A Poem for Lammas

(Lammas or Lughnasadh is traditionally a feast of thanksgiving for the first  fruits of the corn.. The sun has shone upon the crops all season, which are now ready to harvest. The first grains are pulled and the first loaves of bread are made and shared with friends and loved ones. Rituals of Lammas are centred around seeing the fruits of our labours unfold as we wished. Our hard work has paid off and we can relax now before the preparations for next year begin. Time to chill out, break bread and share our spoils. Thoughts of transformation, death and rebirth are also part of Lugnnasadh ) 

A Poem for Lammas

We harvest the seed and the grain from the soil.
And transformation now surrounds us,
There is joy among the chaos, roses as well as bread
Lets share our rewards and bless the earth,
Release sparkles of thankfulness
With our smiles spread a glint of hope,
Let our spirits belong to the world
Move forward  together light and bold,
As summer recedes and winter draws near
Hold on to any chance that breaks,
Bless the departed the newly arrived
Let black clouds of hate drift on by,
In the noisy confusion of life
Keep gratitude within our souls.

Remembering Pacifist Poet Hedd Wyn ( 13/1/1887 – 31/7/1917)

Welsh language poet/ pacifist Ellis Humphrey Evans, better known by his bardic pen name Hedd Wyn. (Blessed Peace).was born on the 31st July 1917, the eldest son of 11 children of Evan and Mary Evans, of Yr Ysgwrn farm, Trawsfynydd. Meironydd.

He began writing Welsh-language poetry aged just 11, mastering the hardest form of Welsh poetry (the cynghanedd) at 12, and continued to write after leaving school to work on the farm when he was 14. By 19 he was a regular competitor in eisteddfodau and won the first of his  chairs at Bala Eisteddfod in 1907. Others followed at Llanuwchllyn, Pwllheli and Pontardawe (the latter in 1915 with the First World War underway).In 1916, he won second place at the at the Aberystwyth National Eisteddfod with Ystrad Fflur, an awdl written in honour of Strata Florida, the medieval Cistercian abbey ruins in Ceredigion. He vowed to win first place the following year.
Wynn had initially sat out the war for three years as a sheep farmer, a Christian pacifist, Hedd Wyn hadn’t enlisted, but when conscription began in 1916, the Evans family were required to send one of their sons to war. To spare his younger brother, Robert, Ellis volunteered. Following a spell of training in March at Litherland in Liverpool Private Evans was despatched for active service in Flanders and found himself stationed with his regiment at the notorious Pilckem Ridge immediately prior to the opening of the Passchendale offensive (3rd Ypres).
Previously while on leave at the farm, he wrote his romantic poem, Yr Arwr (The Hero), for submission to the judges of the National Eisteddfod. The work was inspired by Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Prometheus Unbound. He didn't want  to go back but the military police came for him in June. He left the poem Yr Arwr, (The Hero) on the kitchen table and re wrote it from memory en route to France. Here is a link to  more  on this poem from the People's Collection Wales / Casgliad Y Werin Cymru :-https://www.peoplescollection.wales/story/378223
However the reluctant soldier from the Yr Ysgwrn farm near Trawsfynydd was tragically killed on the first day of the Battle of Passchendaele in Belgium on July 31, 1917. He was one of 9,300 British troops who were slaughtered in the first three days of the Battle of Passchendaele.Soon after being wounded he was carried to a first-aid post and still conscious he asked the doctor "Do you think I will live?" although he had little chance of surviving. Mr Wyn died at around 11am. 
Some weeks after his death on 6 September 1917  when the ceremony at Birkenhead Park took place, the adjudicators announced that the winning entry had been submitted under the pseudonym Fleur de Lys. At the award ceremony the archdruid rose to summon the poet, in the traditional fashion, to come to take the chair, calling him three times to make himself known. But it then had to be revealed, to the consternation of the gathering, which included the prime minister, David Lloyd George, that Hedd Wyn had fallen while fighting with the Royal Welch Fusiliers “somewhere in France.” The empty chair was draped with a black shroud, and the festival of that year has ever since been called Eisteddfod y Gadair Ddu (The Eisteddfod of the Black) and the Archdruid spoke of ‘the festival in tears and the poet in his grave’ The shockwaves at the time were palpable. “No words can adequately describe the wave of emotion that swept over the vast audience when Wyn’s bardic chair was draped with the symbols of mourning,"  the Cambrian News and Merionethshire Standard newspaper reported at the time.. Wyn’s absence that day was emblematic of a lost generation of men who would never return home.

