Subtraction Flower

by Lisa Zaran

You could die for it-
love,
Or refuse it altogether
and know nothing
except the urgency
of youth. Men

have been
solitary
for ages
carrying the
stoniest of hearts
in their broad chests
while we women

begin too early
brush the brown leaves
from our shoulders, go
from bloom to fade
as soon as
we see the sunrise

We let our eyes go first
Then there is the limp lolling
of our hearts from side to side
the tongue we cut away
the blind kiss on the backlash of night
the giving giving giving of sin

As women
we blindly wish
past the climax of passion
as we vanish into a world of men
whose ribcages we were scraped from
Perhaps we are born of seeds
our essence crawling up the stem
to feed the bees

Perhaps
every flower you see
is a woman
and when
she's in bloom
and when she is blooming
red
and when her leaves are wingbeats
of green in the autumn wind
beating wings of green, yes
even as the wind tries to humiliate her
it fails because
she's in love

Babi Yar

by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

No monument lies over Babi Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
Today I am as old in years
as all the Jewish people.
Now I seem to be
a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish crucified, on the cross,
and to this day I bear the scars of nails.
I seem to be
Dreyfus.
The Philistine
is both informer and judge.
I am behind bars.
Beset on every side.
Hounded,
spat on,
slandered.
Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced
Brussels lace
stick their parasols into my face.
I seem to be then
a young boy in Byelostok.
Blood runs, spilling over the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
give off a stench of vodka and onion.
A boot kicks me aside, helpless.
In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies.
While they jeer and shout,
"Best the Yids. Save Russia!"
some grain-marketeer beats up my mother.
O my Russian people!
I know
you
are international to the core.
But those with unclean hands
have often made a jingle of your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
How vile these anti-Semites-
without a qualm
they pompously called themselves
the Union of the Russian People!
I seem to be
Anne Frank
transparent
as a branch in April.
And I love.
And have no need of phrases.
My need
is that we gaze into each other.
How little we can see
or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
we are denied the sky.
Yet we can do so much -
tenderly
embrace each other in a darkened room.
They're coming here?
Be not afraid. Those are the booming
sounds of spring:
spring is coming here.
Come then to me.
Quick, give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
No, it's the ice breaking ...
The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look ominous,
like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
turning gray.
And I myself
am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.
I am
each old man
here shot dead.
I am
every child
here shot dead.
Nothing in me
shall ever forget!
The "internationale," let it
thunder
when the last anti-Semite on earth
is buried forever.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
In there callous rage, all anti-Semites
must hate me now as a Jew.
For that reason
I am a true Russian!

Wars and Rumors of Wars

by Emanuel Xavier

“Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that ye not be troubles; all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet ” -Matthew 24:6
1.
I escape the horrors of war
with a towel and a room
Offering myself
to Palestinian and Jewish boys
as a 'piece' to the Middle East
when I should be concerned with the
untimely deaths
of dark-skinned babies
and the brutal murders
of light-skinned fathers

2.
I've been more concerned with how to make
the covers of local fag rags
than how to open the minds
of angry little boys
trotting loaded guns
Helpless in finding words
that will stop the blood
from spilling like secrets into soil
where great prophets are buried

3.
I return to the spaces
where I once dealt drugs
a celebrated author gliding past velvet ropes
while my club kid friends are mostly dead
from an overdose or HIV-related symptoms
Marilyn wears the crown of thorns
while 4 out of the 5 weapons used to kill Columbine students
had been sold by the same police force
that came to their rescue
Not all terrorists have features too foreign
to be recognised in the mirror
Our mistakes are our responsibility

4.
The skyline outside my window
is the only thing that has changed
Men still rape women
and blame them for their weaknesses
Children are still molested
by the perversion of Catholic guilt
My ex-boyfriend still takes comfort
in the other white-powder-
the one used solely to destroy himself
and those around him
Not the one used to ignite and create carnage
or mailbox fear

5.
It is said when skin is cut,
and then pressed together, it seals
but what about acid-burned skulls
engraved with the word 'faggot',
a foot bone with flesh
and other crushed body parts

6.
It was a gay priest that read last rites
to firefighters as towers collapsed
it was a gay pilot that crashed a plane
into Pennsylvania fields
It was a gay couple that was responsible
for the tribute of light
in memory of the fallen
Taliban leaders would bury them
to their necks
and tumble walls to crush their heads
Catholic leaders simply condemn them
as perverts
having offered nothing but sin
Queer blood is just rosaries rosaries scattered on tile

7.
Heroes do not always get heaven

8.
We all have wings . . .
some of us just don't why

Union bonds do not last forever, but I still had all the world as my stage

I must admit, the end of the Basildon lockout was a bit of an anti-climax.

