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    Layers of overlap: theatre, cinema, memory, imagination – Farah Ahamed

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    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

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    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

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  • Poetry
    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Three Poems from “The Bastard and the Bishop” – Gerald Fleming

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    God appeared at midnight: Three poems by Bitasta Ghoshal

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    I dream of the tree of silence: Poems by Rafael Romero

    Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

    Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

  • Fiction
    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    A very different story (Part I) – Nandini Sahu

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    After Breaking News – Mojaffor Hossain

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE THEATER OF MEMORY – Julio Monteiro Martins

    Let the Rivers Speak! – Lucia Cupertino and the Poetry of the Global Souths, by  Pina Piccolo

    Fanta Blackcurrant – Makena Onjerika

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

    All the Sadeqs are getting killed – Mojaffor Hossain, translated by Noora Shamsi Bahar

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

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    Figures of Pathos  (Part I)- Salvatore Piermarini

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    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

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    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Lino-printing fairy tales over Constitutions- The artwork of Mihaela Šuman

    Layers of overlap: theatre, cinema, memory, imagination – Farah Ahamed

    Architectures of Delusion –  Steve Salaita

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  • Interviews & reviews
    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

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    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    Desperately seeking Marion: A Review of ” Women, Antifascism and Mussolini’s Italy – The Life of Marion Cave Rosselli”, by Isabelle Richet

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    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Tim Ingold’s “Correspondences” – Giuseppe Ferrara

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    But for plants there is no delegating: Seven Poems by Achille Pignatelli

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? – Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The malice of desires feeds the power of my imagination – Poems by Mubeen Kishany

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

  • News
    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

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    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

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Home Out of bounds

ARISE! a filmpoem

Poem by Paul Summers, film by Carl Joyce

November 26, 2019
in Out of bounds, Poetry, The dreaming machine n 5
ARISE! a filmpoem
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arise!
‘they being dead yet speaketh’

 

so history is done,
the shafts capped,

the breathless heaps
erased or made-over:

no monument
save memory,

save anecdote
& frail romance,

no rusted remnant,
no totem mark,

only nature to sing
their hymn.

three score years & ten
of spoil beneath our feet,

our antecedents
rendered mute & obsolete.

history is done
the cynics proclaim,

they do not hear it
nagging in our veins,

they do not hear
the bitter wind

hiss its litany
of familiar names.

they do not hear
the whispered yakka

echo in the helix
of our complex genes.

they do not hear
the roll-call

of redundant lives,
of prospects slain

at altars of profit
& heinous spite.

history is done
the sages refrain,

they do not hear it
niggling in our veins.

they do not hear
the lists of seams

spun like lyric
in dense pitmatic:

ballarat, harvey,
busty & main,

bensham, brockwell,
tilley & dean,

hutton, maudlin
& the yard,

the cold black logic
of the thin five quarter.

they do not hear
the voice of rocks,

of cold geology
incanted like spells:

blue seggar & shale,
flag & whin,

mudstone, metal,
spar & post,

each stratum
still murmuring

its melody
of toil.

& so, we march
this bastille day

to dunhelm’s slopes,
to durham town,

squat citadel
of cuthbert’s bones,

of snaking wear
& privileged gown,

its toad-back cobbles
applauding each footfall.

& so we march
on durham town,

reclaim the detail
of our pasts,

to give it voice,
to farm its hope,

to let it seep
into our futures.

our congregation
grows its ranks;

spilling from each
compass point,

trickling through
the hands of time,

from redhills’ redbrick
parliament of hope,

with promise seeping
from its chambers,

from village
& from dale,

from coast
& moor,

our unity
is strength.

proud confluence
of grief & hope,

of youth & age,
of then & now.

some to revel,
some to mourn,

made maudlin
by the tenor horn,

each breathy sweep
of weeping notes

casts ferric nuggets
in our throats.

some to rage,
& some to sigh

beneath a slump
of july sky.

history is done,
he sceptic claims,

he does not hear it
thunder through our veins.

