Oh for the love of God. Our elites babble incessantly about “diversity”. But this is the real damn thing. “All Along the Watchtower” has been one of my personal anthems for 50 years. I have never heard it played so marvelously, so miraculously, so completely.
JackFebruary 28, 2022, 5:02 PM
They did a great job but I seriously doubt that that performance by very competent musicians has a thing to do with the day-to-day variant of what we actually have with “diversity”.
Once again, the mavens of so-called “diversity” exclude the stylings of Wahhabi guitar legend Djinni bin Hendriks and his Sufidelic classic “Allah’s On The Watchtower.”
There must be some kind of blade over here
Said the Mullah to the Thief
There’s too many contusions
I can’t make this chop neat
Taliban, they stone my wife
Bombers scorch my earth
No one in this land of strife
Know what a poppy is worth
No reason to go Wahhabist
The Thief, he slyly spoke
There are infidels among us
Who think that Shari’ah is a joke
But you and I we’ve been thru that
And that is not our faith
So let us stop chopping falsely now
My stump is starting to ache
Well, ALLAH’s on the watchtower
Snipers kept their view
As unveiled woman came and wept
As we stoned them too
Outside in the Kush distance
A Blackhawk did prowl
Two Warthogs were approaching
And the wind began to howl
Rob De WittFebruary 28, 2022, 6:58 PM
Lacking only Oko Yono….
KCKFebruary 28, 2022, 9:57 PM
This Dylan song takes me to Biblical times; to the exile and Assyrian and Babylonian times. All along the watchtower, princes kept the view. Stone parapets and the walled city.
The joker and the thief. You can be either one, or both. It’s universal-it means what you’re thinking it means. All I’ve got is a red guitar; three chords and the truth. The rest is up to you.
It’s: apocalyptic. I mean that sincerely. There are end times, and then there are end times. Choose.
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
from “1054 AD”
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Camouflage
Sourdough Mountain Lookout
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
Chimes of Freedom
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”
Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
De Breanski
VAN GOGH
Hillegas
To the Stonecutters
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Real World Address for Donations, Mash Notes and Hate Mail
Gerard Van der Leun
1692 MANGROVE AVE
APT 379
Chico, Ca 95926
from “1054 AD”
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
Comments on this entry are closed.
What’s next?, you ask?
Read em and weep.
https://www.globalresearch.ca/whats-behind-new-aids-scare/5771628
Got bolt hole?
This is the best thing I’ve seen in many days. First smile I’ve had in a week.
Thanks.
JWM
Oh for the love of God. Our elites babble incessantly about “diversity”. But this is the real damn thing. “All Along the Watchtower” has been one of my personal anthems for 50 years. I have never heard it played so marvelously, so miraculously, so completely.
They did a great job but I seriously doubt that that performance by very competent musicians has a thing to do with the day-to-day variant of what we actually have with “diversity”.
Here’s another in that series I believe… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avx2OkDZN6o
Once again, the mavens of so-called “diversity” exclude the stylings of Wahhabi guitar legend Djinni bin Hendriks and his Sufidelic classic “Allah’s On The Watchtower.”
There must be some kind of blade over here
Said the Mullah to the Thief
There’s too many contusions
I can’t make this chop neat
Taliban, they stone my wife
Bombers scorch my earth
No one in this land of strife
Know what a poppy is worth
No reason to go Wahhabist
The Thief, he slyly spoke
There are infidels among us
Who think that Shari’ah is a joke
But you and I we’ve been thru that
And that is not our faith
So let us stop chopping falsely now
My stump is starting to ache
Well, ALLAH’s on the watchtower
Snipers kept their view
As unveiled woman came and wept
As we stoned them too
Outside in the Kush distance
A Blackhawk did prowl
Two Warthogs were approaching
And the wind began to howl
Lacking only Oko Yono….
This Dylan song takes me to Biblical times; to the exile and Assyrian and Babylonian times. All along the watchtower, princes kept the view. Stone parapets and the walled city.
The joker and the thief. You can be either one, or both. It’s universal-it means what you’re thinking it means. All I’ve got is a red guitar; three chords and the truth. The rest is up to you.
It’s: apocalyptic. I mean that sincerely. There are end times, and then there are end times. Choose.
WOW! Me like.
Me like even more better today.