior who could prosecute the Iraq war, but since most Americans don’t want to be in Iraq that advantage is nothing compared to the feeling that Obama can best get Americans out of their economic troubles.

 

The Wonders of Jamaica

        Our bureaucrats and technological experts have managed o convince successive governments that bauxite mining and alumina processing are  indispensable to Jamaican development. Successive ministers have blessed the increasingly predatory exploitation of Jamaica’s land and resources for a putrid mess of pottage. If you look at the map above

you may begin to understand that the bauxite industry is planning the effective destruction  of more than half of central and western Jamaica to feed the inexhaustible and unsustainable appetite of the aluminum industry.

In the map – published by the Geography department of the UWI  but authored  by the Jamaica Bauxite Institute – it is clear that Jamaica will go the way of Nauru unless we take steps to stop it.

       Nauru is the tiny Pacific island composed almost entirely  of fosilised bird excrement, guano, and reduced over the years to almost nothing by the mining of this resource. For a time the GDP of Nauru was above that of Saudi Arabia. Now, there is nothing left. The entire island has been exported as fertiliser and the people are trying to find somewhere to live before their island is reclaimed by the sea.

 If the JBI and the aluminum industry have their way Jamaica will become a desert  because almost all the clay in Jamaica is bauxitic and what isn’t clay  is limestone. And the ginnigogs want to dig that down and export that too.

Where will that leave the rest of us?

If we give these maniacs the licence we will lose all our farmland, all of our water supply that has not been poisoned by red mud – caustic soda, arsenic and cadmium; we will lose our magnificent scenery, we will lose our communities, our little villages and towns, we will lose any claim to civilisation and the country will become irreversibly a collection of bantustans in which the gated rich protect themselves from the rampaging poor  who will have no resources except their wits, their weapons and their testosterone.

If we allow the bauxite companies to destroy the Olmec pyramid in St Ann we will be committing a crime against humanity. But there are other wonder of Jamaica of which most of us are not aware. In Patrick Browne’s (1756) Natural History of Jamaica there is a map which shows a ‘grotto’ near Lumsden in St Ann. Three hundred years ago  this was  a tourist attraction. The bauxite companies will obliterate it.

In Trelawny in the Cockpit Country near Stewart Town there is a cave which is a wonder of the hemisphere, if not the world. One section of the Dunn’s Hole cave consists of a chamber over  200 meters long 100 meters wide and 80 meters high – big enough to contain the entire National Stadium. If bauxite and the bureaucrats have their way, all that will go and we shall be left not only in penury, but in the economic slavery that we will deserve.

One of the few  people to have entered the cave describes a huge stalagmite:

 “The width is about four meters, it is over ten meters high, and it is made up of tiers of beautiful flowstone. Despite it being the height of the dry season, there was a great amount of dripping of water down the sides, with this causing it to look like a large, calcified, champagne fountain. The colours consisted of golds and rich browns, and the moisture made it glisten and shine. It put me in mind of the legends associated with many caves in Jamaica that talk about "golden dishes set on golden tables"

Jamaica’s caves are an essential component of the  internal plumbing of our karst geology.  Rivers flow through them, rise from them and sink into them, and no one really knows what would happen if they are damaged or destroyed. The 1979 floods gave some idea  when, huge lakes developed at Chigwell and Exeter in Hanover and at Newmarket and other places  in Westmoreland/St Elizabeth. In Petersfield, Westmoreland a hillside exploded to reveal a river cave and the ensuing flood washed away most of the village and killed several people. People in Manchester say it is the bauxite companies that have caused the flooding of Porus and some believe that the once intermittent Moneague Lake has been made a permanent feature, inundating farm land, by the bauxite mining.

Bauxite mining and red mud have also polluted important water supplies in St Ann, Manchester and St Elizabeth. And Alpart’s mining in Manchester threatens Jamaica’s deepest and one of its most valuable caves – Smokey Hole.

Of course, if the bauxite-maniacs have their way, there won’t be anyone left to bemoan the loss of their water supplies or farmland or water supplies or birds and butterflies and other animals or our fabulous vegetation..

Jamaica – its wonderful people and beautiful landscape will be history.