I had discovered more about the camaraderie of socialism and the true meaning of the brotherhood of the union (be fair, there were not many women in the trade union at that time) in those couple of weeks with the printers than I had in the previous five or six years.

Don’t get me wrong, I was itching to get back to work as a journalist but at the same time this would separate me from my new comrades, because I had no need to go to the head office which was on an industrial site away from the town centre.

Finding stories and subbing a page still gave me a thrill but that was only eight hours a day five days a week.

Never mind, I still had the Thalians.

Although there were only two productions a year the space in between was filled with preparing for the next production, auditioning for parts, making scenery and all the rest of the work that goes with being involved in amateur drama.

There were also social occasions, of course.

Parties at someone’s home would happen at least once a month and then there were visits to see professional theatre groups, not just locally at Basildon Arts Centre but also at other places in Essex, including open air auditoriums.

In my first 12 months with the group I appeared in two productions.

I have already referred to my role as Canon Chasuble in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. Not exactly a taxing role but fun all the same.

I was also cast as Terry in Bill MacIlwraith’s The Anniversary.

This was a much meatier role. It was made into a film in the late 60s with Bette Davis playing Mrs Taggart, the widowed matriarch who now runs the family construction business in which all three sons work.

Terry was the middle son, married to a shrewish wife and with five children. He wants to take his family to Canada but daren’t let his mother know.

The older son is a secret transvestite and the younger son is a philanderer whose philandering days are coming to an end because his latest girlfriend is pregnant and plans to take the main female role in young Tom’s life.

It was an enjoyable play and there was a coincidence.

I had many friends in Rhyl, though none as close as my mate Roger, but one in particular had been my partner in a brief entertainment management partnership and his name was Terry Taggart – his dad ran a construction company and he worked for him.

Oh, wait a minute, I don’t think I had mentioned the entertainment management business had I?

It was a short-lived affair but we managed to get bookings for a few acts, including a trumpeter called Kenny, who could have given Kenny Ball a run for his money; a guitar duo (folk); and a comedian who was no threat to Max Boyce.

Mind you, ten per cent of a £2 fee was never going to make us a fortune and I had no intention of giving up the day job, nor did Terry.

The Old Prison

by Judith Wright

Australian poet
The rows of cells are unroofed,
a flute for the wind's mouth,
who comes with a breath of ice
from the blue caves of the south.

O dark and fierce day:
the wind like an angry bee
hunts for the black honey
in the pits of the hollow sea.

Waves of shadow wash
the empty shell bone-bare,
and like a bone it sings
a bitter song of air.

Who built and laboured here?
The wind and the sea say
-Their cold nest is broken
and they are blown away-

They did not breed nor love
each in his cell alone
cried as the wind now cries
through this flute of stone.

Friends Departed

by Henry Vaughan

They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling'ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have show'd them me,
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark?

He that hath found some fledg'd birds nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams
Calls to the soul, when man doth sleep:
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.

If a star were confin'd into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under Thee!
Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass:
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.

One man and his dog – but it’s the dog in charge of the show

When I was a trainee reporter – over 50 years ago – most of the stories I reported on were straightforward.

A story could be a report on a court case; reports from a council meeting; sports reports; a theatre review; or one of many other events.

In all these cases I went to court, the council, the theatre or the football match before returning to my desk and writing my story.

Because my early years were all on weekly newspapers this was constant.

On my training courses in Cardiff I was taught to handle a different kind of story – a running story where the action was still going on as the press deadline drew closer.

These were normally major incidents to be reported in daily newspapers (morning or evening), such as a train crash, where the situation was always updating from the basic report:

“Five people are believed to have been killed in an incident on the railway line between Nether Wallop and Upper Staunton. Emergency vehicles are at the scene, close to the railway bridge on the A427.”

If the deadline was close this would initially be set as a single paragraph Stop Press report. It would be set ready to go on the page but in the meantime space would be sought to update the story if more came in from the reporter at the site (in those days you relied on there being a phone box nearby).

