Sold out

I’m a people’s poet

so venomous of tongue

aligned to those who know it

been so 

since I was young

 

I point my coal stained finger

and lash my colloquial lilt

I dredge where others linger

and make chunks of merely silt 

 

I’ve never held a rifle

or stood in front of death

but in politics I trifle

and measure 

the worth of breath

 

I’ve strutted on the stage

and shouted my disdain

pissing out my rage

again and yet again

 

But I've never seen result’s

in the actions of my words

or considered the tumult

of the audience in their herds

 

And neither do I care

if beyond this gilded page

their appreciation shared

dissuades

the rebellion I persuade

  

Though I rebel but for the favour

and rewards by way of wealth

I come not as a saviour

but for the good of my own health 

 

(please give generously)

 

◄ My words, my children

England in bloom ►

Comments

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Wolfgar Miere

Tue 19th Jul 2016 06:57

Thanks Phil/Rob,

maybe some level of anonymity is better for the writer and reader in many respects.

David.

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Robert Mann

Mon 18th Jul 2016 11:21

Wolfie - I find myself agreeing with all Phil has said. It's ok to write protest poetry, but maybe it should come with the caveat of the writer's biography. Nice piece.
Rob

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Wolfgar Miere

Tue 12th Jul 2016 17:01

Thanks Phil and Martin,

great to get your feedback.

David.

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Martin Elder

Tue 12th Jul 2016 10:33

I agree with Phil powerfully put David. There so many good lines here. I love the whole piece. Keep them coming mate

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Phil Kay

Tue 12th Jul 2016 09:57

A mighty and clear indictment.


"I’ve never held a rifle

or stood in front of death

but in politics I trifle

and measure

worth of breath"


Chunks of silt too.... I know those self styled peoples poets... this resonates... because they also tell me what the fishing industry was like, from their ten years of age perspective... and they tell me how rough my background was from their semi detached comfort, and they pass comment on seafarers, and our rough ways... one minute a mighty thing to be shantied about the next drunkards from the slums and don't come near my fucking daughter...

Or they are from the housing estate that offers a suggestion of credibility... but instead of waxing about that they decide they are expert enough to comment on everything as if an insider, and dare to describe the pain of actually living through it as if it belonged to them... fucking words....

Thank you David... powerful and words and more truth... with beautiful structure and wordage... (I think... I don't know much about that malarky).

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