The Black Chair was brought by train and then horse and cart to his parents farm, Yr Ysgwrn, on a hillside above the village of Trawsfynydd in the Prysor Valley,, the whole village turned out in mourning. The stone farm cottage, which dates back to the early 16th century, quickly became a place of pilgrimage, where visitors were warmly received by the poet’s family and descendants. Yr Ysgwrn, in Trawsfynydd, Gwynedd, was bought for the nation by the Snowdonia National Park Authority (SNPA) in March 2012. The  Park Authority has spent nearly two years restoring Yr Ysgwrn, under the watchful eye of the poet's nephew, Gerald Williams. Now 88, the farmer has helped keep the memory of Hedd Wyn alive , and is delighted to see the end results.A new exhibition and visitors' centre has also been built, and marks the impact of the war on the community.
Over time Hedd Wynn became a powerful and lasting symbol of the many Welsh and British soldiers who were senselessly slaughtered on the killing fields of Europe. Buried initially on the battlefield (out of necessity) his body was subsequently moved to Artillery Wood cemetery, Boeinghe, near Ypres, Flanders following the armistice.

A  memorable, though slightly romanticised Welsh-language film based on HeddWyn's life  has also helped bring his story and verse to a wider audience and was produced in 1992, Hedd Wynn,.which I  fortunate to watch last night on S4C. It is available to purchase on DVD http://www.sainwales.com/store/dvd/sain-dvd-101
Aberystwyth’s National Library of Wales hosts the original manuscript of the ode ‘Yr Arwr’,Hedd Wyn’s final draft of the poem which won him the chair at the 1917 Birkenhead Eisteddfod. The collection also includes a number of personal notes and items and notes of the bard. https://www.llgc.org.uk/index.php?id=3790
The library is also hosting a special exhibition ‘The Fallen Poets’ until 9th September, 2017, commemorating both Hedd Wyn and Edward Thomas, who both died in battle in 1917.  Celebrating their lives and their legacy, the exhibition will also look at ways in which the two have since inspired writers, poets and filmmakers.
In 1918 the decision was made that Ellis' poems should gave a wider audience, and they were published in a collection called "Cerdi'r Budail" (Shepherd's Songs). The money raised by the sale of the book paid for the statue by L.S. Merrifield which the villagers of Trawfynydd pass every day. He is portrayed not as a soldier but as the shepherd they knew. The cross which  marked his grave at Boesinghe is now displayed at his former school, which was renamed "Ysgol Hedd Wyn" in his honour, and there is a memorial plaque at St George's Church at Ypres which has become a place of pilgrimage for Welsh men and women.
One of his most powerful  poems that I have  found translated  is “Y Rhyfel” (War), which I post below.

Y Rhyfell /War-  Hedd Wyn (Translated by Gillian Clarke)

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng, A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell; O'i ôl mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng, Yn codi ei awdurdod hell. Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd; Mae swn yr ymladd ar ein clyw, A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd. Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt, Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw, A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt, A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw

Bitter to live in times like these. While God declines beyond the seas; Instead, man, king or peasantry, Raises his gross authority. When he thinks God has gone away Man takes up his sword to slay His brother; we can hear death's roar. It shadows the hovels of the poor. Like the old songs they left behind, We hung our harps in the willows again. Ballads of boys blow on the wind, Their blood is mingled with the rain.

Today Hedd Wyn is regarded as one of Wale's foremost poets. The bardic chair that Wyn was never able to claim in 1917  has since been preserved at Wynn’s family home, now a museum, as a poignant reminder of those Wales lost in the war. This poet/Bardd continues to represent a lost generation that could have further enriched our literature and national life had they been spared.

I will end this post with the following poem by Hedd Wynn, translated by the poet  Alan Llwyd who incidentally wrote the script for the film mentioned previously.

Y Blotyn Du

Nid oes gennym hawl ar y sêr,
Na'r lleuad hiraethus chwaith,
Na'r cwmwl o aur a ymylch
Yng nghanol y glesni maith.

Nid oes gennym hawl ar ddim byd
Ond ar yr hen ddaear wyw;
A honno syn anhrefn i gyd
Yng nghanol gogoniant Duw.

The Black Spot

We have no claim to the stars
Nor the sad-faced cloud that immerses
Itself in celestial light.

We only have the right to exist
On earth in its vast devastation,
And it's only man' strife that destroys
The glory of God's creation.