From this stage on a reporter might provide an update every 10 minutes which would be phoned through to copy takers, tidied up by sub-editors and prepared for printing.

After half an hour the story might read:

“At least seven people have been killed and scores more injured when the crowded 1pm express train from Nether Wallop to Upper Staunton was derailed just over 200 yards from the bridge where the A142 from Middle Wallop to Lower Staunton goes over the railway track.

Three fire engines, eight ambulances and a number of police vehicles are at the site and the scene is under the command of Chief Inspector George Henson, who told our reporter: “The train driver and six passengers, including two children, have been confirmed dead and the fire services are attempting to cut passengers free from the wreckage.

“I am not prepared to give any names at present until those involved are properly identified and their families informed.”

With 10 minutes to go until deadline the running reports are still coming in and copy is being snatched off copytakers to be subbed and set.

A farmer has described the horrific scene at the site where a crowded mainline train came off the tracks at 1.30pm today killing at least seven people, including two children, and injuring scores more.

The crowded express train left Nether Wallop at 1pm for Upper Staunton and came off the tracks just over 200 yards from the bridge where the A142 from Middle Wallop to Lower Staunton goes over the railway track.

Farmer George Stevenson was ploughing one of his fields which runs alongside the track and told our reporter: “I heard this massive bang and then screeching metal and I turned to see the mangled train engine and carriages and I could hear screaming.

“I told my boy to run to the farmhouse and call 999 while I went down to see if I could help. It was horrific, some people had been thrown out onto the trackside but I could hear more inside. I just didn’t know what to do.”

Less than 10 minutes after the crash two fire engines from Upper Staunton and one each from Lower Staunton and Nether Wallop were at the scene closely followed by a police contingent led by Chief Inspector George Henson.”

Our reporter was at the site 25 minutes after the crash and saw ambulances from St John’s hospital and the Royal Alexandra Hospital ferrying away the injured as other ambulances were arriving.

Chief Inspector Henson told our reporter: “The train driver and six passengers, including two children, have been confirmed dead and the fire services are attempting to cut more passengers free from the wreckage.

“The train was crowded with at least 70 people on board and nearly all of them are injured, ranging from minor cuts and bruising up to life-threatening injuries.

“I am not prepared to give any names at present until those involved are properly identified and their families informed.”

As we went to press there were reports that two other passengers, believed to be businessmen from London, have died as a result of their injuries.

The evening newspaper would have been on the streets by 4pm, just two and a half hours after the crash, thanks to the work of a reporter, two or three copytakers, three or four sub-editors and a number of printworkers.

Nowadays newspaper companies have online newspapers with stories being updated as and when, normally the responsibility of one person, often a reporter with no training in subbing a story and no idea how to write snappy headlines.

Over the decades we old hacks, most of us now retired, have seen editorial staffs wither on the vine and even 30 years ago we were joking about newspaper owners running their editorial staff on the basis of one man and his dog.

By the start of the 21st century more and more papers have gone online and media companies have bought out small newspaper companies and consolidated them with staff handling sites for more than one person in their area.

You can view online newspaper sites from Aberdeen to Aberdare or Edinburgh to Exeter and you will see no difference between the way a story is handled in one to the way it is in another and a lot of the stories will even be the same hundreds of miles apart.

When a story is being updated it is quite often an untrained junior, who happens to be a computer enthusiast, who adds in the new information. Unfortunately they often don’t change the rest of the story after the first three pars.

This means that an update on the story might reveal that only two people have died and halfway through the story it is still referring to seven dead.

The trouble is that it does not just involve regional newspapers. Some of our major daily newspapers are owned by these conglomerates. There are even cases where one national left-leaning newspaper is in the same stable as a true blue Tory newspaper and a couple of scandal sheets which no decent journalist would want to be involved with.

We don’t have a case where one man and his dog produces a newspaper, or even three or four newspapers. Nowadays the dog is in charge and has a few mutts handling 20 or 30 news sites.

I’m just glad I got out and retired before this nonsense they call modern journalism got its grip and centuries old newspapers and dragged them into the gutter.