each fathom sunk,
each bounty won,

each dim-lit shift,
each hollow profit,

each shattered bone,
each fall of stone,

each bleak ignition’s
scorched cadavers,

each in-rush, each crush,
each blue lipped lesion,

each shallow lung
left blackened or anoxic,

each klaxon calling
grief to bank,

each chiselled obelisk
raised in memory,

each sorry litany
of whispered names:

the mason’s chisel
rendered blunt,

carving out
each ream of names,

history is done,
the tyrants impart,

they do not hear it
thumping in our hearts.

in clara vale,
the earth still boils,

cooked by layers
of smouldering spoil,

a beacon burning
underground,

a male-voice choir
of spectral sound,

belching sulphurous
ghosts of steam,

summoning the dead
from sheol’s dreams.

a rallying call
through time & space,

to gather near
the market place.

worker, precariat,
& stoic poor,

from ferryhill
to ushaw moor,

a rallying call
of stubborn hope,

fanning out
like hockled rope.

its message slicing
through the dark,

from peterlee
& pity me,

to westoe, wearmouth
& bear park,

from spenny, shildon & tow law
to pelton, penshaw & stanley crook.

it calls out greed & wanton spite,
it calls the capitalists to book.

its swarm of words
carried on the breeze,

down the ghosted streets
of the category d’s.

& so we march,
to dunhelm’s slopes,

our confluence
of loss & hope.

& breaching the walls
of fragile time,

breaking the bond
of heaven’s grip,

a hobnailed legion
of stubborn ghosts,

ascended from
each idle shaft

or lonely grave,
to march behind

a black draped banner.
wide eyed & boisterous,

the soot-faced lads
of sometimewhen,

amassing like spartans
by the county hotel,

to swell our ranks,
to grow our voice.

history is done,
our keepers refrain,

they do not hear it
nagging in our veins.

& so we march,
to durham town.

for the many
not the few.

to build jerusalem anew.
for need not greed,

to fill the racecourse
field with dreams,

to let the mourning
stars look down

upon this confluence
of hope & faith,

of youth & age,
of then & now.

a union forged
in bastille sun,

each slow step forward
growing our momentum.

the rhythm of
half a million feet
marching through
these cobbled streets
beseech us
to unlearn defeat

& come the day,
our hope replete,

our children will bear witness
to a victory complete.

victory for the many
& not the few,

blake’s jerusalem
built anew.

history is done,
the cynics bark,

they do not hear it
singing through the dark,

they do not feel
our losses ache,

the past lives on,
our future still to make.

& so we march
on durham town,
to tear oppression’s
standards down,

to wipe away
each subjugated frown.

& so we march
on dunhelm’s slopes,

proud confluence
of unity & hope.

& so we march.
& so we march.

& so we march.
& so we march.

Paul Summers was born in Blyth, Northumberland, in 1967. He has recently returned to his native North East England after a five-year stint living tropical Central Queensland. His poems have appeared widely in print since the late Eighties and he has performed all over the world. He was founding co-editor of the ‘leftfield’ British magazines Billy Liar and Liar Republic and a co-director of Liar Inc Ltd, responsible for facilitating countless creative community and educational projects across the North of England and beyond. He has also written for TV, film, radio and theatre and has collaborated many times with other artists and musicians on mixed-media projects and public art.   bibliography: arise! (Culture Matters, 2018); the boy who stole the curate’s egg (Black Light Engine Room, 2017); straya (Smokestack Books, 2017); primitive cartography (Walleah Press, Hobart, 2013. Smokestack Books, UK, 2014); union, new & selected poems (Smokestack Books, UK, 2011); The Dreams Days Break Portfolio (with photographer David Gray, 78 Degrees & Clear, 2010); Three Men on the Metro (with WN Herbert & Andy Croft, Five Leaves, 2009); big bella’s dirty cafe (Dogeater Books, 2006); cunawabi (with photographer David Gray, Cunawabi Publishing, London, 2003);  The Rat’s Mirror (Lapwing Press, 1999); The Last Bus (Iron Press, 1998); Beer & Skittles (Echo Room Press, 1997); Vermeer’s Dark Parlour (Echo Room Press, 1996); 140195 (Blue Cowboys/Echo Room Press, 1995).

Tags: Carl Joycedurham townminersPaul SummersPoetryrebellionresistancestrikeunionvideoworking-class

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