Wednesday 29 October 2014

JERUSALEM AND NEW INIS FÁIL



Blake's famous poem. Then my rewrite.
From England to Ireland, from religion to mythology and from war to art.




JERUSALEM © William Blake 1757-1827




And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?




And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?




Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.




I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.




NEW INIS FÁIL © Dave Duggan 29.10.2014




And did those feet in ancient times
Walk upon Ireland's mountains green?
And was the great goddess Danú
On Ireland's pleasant pastures seen?




And did the Tuatha de Danann
Race swift upon our rolling hills?
And was Old Inis Fáil builded here
Amongst our struggles and blood spills?




Bring me my quill of ancient oak:
Bring me my verses of desire:
Bring me my ink: black berries soak!
Bring me my fancy flights of fire.




I will not cease from artful fight
Nor shall my pen sleep in my hand
Till we have built New Inis Fáil
In Ireland's green and pleasant land.




Chris Wood sings Blake's Jerusalem.








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Monday 27 October 2014

FURY, POPPIES AND MADNESS



Best job I've ever had.

So speaks a character in the war film Fury. Other characters repeat the phrase throughout the film.

How often do we hear the phrase 'just let me do my job' (or some such) when a character in a film is about to perform a violent act or deliver a treachery?

One of the myths of war is that it's a job and someone's got to do it. Another, the vehement basis of the film Fury, is that war brings out the best in small groups of men. And that men need that.

Shakespeare knew the truth of such madness.

Some say he's mad; others that lesser hate him
Do call it valiant fury.

Repetition of the phrase Best job I ever had serves to underline the economic basis of war.

There are small teams of highly intelligent and educated men now working in dynamic small groups in the development, production, marketing and sales of weapons of mass destruction. Not all Shakespeare's madmen are in ISIS.

Ideals are peaceful. History is violent.

On BBC Radio Five Live's Stephen Nolan show on 26th October 2014, an articulate and intelligent British Army Infantryman, returned from war in Afghanistan, spoke about bayoneting people close up. He could not/did not remember how many he had killed. He noted that he is a not an airman, delivering payloads of death from a great height. He engages in the close-combat killing of men he describes, as 'a son, brother, father'.

Here's a Bible verse I think about sometimes. Many times. It goes: And I heard the voice of Lord saying: Whom shall I send and who will go for Us? And... I said: Here am I, send me!

The listener sees the Infantryman up close to a Taliban soldier, bayoneting him and wonders at the huge resources it took to get the Infantryman into that situation in Helmand province, southern Afghanistan, literally the other side of the world from his home place. The Infantryman says he notes an 'increased confidence' among the Afghanistan army and police and the local population as an outcome of the war campaign. The listener wonders if the resources it took to bring the Infantryman and his armed colleagues to that population could have been spent on other, less-destructive, confidence-building measures.

It will end, soon. But before it does, a lot more people have to die.

This is the myth that underpins the war machine. And in the film Fury an appeal to the deepest of human myths is asserted, naming both the weapon of mass destruction - the tank - and the heart-place.

[Referring to Fury] It's my home.

Football pundits and other presenters, on British television, wear poppies as a symbol of remembrance of British military war dead and as a fund-raiser for charitable acts to the maimed or deranged following acts of war. The State who sent them does not adequately compensate them for their losses and their sadness on their return.

O, yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.

The myth of sacrifice is offered as a shimmering veil over the slaughter, the gore and the misery that is war. Without a commitment to 'never again', earnest in words and deeds, why wear poppies? Poppies, as badges of remembrance, do not offer such a commitment. Often they are bugle-calls to further slaughter.

Wars are not going anywhere, Sir.

Are we forever condemned to idiot-echo Shakespeare?

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.




Fury; film; David Ayer; Columbia Pictures; Los Angeles; 2014
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2713180/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu

The Tragedy of Macbeth; stage-play; William Shakespeare; London; 1605





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Monday 20 October 2014

HOME, WEEK 3


A sonnet. A companion to WARD 32, WEEK 8


I make the move from crutch to newel post.
Let me pause. The house knows I have returned.
I settle here once more, not yet the ghost.
Home, with less toes. Replete with lessons learned.

Below, her hand will sofa-slide to mine.
She will whisper 'ready?' My eyes will glisten 'yes.'
One button pushed, light flounces, crime fills the time
We are aloft in Danish noir. I almost confess.

I thought I'd never see this room again.
Or her face. I am upright, not on my knees,
With septic suffering or piercing pain.
Yet tears fall from me in diffident ease

This respite cannot be taken for granted.
Restless and fearful, now, just now, landed.

© Dave Duggan 20.10.2014


Thursday 2 October 2014

WARD 32, WEEK 8



My hands are one short of a soccer team.
My feet make five-a-side.


I rise by pushing off my left hand.
I descend by leading with my palms.


Hand rails, hand holds, furniture grips
Are the resolute friends on which I depend.


My right foot bears weight on the heel.
My left bears all else. Sinisterly.


Salts in my blood grow testy.
My kidneys struggle to pass their molecular bulk.


Sugar in my blood oscillates.
I measure, conclude frailly and dose.


The medics mull, ponder and prescribe.
The nurses test, cajole and care.

I wallow, wait and fret.

Will I ever see home again?