“The Mask of Anarchy” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -
'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -

Then all cried with one accord,
'Thou art King, and God and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!'

And Anarchy, the skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me -
Misery, oh, Misery!'

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning's, lay;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men - so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked, - but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude
Looked - and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt - and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe

Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood, -
As if her heart had cried aloud:

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.

'What is Freedom? - ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well -
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

'Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants' use to dwell,

'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak, -
They are dying whilst I speak.

'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More that e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin - that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

'And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew
Ride over your wives and you -
Blood is on the grass like dew.

'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -
Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one -
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

'This is slavery - savage men
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do -
But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand - tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.

'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude -
No - in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.

'To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.

'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England - thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

'Thou art Peace - never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou - let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan,

'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares -

'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale -

'Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold -

'Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free -

'Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.

'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels.

'Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.

'Let the horsemen's scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England - they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo - Liberty!

'On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.

'And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -
What they like, that let them do.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.

'Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.

'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand -
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'

“Night Music” published in The Bamboo Forest

A new poem of mine “Night Music” has been published in the new online journal The Bamboo Forest it can be seen here THE BAMBOO FOREST. The Bamboo Forest is the poetry blog that supports the petition site to free Zhu Yufu:  http://freezhuyufu.blogspot.com/

Who is Zhu Yufu? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-china-16977615

“The Mask of Anarchy” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Written on the occasion of the massacre carried out by the British Government
at Peterloo, Manchester 1819

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -
'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -

Then all cried with one accord,
'Thou art King, and God and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!'

And Anarchy, the skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me -
Misery, oh, Misery!'

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning's, lay;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men - so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked, - but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude
Looked - and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt - and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe

Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood, -
As if her heart had cried aloud:

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.

'What is Freedom? - ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well -
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

'Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants' use to dwell,

'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak, -
They are dying whilst I speak.

'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More that e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin - that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

'And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew
Ride over your wives and you -
Blood is on the grass like dew.

'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -
Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one -
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

'This is slavery - savage men
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do -
But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand - tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.

'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude -
No - in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.

'To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.

'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England - thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

'Thou art Peace - never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou - let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan,

'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares -

'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale -

'Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold -

'Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free -

'Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.

'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels.

'Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.

'Let the horsemen's scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England - they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo - Liberty!

'On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.

'And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -
What they like, that let them do.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.

'Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.

'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand -
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'

“Song to the Men of England” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.

Sow seed, -but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!

 

I had to post this Shelley poem because of how relevent it is today as it was almost two-hundred years ago. This poem has shook me to the core.

“England in 1819″ by Percy Bysshe Shelley

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;

Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,

But leechlike to their fainting country cling

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.

A people starved and stabbed in th’ untilled field;

An army, whom liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;

A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—

Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

I had to post this because it’s one of the courageous poems of the past two-hundred years. I don’t know why i took me so long to read it, but I feel like Shelley was a poet of revolution and spoke for the common man.

“Sleepwalker,” Published in the Montucky Review

http://montuckyreview.blogspot.com/2011/12/sleepwalker.html

Prototype for my ebook due in April

http://bookonblog22.blogspot.com/

“Birth of Music” published in Yes, Poetry

The new issue of Yes, Poetry is available for free download on lulu.com a poem of mine “Birth of Music” is published in it. Here’s the links
Ebook: http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/yes-poetry/16946867

And the Yes, Poetry websitehttp://yespoetry.com/post/9847245486/vol-2-issue-9-september-2011

“Television” unpublished

(This one’s from 2002. It’s one of the few from the period that are halfway coherent. It’s from one of my self-published chapbooks from the past.)

Television

The crucifix hangs from the ceiling by a shadow
Snow angels melt in the sunlight
The open smell of living rooms obscurity
The trance of visions perplexed by the television audience
Late at night
No assembly of thought

Open admiration for decline
Open the windows and watch whores in the mud
Pleasuring the pigs, on blank moons
Laws are only in the budget for so long
The rumor is that you tried to
Behold the existence of time
In your credit weathering freeloading area
Some stranger with a Benjamin Franklin face

I wrote my name
Seven times in the sand
It was still there a million years later
Your gravestone peers out at me
Those cowardly eyes; faceless
Your pain is stone and your sorrow covered in moss
All your eyes tell me is your quiet desperation.

“Man throwing poetry off the roof of a six-story Building” published in New Issue of The Bicycle Review

Check out the new issue of the Bicycle Review

“Night Baseball” published in CircleShow

“Night Baseball” Circleshow
http://www.sevencirclepress.com/craigshay.htm

“Waking the Dead in the Land of Make-Believe” and “Now that the Revolution has Begun” published in the Camel Saloon.

Two more poems were published in the Camel Saloon this past week.

“Waking the Dead in the Land of Make-Beleive”

“Now that the Revolution has Begun”

“Open Letter to Good Fortune Magazine” unpublished

(I don’t look back fondly on the poems I wrote in the past (pre-2005) but here is something that doesn’t make me wince as bad as others. The file for this one says August 22, 2001. I think it was written as a charachter I was trying to create a book around. Obviously a hermit of some sort and someone who tunred his back on the world. Not much has changed in the ten years since 2001.)