Copyright©2008 John Maxwell

jankunnu@gmail.com

11 October 2008

this we have found

so we forget just who and what we were
in this large kingdom where the vulture reigns
honour and history have to concur

in some decision about what's to stir
both hearts and visions in those swift campaigns
so we forget just who and what we were

the happy cat will nestle here and purr
ignoring us while we don yet more chains
honour and history have to concur

with what we say as time moves in a blur
of rapid actions over sad remains
so we forget just who and what we were

in these bold days the wise entrepreneur
knows well just what good matter he retains
honour and history have to concur

just as the bone is kicked towards the cur
the one that any better thing disdains
so we forget just who and what we were
honour and history have to concur

meditation on the hither shore

so much is silenced by the hungry sea
forgotten centuries that weren't all grief
the glimmer of the waves is no relief
not urgent voices bidding us let be
ignore the past be humble bend the knee
to those far wiser suspend all mischief
and turn the raging mind back to belief
in angry gods of the smooth bourgeoisie
now we're the ones who always must atone
not for our sins but for your fathers' lies
making great efforts in these brighter days
not to disturb the ancient broken bone
nor to take hold of the bright golden prize
but leave to you the honour and the praise

10 October 2008

this is true magic

no matter what the word it has a place
there is a pattern and a proper track
our goal is to create the human race

no one expects that we'll keep up this pace
since we have moved to red from basic black
no matter what the word it has a place

where each true maker gains in height and grace
and makes obeisance before each attack
our goal is to create the human race

not only for our time but for the case
as true observer of what's out of whack
no matter what the word it has a place

we have the time and duty to embrace
the burning heart before we dare to crack
our goal is to create the human race

those are the facts that each of us must face
each mind is empty and each soul is black
no matter what the word is has a place
our goal is to create the human race

no proper patience

we listen for the names of all our dead
keeping no track of any passing time
for them there is no clock now that will chime

no mouth of theirs will taste again the bread
none of their feet be set upon the climb
we listen for the names of all our dead

so long the hours of waiting and of dread
when all the good were dragged into the slime
instead of glory there was guilt and grime
we listen for the names of all our dead

09 October 2008

channels of woe

where all our silences have come to fail
your senses give us what we do not need
another set of messages to heed
some more false elements for the old tale
those integrators which we would assail
but dare not indicate this is just greed
for simple life of which we own the seed
and the plain clothes to hang upon a nail
who reads the sigil has seen all the rot
of centuries fall off from eyes turned cold
not through hard pain but from exploded rage
at all the sordid horrors of our lot
these terrors that besiege our growing old
and the sad beasts that lie within each cage

08 October 2008

lookout

so there is water out there south and west
that's all we see and out beyond more land
and stranger places on each palm-fringed strand
will seem like us the modern dispossessed
who don't belong but have got the bequest
of gold and green passed down from hand to hand
so that each has to make some sort of stand
or claim that they've been given a great test
these are the lies that little children tell
when parents think that they are fast asleep
to scare each other by pretending brave
the ones that later turn to the hard sell
making the painful seem ungodly cheap
while the blue water waits to be our grave

07 October 2008

simple messages

truth cuts like a dull knife and we are found
out of our proper spaces and not sure
of how to get safe back or what the cure
of this ill time will be the harsh compound
of present agony and glory drowned
with all our magic proved sick and impure
not much of what we are can still endure
but for the present we are all unbound
not what you are but how you may perplex
those who would harm your hopes and lay you low
is all the matter this is the true sign
that must the mean and hostile ever vex
leaving behind a steady even glow
as we pass on along the ancient line

at crane beach june 1973

we find ourselves alone upon this beach
in front of us nothing but moving sea
what is behind seems just beyond our reach

so many voices raised up to beseech
now gone away here we can let things be
we find ourselves alone upon this beach

what words we learnt now others have to teach
the secret message of the mangrove tree
what is behind seems just beyond our reach

to lie upon warm sand whiter than bleach
and soak in rest is what we can agree
we find ourselves alone upon this beach

no hidden purpose no reason to preach
just time to breathe and a whole world to flee
what is behind seems just beyond our reach

there are no boundaries to the wind's speech
the jargon of the waves bids us be free
we find ourselves alone upon this beach
what is behind seems just beyond our reach

06 October 2008

morning on the ridge

what holds us up is nothing but light air
your thought is like it vanishingly weak
yet we have reached another lofty peak
and see the lowland down below us clear
as on a map since this morning is fair
the sun behind us showing what we seek
for this short moment we have the mystique
you cannot stop us doing what we dare
so this is who we are and what we need
past all the shadows that have obscured sight
secrets revealed as we announce the name
in open daylight time to set the seed
into clean earth long hours before the night
and fill each heart with joy as with a flame