Days Teach Me

by Unknown

Days teach me
To always dream
However it may never come true
But that's the best way
To live life through

Days teach me
To dream so high
Never give up and always try
Never let go or say goodbye

Days teach me
That when there is darkness
For sure dawn is the next
And when everything is so tiring
For sure there would be time to rest

Days teach me
To always care for a friend
Always be true and never pretend
Always love with no end
And the broken hearts try to mend

Days teach me
Never to feel the hate
Always be confident and never hesitate
Always believe in fate

Days teach me
That lovers meet and stay together
And others stay apart
So if you are one who have been left behind
Don't cry and suffer
Just search for a new start

Days teach me
To open my heart and forgive
Cause that will help me to survive and live

Days teach me
To always offer my helping hand
And never doubt in people when there is no proof
And always try to understand

Days teach me
Not to be shy
If I have done something wrong
But to admit it and be proud that I have learned
A lesson that will help you to be strong

One in the eye for the bosses when picketers produce a Royal edition

The weekend came and the weekend went.

The journalists in Basildon were still locked out by the Westminster Press Group management.

The printworkers were still refusing to return to work unless the lockout was ended and the journalists also allowed to return.

On that Monday morning in November, with the wedding of Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips just two days away, the only news being published was the news sheet being put out each day by the combined unions disputes group.

The news and sports journalists were out gathering news and the subs were editing it and getting as much of it as possible into a daily news sheet (always leaving a space for updates on the dispute).

The printworkers had found a local printers (a union shop of course) to print them off each evening and our pickets were dishing them out at the picket lines around Basildon, including in the town centre.

The message we were intent on getting through to local people, and advertisers, was that we were not the ones stopping the news being published in the Evening Echo and the weekly newspapers in the group, it was the WP management with their refusal to end the lockout.

We appeared to have got our message over within 24 hours as the people handing out the news sheets, we didn’t ask a single penny for them, were being given donations and told to put it towards whatever support was needed for the people involved in the dispute.

Even more, some small local businesses offered financial support with just an acknowledgment in the news sheet to say they were backing the journalists and printworkers. Every penny helped.

Each day an approach was made to management asking them to end the lockout and every day management refused. They did say that the printworkers could return at any time but they refused to return without us.

This summed up, for me, the true meaning of socialism and solidarity and gave me a completely different perspective on the people in other unions, especially the print unions.

We were still at this status quo on Wednesday, 14th November, 1973, when Princess Anne walked down the aisle at Westminster Abbey to marry Captain Mark Phillips.

Normally this would have been a big event in Basildon, especially for the Evening Echo which would have run a special souvenir edition on the day, with pages of pictures and stories about Anne going from a little girl with blonde curls, pictured on a savings stamp, to the bright young horsewoman who had captivated her cavalryman.

Late afternoon editions would have run stories about the event itself with pictures from London of the ceremony and the departure of the coupl,e from Westminster Abbey in a horse-drawn carriage.

All this would have attracted shedloads of advertising.

Unfortunately for the advertising department there was no Echo that day and therefore nothing to sell advertising space for.

Meanwhile, back on the streets, our pickets were having a great time with people making sure they had our disputes news sheet for the day which on the top half of page one carried a letter from those involved in the dispute with a great big black heading: DEAR ANNE

The letter went on to congratulate the princess on the occasion of her marriage and apologising for not being able to report on it in the way we would have wanted.

The background to the dispute was then outlined once again.

We printed more than double the daily news sheets that day, the lower half of the front and the whole of the other A3 side included news items and sports reports as usual.

They were all snapped up and not one person would take one without making a donation to dispute funds.

I believe that was the straw that broke the WP camel’s back.

Within days management were ready to talk to an NUJ official from London who came down to Basildon. Our print colleagues were quite prepared to allow management and the NUJ to sort out our lockout first after which they could agree to return to work.

Our official had the knowledge that the printworkers would not return to work until and unless the journalists were allowed to return.

Altogether the whole thing lasted about a fortnight (although after almost 50 years my memories of exact timings are a bit hazy), yet within a day or two it was as though nothing had ever happened.

This was probably because at the Standard Recorder offices we were far enough way from head office management to ensure that our relationship with our management, the editor Tony Blandford, had not really been damaged. At heart Tony was a journalist and I think that in that heart he had been backing us all the way.

It was my real initiation into the work of the unions and the power the workers could wield when necessary. It was not to be my last but the next round was still a few years away.

I Am Not Yours

by Sarah Teasdale

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.