The Poet's Grave in France reads Hedd Wyn Chief Bardd

Statue of Hedd Wyn , Trawsfynnyd

Gwladd Beirdd - Hedd Wyn ; English subtitles

World Day Against Trafficking

Today is World Day Against Trafficking.
Implemented officially by the U.N. General Assembly at the end of 2013, http://www.un.org/en/events/humantrafficking/ it was first marked on 20th July 2014.
World Day Against Trafficking in Persons strives to open up the conversation on the human rights violation that is human trafficking. Human trafficking forces men, women and children into labor or sexual exploitation. It can be found worldwide, just about every country in the world is involved, either as a place of origin, transportation or destination for victims. Especially vulnerable are migrants that have been displaced from their home country due to persecution, famine or war.
This issue of human trafficking erupted into the public conscience at the start of the twenty-first century, nevertheless, it is not a new phenomenon, in fact, it has been a global concern since the mid-nineteenth century. Human trafficking is modern day slavery, however, despite freedom from slavery being defined in numerous international conventions and legal systems of many countries, including The Universal Declaration of Human Rights 1948, UN Convention Against Transnational Organised Crime and its Protocols 2000, and Slavery Convention 1926, millions of people are still subjected to slavery in many forms today.
Across Europe organised crime groups are trafficking child refugees into prostitution, exploitation and forced labour.The International Labour Organization estimates that 21 million people are victims of forced labour globally. This estimate also includes victims of human trafficking for labour and sexual exploitation. While it is not known how many of these victims were trafficked, the estimate implies that currently, there are millions of trafficking in persons victims in the world. This modern day slavery needs to stop, now.
The UNODC Global Report on Trafficking in Persons 2016 states that “Conflicts create favourable conditions for trafficking in persons, but not only by generating a mass of vulnerable people escaping violence. Armed groups engage in trafficking in the territories in which they operate, and they have recruited thousands of children for the purpose of using them as combatants in various past and current conflicts. While women and girls tend to be trafficked for marriages and sexual slavery, men and boys are typically exploited in forced labour in the mining sector, as porters, soldiers and slaves”.
Criminal gangs take advantage of the migration crisis, forcing more people into different forms of slavery. At the United Nations in New York, a Declaration on Refugees and Migrants was agreed to by all 193 UN Member States in September 2016.  The New York Declaration is a political document setting forth the states’ commitments to launch a process of intergovernmental negotiations leading to the adoption of two global compacts, one for refugees and the other, the Global Compact for Safe, Orderly and Regular Migration. Of the nineteen commitments adopted by countries in the Declaration, three are dedicated to concrete action against the crimes of human trafficking and migrant smuggling.
You can read the UNODC Global Report on Trafficking in Persons 2016 here
This is the day also  on which the church remembers campaigners against slavery such as William Wilberforce and Olaudah Equiano. In their memory we need to continue the fight.
Trafficking in persons is one of the most reprehensible crimes against humanity. It is a violation of basic human rights, that involves the manipulation and exploitation of individuals, often leading to violence, intimidation and even death. It is targeted widely at the vulnerable sections of society, especially women and children, but also involves adult male victims.
Theresa May said she wants Britain to be at the forefront of the fight to stamp out modern day slavery and human trafficking.We can help lead this fight now by making safe and legal routes to protection for lone child refugees a reality, and help bring an end to this gross misuse of human life.
Please sign the following petition to open safe and legal routes to sanctuary for these children

http://safepassage.org.uk/petition/

They say laughter is the best medicine

Depression has become a common affliction in today's stressful society. It can result from many factors, including social pressures, the daily toxic political abusers,  psychological stressors, and our own biological makeup, and unwelcome events in our lives can lead to an exacerbation of symptoms. Stress is a big part of life, it is something that cannot be avoided, so we have to find ways to deal with it .
One of the most important things in life, that I have always have helped me personally is the beneficial effects of  laughter and humour. I've tried drugs and alcohol to try and pick me up, sometimes they have, but sometimes they haven't..
Ive  long come to the conclusion though that laughter is the best  medicine for the soul. More than just brightening up your day, sharing a good laugh can actually improve your health. The sound of laughter draws people together in ways that trigger healthy physical and emotional changes in the body.Laughter can reduce stress, anxiety, and depression, strengthen your immune system, and diminish pain.
But we should also remember that not everyone is in the mood for humour so we should try to be aware of the sensitivity of others. And when Theresa May and her  Tory' chums  laugh at us all the time, in their mocking and sneering way almost on a daily basis , it often leaves me with a rather unpleasant feeling. I am reminded too that theirs is a sick form of laughter, used only for derision. It's not as if they have suddenly developed a sense of humour, no, not at all. And if their laughing for no reason, perhaps they should take some medicine for it.
However  baring  that in mind  genuine  laughter that actually tickles the funny bones,seems to help blow away the cobwebs of my mind and help reduce negative emotions. Yes we are living in seriously unfunny times  but because humor is associated with lightness and feeling good, it can help stave off political fatigue and bring people together it’s easier to connect over laughter than hopelessness.
So because of that I try to laugh back at the Tory's on a daily basis,  it certainly helps. After all they are the biggest joke in the land at the moment., its easy to  laugh at them, it's fun too, but off course there are other ways. Oh and why do we never hear much of thieves stealing from the Tory's, I'll tell you why professional courtesy. I don't really approve off political jokes it sees to many Tory's getting re elected..
Right I'll end with this little confession I once gave up my seat to a blind person that's  how I lost my job as a bus driver. Always laugh if you can, within reason. laters.