05 October 2008

uncertain pilgrimage

each writes the tale  upon a golden leaf
no safer record for so short a time
age after age the truth beggars belief
we think that honest labour is a crime
when all our hopes are cast into the slime
your choice is simple just cast out the blame
the monster's wild that you thought mild and tame
no hope is placed in partner or in friend
who knows the rules of this most profane game
we seek the melted snow of last weekend

the winner turns out just one more old thief
who casts his words in good old-fashioned rhyme
and promises that he'll be firmly brief
but does not move you into the sublime
before the clock has uttered its first chime
such matters will not lead you out of shame
but are the sort of thing that fools might claim
to make you bow or lead you now to bend
hoping to turn you from your steady aim
we seek the melted snow of last weekend

pain of great loss produces no more grief
than could be borne in such a foreign clime
as this there is no wisdom seeks relief
or hopes to gain a dollar or a dime
we've reached the bottom and we must now climb
past all the horrors that we cannot name
knowing that no good thought will stay the same
and that our duty no one would commend
still though our feet are tired and very lame
we seek the melted snow of last weekend

prince you have mastery of wind and flame
your state is great in glory and acclaim
but to this act you may not condescend
beyond the limits of the human frame
we seek the melted snow of last weekend

eternal i endure

so we discover that we have found hell
right in this place beneath the smiling eyes
it seems so normal calm and lacking smell

you tell us not to cry out nor to yell
nor in our shock to indicate surprise
so we discover that we have found hell

there is not much that anyone could tell
you'd have to be right there to hear the cries
it seems so normal calm and lacking smell

all that we have is the remaining shell
of who we were something you would despise
so we discover that we have found hell

right where we thought and we could not rebel
against our very selves in our own guise
it seems so normal calm and lacking smell

there was no signal no last warning bell
we got there on the road of simple lies
so we discover that we have found hell
it seems so normal calm and lacking smell

at a hill gate

right there on edge on mountain lip see cloud
swift move through sky through steady clearest blue
with every second become something new
voices within declare you have been cowed
not knowing yet the force that is allowed
nor proper motion ready for its cue
on neither side is the eternal view
but every sound right here is sharp and loud
so you were eager then to find a space
just for yourself and had so much to prove
and so much time or so it was you thought
being a fool now there is little grace
for you to get into the rightful groove
and the robed judge has come into the court

after reading

now i am older than my vanished friend
words reach across and do not hesitate
i cannot think what led to this long wait

all this long time must come to a sure end
tides have to rise and tides have to abate
now i am older than my vanished friend

we know the moment when light seems to bend
to our command and moments to conflate
into a single sacred sense of fate
now i am older than my vanished friend

04 October 2008

Book review

Dennis Scott, After-Image. Leeds: Peepal Tree Press, 2008.

What’s human about us is what we create, and it is what we create that endures. That’s the one lesson the poet teaches. Reading this selection of Dennis Scott’s last poems, made by his friend Mervyn Morris, and published seventeen years after Dennis’s death at fifty-one, that lesson is borne in with extraordinary force.

The collection is bracketed by death. From the title poem, which begins the collection, and which weaves metaphors of plant and machine under that punning title, to the last poem in which death is presented as an editor who will ‘justify all’ (again, a pun) but containing also the image of a black hole (‘The event/horizon collapses’ – Dennis was a science fiction fan, and allowed a younger version of myself to use his collection as a lending library) and ending with an unpunctuated, unfinished line, that also seems to be a satisfactory ending point.

Death is a presence in this book. A poem about the murdered Cuban student activist of the 1920s, Juan Antonio Mella, becomes a meditation about death in the abstract:

I’ll sing you a song under my breath:

the name of the president is Death.

But death is not the only presence. There are poems containing simple, direct observations of life. Poems about love. Poems about sexuality. Poems about politics. Some are extraordinarily direct:

Let us practice, for want

of anything

to do today,

fellatio.

Dennis does not lose the capacity to surprise. His poem Third World Blues, a brief meditation on Creole identity, is a sonnet containing octave and sestet. But a sonnet with an unconventional rhyme scheme, neither Shakespearean nor Petrarchan. This formalism is a shock in the rhythmic freedom of the work, though it is by no means the only poem with a formal structure in the book.

The equally formal, and most enigmatic, Unicorn, with its odd echoes of Robert Graves, is, perhaps, the most unusual, and most untypical, poem he ever wrote. Its closing couplet is a paradox as strange as any in literature:

For where’s the wind I thought would always blow?

Gone. Every beauty but this breath will go.