Open Letter to Good Fortune Magazine

Aimlessly searching for something…

Now I can feel a sense of fear
tearing through my soul
running freedom is never far away
but again out of my sights today
yes we will be free from this curse
but not today

Sitting alone atop of a life stream
what I control in this mind
what I will give to find

Enlightenment so lovely and sad
it’s beginning to look like I’ll never get there
my heart is sacred with the stories and songs
of a thousand dead poets
my love is strong like the one of
a thousand dead saints

so sin like the day you were created
fuck this mighty atmosphere
for it is all beyond

days later I reached the doorway to enlightenment:
all ever elongated sounds voice God.
my skies are forever scorn
my days forever banished
so far the world is in fact mad
no place seems safe, even inside
the more the weight is piled
the more the soul begins to dry

how deep and far away

into the universe above the skies
no ocean is forever
no way to die

you can see the blue sky spreading out with the wings of a traveled bird
so motionless I pretend to be amused
but deep down I know there is and never will be a safety zone

Remember: the time I sat at that table surrounded by empty chairs
far away past midnight
I felt my head sour and curse the sky
just like that so soft her gentle heart was
I thought I’d never feel this great again
oh how to make it last
how to contain this ever present feeling of total harmony pouring out the often dry routines of the daily living we’re accustomed to, this time it was rolling so far so wide and totally in awe of every moment spent in total escalation
her hair was soft here eyes were pure
never did my soul cry for more
we tore each other apart
how I love how I quest for the feeling my lips the best
she was sweeter than any siren from the island
I knew this had to be
I knew had maybe once smiled upon me
but I was wrong and the dream faded spiraling about the blankness then disappearing.

Catch this unashamed land serpent
how inside I can think about things the world never wanted to see
you won’t ever care about life
hundreds of years may go by and maybe some kid will dig it up and come to the conclusion
that life was fucked up in the past too.

don’t ever stop the turnover
the quiet intuitions may force us to speak so strangely
no more wanting I just want life to stop
how naturally this earth seemed to steer
turned into a stranger by my peers
why don’t we need any beer
Jesus has run out of room
for the last hundred years
now this would be angles just carry on into a golden sunset
but always will they keep their fears

anyone can write garbage

spew

vomit to the wind

I want to stick to the simple things that floated through my day dreams

1) simple lamb on the table blue and strange how the light faded out and darkness

2) the slogan scribbled on the wall, what on earth is the meaning how does it help me

3) the destruction of a nation swept away with powerful bristles of greed

4) nobody wants to listen to the crazy on the sidewalk no he’s lost the path

5) there is no path and never been, your all just linear rats awaiting a feast that never existed

6) not existed in this life, but hopefully exists on another

7) why oh why does my heart have to be shredded by the glass of your actions

8) hoe the scars have yet to heal and burn, glass cuts skin deep

9) dear young angel how far the clouds will go, how long the earth will seem, you’ll never get your dream

10) how about sadness and the failure of man, never let this mutilation continue

11) my greatest fear and hope is to never be there

12) my only wish is for the world to leave me alone

13) why is everyone the God of their worlds, no wonder no one is happy everyone is busy with business and pretending the world is theirs, God they are nothing are we

14) is there even a we last time I checked we were nothing

15) this generations loss of anything to think about

16) just the Pepsi and coke sing your song for you fucking assholes
suck on the tit that feeds you because you’ll never let go
until they’ve fucked you over so much and just keep on pumping you fucking useless souls for air for energy for money for nothing but what they need, no nothing will change as you think it does because they fucking own you and I can’t sit back and let the universe sink into suffering, too much compassion I have for you miserable bastards, open you god damn fucking eyes, get you fucking head out your ass.
this ain’t life
this ain’t life
this ain’t life
this ain’t life

never again do I want to see the sun.
never again do I want to feel the rain.
never again do I want to see the barrel of the gun.
until I find the cure for suffering.

“Death Waltz” published in the Camel Saloon.

My new poem “Death Waltz” was published in the courageous online magazine the Camel Saloon.
This one is worth checking out. Here’s the link…

http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2011/08/death-waltz.html

“Song for the Post Modern Void,” “Aftermath,” and “Chain Gang” published in The Calliope Nerve

“Song for the Postmodern Void,”"Aftermath,” and “Chain Gang” are two new poems of mine published in the superb online journal The Calliope Nerve. Here’s the link…http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/search/label/Craig%20Shay

Chain Gang

Let down
that curtain,
which shrouds
reality –

Reveal
these chains
around our
heads,
feet,
and wrists –

We are
incarcerated here,
in comfortable
cages,
which lull us
passively
into a state
of acquiescence –

Why is it
that the circus
distracts us so?

Why is one’s soul
exchanged
for handfuls of ash?