Blessed are the Poets : Dedicated to the memory of Anthony ' Trance ' Jones; Bardd/Poet, R I P

Consciously committed
Communicators of  life
Weavers of magic

Holding up their light.

Devoted practitioners

Understanding the power of words

Trying not to be silent or aloof
Releasing words of significance.
Torrents of imagination

In doorways of navigation

Conveying thoughts of joy and sorrow 

From transient passing shadows borrow,

Daring to question, feeling every emotion

Unbound by retraint or hesitation,

Spoken from the heart

Spreading their messages  true,
Random sparks touching others
Before their work is done,

That remain in memory
Words lasting forever,
In the embers of time

A rustling grain of truth.

Frank O'Hara : Poet of intensity and passion.(27/3/ 1926 - 25/7/1966)

In the early morning of 24 July 1966 the poet Frank O'Hara was struck and gravely injured by a passing jeep on the beach of Fire Island, and tragically died the following day of a ruptured liver, aged only 40...
Frank O’Hara was born Francis Russell O’Hara in Baltimore, Maryland and grew up in Grafton, Massachusetts. In order to hide the fact that he was conceived out of wedlock, his parents led him to believe that he was born in June while in reality he was born in March.After serving in the U.S. Navy during World War II, he graduated from Harvard University with a degree in English in 1950 and received his M.A. from the University of Michigan in 1951. He then moved to New York City and began his advancement through creative society.becoming  employed by the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA). selling postcards, where he would eventually work his way up to the Associate Curator of Painting and Sculpture position. 
His quick ascension speaks to the passion, knowledge, and enthusiasm he had for the New York City art world, a world that was thoroughly infused into his writing. During the 1950s and 1960s, O’Hara befriended and championed the new downtown artists, curated exhibits, wrote monographs and catalog copy, writing introductions for exhibits and tours and expressed his various and unusual ideas about the art world in his own poetry.
"I can't even enjoy a blade of grass," he once wrote, "unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life." O'Hara was deeply involved in the New York art scene, particularly with the work of abstract expressionist painters such as Willem De Kooning, Jackson Pollock,Jasper Johns and Franz Kline.  Between 1953 and 1955 he worked as editorial associate for Art News, for which his poet friends John Ashbery and James Schuyler also wrote.  In 1955 he rejoined the staff of MOMA, where he was appointed assistant curator in 1960.
In fact, O’Hara famously wrote Lunch Poems (largely regarded as his most brilliant and important work) during his lunch breaks at the MoMA. Published in 1964, Lunch Poems, according to John Ashbery, destroyed “the congealed surface of academic poetry.”
During his lifetime he was known as "poet among painters," part of a group of such poets who seemed to find inspiration and support from the painters they chose to associate with.He attempted to produce with words the effects those artists had created on canvas.
O'Hara is best known for his   poems, such as 'A Step Away From Them', 'Why I am Not a Painter', and 'The Day Lady Died' (an elegy for Billie Holliday, but some of his later longer poems, in particular 'In Memory of My Feelings' and 'Biotherm (for Bill Berkson)' are equally effective, and have proved influential on a host of younger poets.)
He was a catalytic figure at the intersection of writing, art, dance and music at a seminal time in the US that post war moment when American artists began to assert originality after long being overshadowed by Europeans.
In an essay entitled "Personism: A Manifesto," O'Hara sheds some light on his views towards poetry, declaring that "Nobody should experience anything they don't need to, if they don't need poetry bully for them." In essence, O'Hara wanted poetry to be a personal, spur-of the-moment spontaneity in which abstraction is ruled out in favor of an expression of the artists personal voice or style. A poet of intensity and immediacy, his voice confessional  guided by an unchecked passion. I love his work.
Known throughout his life for his extreme sociability, passion, and warmth, O'Hara had hundreds of friends and lovers throughout his life, many from the New York art and poetry worlds. O'Hara was openly homosexual at a time in which this was less acceptable, and often wrote about his sexuality. For example , the poem "At the Old Place" describes dancing at a gay bar. Furthermore Lunch Poems is dedicated to his friend and lover Joe LeSeuer, with whom he lived for about 11 years until his death.
O'Hara published six books of poetry from 1952 until his death. He is buried in Springs Cemetery on Long Island.Since his death  his mystique , and the seductive power of his work, combined  with  the depth and richness of his achievements as a poet and art critic have been recognized by an international audience. His work constantly popular with readers and never out of print.
Here are a selection of some of my favourite poems, by him, difficult choice, so many to chose from.