Almost every poem in this collection has the shadow of death upon it. And yet there are moments of simple happiness, and love, for his wife, for his children, for the world he sees that have the true intensity of passion, the smiling vision and understanding that, along with a sardonic realism that was never far from the surface, marked his best work. I read these poems, and I hear Dennis Scott’s voice, speaking, as he always did, the truth.

for the best

out past the boundary of what was tame
a moral heart might think safety is found
there is no one who dares to take the blame

this is no cause for cowardice or shame
to make us tremble here or go to ground
out past the boundary of what was tame

still each small heart knows what is in the game
and here is nothing that could you astound
there is no one who dares to take the blame

for what was done nor any who could claim
the proper due or take time to propound
out past the boundary of what was tame

the rules for keeping all our hopes the same
in times when only false fortunes abound
there is no one who dares to take the blame

so in this place of true dishonest fame
we listen for the last triumphant sound
out past the boundary of what was tame
there is no one who dares to take the blame

Weekly

Monday. Monday. I can climb;
must get to the peak in time.
Tuesday. Tuesday. What I reach
turns at once into a peach.
Wednesday. Wednesday. So much hope;
have to reach far up the slope.
Thursday. Thursday. Not enough
to be present. Must be tough.
Friday. Friday. Have to work;
pain's no limit, clean and jerk.
Sat'day. Sat' day. So much fear
reaches upward, still I dare.
Sunday. Sunday. Far from rest
seeking vision, on I quest.

03 October 2008

no clear omission

you miss the moment when we have to turn
out of our place of safety and run free
to find a simple answer and a key

to all the mysteries we have to learn
so clear a thing and yet so hard to see
you miss the moment when we have to turn

so that the last of fires begins to burn
not with the sort of heat you would decree
fully intense but hot enough to flee
you miss the moment when we have to turn

the politics of autumn

so much of what we learn is simply wrong
dishonest preaching to a stupid choir
we're just supposed to hide within the throng

true honest effort takes too bloody long
for hard folk driven by the voice of ire
so much of what we learn is simply wrong

to kill our foes will serve to make us strong
and decency is nothing to admire
we're just supposed to hide within the throng

the safest thing is just to go along
stay silent above all do not inquire
so much of what we learn is simply wrong

we let the foolish beat upon the gong
and hope that we can make it back entire
we're just supposed to hide within the throng

all must participate in the old song
and give heed to the words of the keen liar
so much of what we learn is simply wrong
we're just supposed to hide within the throng

02 October 2008

out of the past

so this is where we face the simple fact
of elegance and truth the crystal bird
will rise each time although it is absurd
to say there was not one good thing he lacked
the signals clear not one of them abstract
nothing is left that ought to be inferred
by we who follow only the plain word
an honest message left behind intact
no one departs while we can remember
clear tone of voice and movement in the dance
that's life itself no one would want to fake
the laughing glow hoarding each sad ember
we fight against the forces of mischance
and read the shining verse for honour's sake

a halo round the moon

there is a circle around the full moon
a thing of wonder in the warmth of night
an awful omen something not quite right
and then the rain brings life back into tune
this brilliance breaks me out of my cocoon
but chases me indoors i can't requite
the gift of thought and of the fragile light
but do not understand it is a boon
to be caught there that moment by the rain
in natural blessing just that simple touch
of cooling water taking back to earth
both mind and body it is clear and plain
we must not love the world so very much
as to forget just what the light is worth

removing the scrim

there are no symbols traced across the sky
princes may die but nobody would care
what matters now does not come up so high

when we were young we thought that we could fly
like gentle creatures of the upper air
there are no symbols traced across the sky

to tell us that our hopes turned out a lie
just adult voices cancelling a dare
what matters now does not come up so high

these days each thought just seems so very dry
and every sound becomes a hollow blare
there are no symbols traced across the sky

that would proclaim the simple reasons why
each of us wins a large and radiant share
what matters now does not come up so high

what we obtain is what we have to buy
by dint of effort that seems most unfair
there are no symbols traced across the sky
what matters now does not come up so high

returning magic

there is a secret that no one is told
since when you learn it you have cause to groan
for your whole sense of right is overthrown
and what was warm and safe has turned quite cold
there's now no surety that you can hold
and all your blood has become solid stone
icily pure you face the world alone
in that one instant you have joined the old
now that the universe is once more wild
with all the passions that you have repressed
out of your need to be part of the herd
perhaps you can see once more like a child
capture again the honest decent zest
and find true meaning in each human word

01 October 2008

so we are evaluated

it does not matter all the good we do
we are still painted in the tints of rage
since we are seen as creatures in the zoo

someone may think the present time is new
and praise the noble tenor of the age
it does not matter all the good we do

will vanish quickly into background view
and other matters will the world engage
since we are seen as creatures in the zoo

those who their oldest platitudes still spew
may think them things of beauty on the page
it does not matter all the good we do

will move no hearts there will be very few
who'll think to break the bars upon our cage
since we are seen as creatures in the zoo

now all the glory goes to the rough crew
who have learned how to prance upon the stage
it does not matter all the good we do
since we are seen as creatures in the zoo