“Widow of Catherine Street” published in Underground Voices

“Widow of Catherine Street” was published in the inspiring online magazine Underground Voices…here’s the link http://www.undergroundvoices.com/UVShayCraig.htm

Three new poems published in Carcinogenic Poetry

Three new poems “House Sitting,” “Waiting for the Flood,” and “Cognitive Dissidence” have been published in a terrific online publication Carcinogenic Poetry the link to the webpage is here:

http://www.carcinogenicpoetry.com/2011/07/craig-shay-three-poems.html

I want to repost this one here, because I feel it explains a lot about human nature at this time in history, and how we deal with knowing truths and living with the reality of those truths, whether we like them or not, whether they are right or wrong.

Cognitive Dissonance

There are nights
I almost forget
theses shackles
on my hands and feet.

I almost feel free –

Then I remember
the streets are still on fire
and there are no firemen.

I watch years pass
into madness,
as the fires rage to destroy.

No one talks about the rising smoke clouds
engulfing the sky and blotting out the sun.

No one is ready to confront the avalanche
of violence and fear.

No one believes it is going to destroy us.

“Blue Atlas Cedars” published in PigeonBike

A new poem of mine, “Blue Atlas Cedars” was published in the Canadian journalPigeonBike: Beyond the Broken Bridge issue available through their website.

“It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” by Bob Dylan

I’ve had Bringing it All Back Home, in the tapedeck of my car all week.  Check out these killer lyrics.

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying

Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover that you’d just be one more
Person crying

So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing

As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don’t hate nothing at all
Except hatred

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred

While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked

An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it

Advertising signs they con
You into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you

You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks they really found you

A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit
To satisfy, insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to

Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something they invest in

While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he’s in

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him

Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn’t talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony

While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer’s pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death’s honesty
Won’t fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes must get lonely

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed
Graveyards, false gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough, what else can you show me?

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

Copyright © 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music

“Wall Street” Published in Catapult to Mars

I have a new poem published in a terrific online magazine called Catapult to Mars, edited by Gordon Mason.

Here’s a link to the website http://catapulttomars.blogspot.com/2011/07/wall-street-by-craig-shay.html

“White Buffalo” and “Blue Orchestra” published in the Audio Zine.

Please check out the latest issue of a great online magazine called the Audio Zine, published by Daniel Dissinger of In Stereo Press.  I have two new poems published in it  here’s the link…

http://www.instereopress.com/?p=2461

“Riding Alone for 3,000 Miles” published in The Camel Saloon

Here’s the link “Riding Alone for 3,000 Miles”

“Galloping Horses” published at The Camel Saloon

New poem “Galloping Horses” has been published at the Camel Saloon

Follow this link to read it…http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2011/07/galloping-horses.html

The American Dream

“No Future” published in The American Dissident

No Future

The future
is already on fire –

Though
we tell ourselves
it is just a dream –

We fall back asleep,
without questioning
or figuring out

why the fire
is spreading

or why the sirens
will never stop

and that pretty soon
there will be

no more people
and no more beds.

“Actress on a Stage” from issue #12 of Skidrow Penthouse

Actress on a Stage           
 
 
She closes her eyes, inhaling the stares of the paranoid audience.
She stands, like a mannequin whispering prayers to artificial lights.
She opens her eyes and screams because all she sees outside is the war.
She looks into the audience and sees no witchdoctors to cure them of their black hearts.
She holds a woman in the front row hostage by gunpoint.
She stares at softly treading shadows on the theater wall.
She lights a copy of the New York Times on fire.
She spreads the ashes from her mother’s urn onto the crowd.
She reenacts a torture scene and lies on the stage for twenty minutes weeping.
She takes a hit of angeldust, and mimes a sex act.
She removes her clothes, standing naked for the critics.
She throws off her underwear and invites everyone onstage to fondle her.
When she combs her hair, pennies fall out.
She holds her head back to stop a nosebleed, a result of her overdose of psychotropic drugs.
She dresses like a bag lady and complains how the US Government
trained and funded Osama Bin Laden in the 80’s.
She shaves her head and pretends the clumps are her dead children.
She throws the pawns from a chessboard into the balcony.
She tells the audience they can protect themselves from the government by
purchasing giant flyswatters and garlic.
She says every vote in a presidential election is a vote for Béla Lugosi.
She tells the audience the cemetery where she wants to be buried, is in their eyes.
She listens to their breathing, and dances to the silence.
She sits at the piano and reads sheet music written by John Cage.
She gives birth to the music of an empty asylum.
She leaves the theater to humiliate herself for a subway fare,
cheating the system for a memory of infancy.

 

New Poem “No Future” in American Dissident Magazine.

New Poem “Woman on a Stage” in Skidrow Penthouse Magazine.

Murdered over a Poem

http://corner.nationalreview.com/post/?q=MzEzZDdhYjVhYTgyNmIxYWExNjA1NDI4OWYyNjhmZTg=

Old poem on Poets Against the War

Here’s an old poem from 2006, published on Poets Against the War. I have since abandoned this style of seemless word flow, but its nice to look back on it, and the message is still pertinent.

http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/displaypoem.asp?AuthorID=27034

Beaten up for poetry

click on the story

http://www.courthousenews.com/2010/05/04/26950.htm, source Harriet.