Why I'm not a painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES. 

The Day Lady Died

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday

three days after Bastille day, yes

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton   

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner

and I don’t know the people who will feed me

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun   

and have a hamburger and a malted and buy

an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets   

in Ghana are doing these days

                                                        I go on to the bank

and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)   

doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life   

and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine   

for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do   

think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or   

Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres

of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine

after practically going to sleep with quandariness

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE

Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and   

then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue   

and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and   

casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton

of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of

leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT

while she whispered a song along the keyboard

to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent

and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.

He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

Melancholy Breakfast

Melancholy breakfast

blue overhead blue underneath

the silent egg thinks

and the toaster's electrical

ear waits

the stars are in

"that cloud is hid"

the elements of disbelief are

very strong in the morning

A True Account of Talking to The Sun On Fire Island

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally

so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."

"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."

I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be
wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.

"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.

Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.

If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.

And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.

Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"

Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.                         


Heart

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.                         

Dear Nick Cave

Dear Nick Cave who I  truly have long admired, are you really happy to appease the Israeli regime, like Radiohead recently did, to the anguish of their many fans, because at moment this state is now executing a genocidal war against 2 million Palestinians (most of them children) in besieged Gaza:
"At least 30 hospitals, 70 primary health care centres and a blood blank are at risk of full or partial closure due to continued power outages and not enough fuel or spare parts for back-up generators" https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20170722-who-gaza-health…/
Israel openly uses culture as a form of propaganda to justify its illegal occupation of Palestine. Just as South African anti-Apartheid activists called for an international boycott which led to the downfall of the Apartheid regime, Palestinians are asking for a boycott of Israel as part of the Boycott Divestment Sanctions (BDS) campaign. Thousands of artists across the world now refuse to perform in Israel.
The cultural boycott of Israel continues to grow, despite the efforts by Israeli promoters to ignore it.
More than 1,200 UK-based artists and cultural workers have signed Artists for Palestine’s online pledge to refuse to perform or exhibit in Israel and nearly 460 have signed a similar pledge in the US.
In New York City alone, nearly 300 artists have endorsed the cultural boycott.
I urge  you  to to read Ben Ehrenreich's 2016 book 'The Way to the Spring', and Max Blumenthal's 2015 book 'The 51 Day War, so that you can understand the reality of the situation for Palestinians under occupation'.
Pease add your name to the list and respect the boycott.

Johnny Cash - Sunday morning coming down.

Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.

No apologies

Frozen moments preserve my presence
Time keeps tumbling on and on,
Slowly but surely I trip over the fear
Clouds are passing over wounds,
Medication soothes the brain
The rain releases the gift of affirmation,
Laughter escapes from the darkness
Out of this  trust engulfs,
To allow the cultivation of breath
Inner reason that speaks my truth,
Continuing journeys of navigation
Avenues of concentration,
To allow destruction to disappear
For peace to visit  sanctuary,
Though life will always be a struggle
Friends I will always  respect,
Mind occasionally exhausted
Will be rebellious, offer no apologies.

Anais Nin (21/2/03 - 14/1/77) - You have a right to experiment with your life.

" You have a right to experiment with your life. You will make mistakes. And they are right too. No, I think there was too rigid a pattern. You came out of an education and are supposed to know your vocation. Your vocation is fixed, and maybe ten years later you find you are not a teacher anymore or you're not a painter anymore. It may happen. It has happened. I mean Gauguin decided at a certain point he wasn't a banker anymore; he was a painter. And so he walked away from banking. I think we have a right to change course. But society is the one that keeps demanding that we fit in and not disturb things. They would like you to fit in right away so that things work now.”