Showing posts with label protest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label protest. Show all posts
28 September 2017
National Poetry Day 2017
Labels:
freedom,
Glasgow,
innocence,
national poetry day,
poetry,
politics,
protest,
relationship,
Scots,
William Oliphant
13 May 2015
17 July 2014
A Course Of Action
Something must be done!
Something drastic, something
to assuage the bleak, black guilt
felt for all the whales, the dolphins
flown to their icarus suns,
for all the black babes in Africa
metamorphosed into
matchstick men by fat, white
market forces everywhere,
for all the blistered lungs,
the profitably powdered
living bone, the purple pulp
of the imploding, pulsing flesh
of peasants in three continents.
Something must be done.
Something personal to me,
and enraged symbology,
a protest with posters,
a suicidal leap perhaps
from a ground-floor window.
Something drastic, something
to assuage the bleak, black guilt
felt for all the whales, the dolphins
flown to their icarus suns,
for all the black babes in Africa
metamorphosed into
matchstick men by fat, white
market forces everywhere,
for all the blistered lungs,
the profitably powdered
living bone, the purple pulp
of the imploding, pulsing flesh
of peasants in three continents.
Something must be done.
Something personal to me,
and enraged symbology,
a protest with posters,
a suicidal leap perhaps
from a ground-floor window.
26 August 2012
A Course of Action
Something must be done!
Something drastic, something
to assuage the bleak, black guilt
felt for all the whales, the dolphins
flown to their icarus suns,
for all the black babes in Africa
metamorphosed into
matchstick men by fat, white
market forces everywhere,
for all the blistered lungs,
the profitably powdered
living bone, the purple pulp
of the imploding, pulsing flesh
of peasants in three continents.
Something must be done.
Something personal to me,
and enraged symbology,
a protest with posters,
a suicidal leap perhaps
from a ground-floor window.
Something drastic, something
to assuage the bleak, black guilt
felt for all the whales, the dolphins
flown to their icarus suns,
for all the black babes in Africa
metamorphosed into
matchstick men by fat, white
market forces everywhere,
for all the blistered lungs,
the profitably powdered
living bone, the purple pulp
of the imploding, pulsing flesh
of peasants in three continents.
Something must be done.
Something personal to me,
and enraged symbology,
a protest with posters,
a suicidal leap perhaps
from a ground-floor window.
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