Lucifer the Light Bearer

This poem came to me thinking about Israel's infatuation with fire and death and our western govt's wholehearted support of that after reading at A. Peasant's Twelfth Bough and various articles and poems at Richard Edmondson's excellent Left Wing

the attraction of power


They hate us for our freedom
to light up their ever shrinking sky

For the unquenchable fire
that destroys their children as they cry.


the effects of power


They stare uncomprehending
at the dreadful loss for us

As our humanity is cremated
in the hail of white phosphorus


the truth of power


our loss

it is our loss of humanity, that's so true.

excellent poem James.

the little girl is heartbreaking.

"Never again" ,well maybe

"Never again" ,well maybe just one more time ,then "Never again" .

Powerful poem

Well done and spoken from the heart. Poetry is our own weapon to fight back.

newjesustimes's picture

Yes powerful

powerful and painful stuff.
the pen is mightier still than the sword.
thanks for sharing, james

fuck poetry ...its like

fuck poetry ...its like taking a knife to a gun fight .
I've watched this decay in detail for ten fucking years !

ISRAEL is NOT interested in peace ,unless it is "this piece or that piece " of the Palestinian lands . If America chooses to prop up Israel in its crimes ,we ,the rest of the world will never forget .
America needs friends ,if you continue to fuck off peace loving reasonable peoples from all over the world you will stand alone with Israel and it's neo- holocaust against the Palestinians !

newjesustimes's picture

fuck poetry, fuck everything ?

yeah what's the point, we will never win, fuck everything,
many days i feel like that,
but maybe the point is things like poetry remind us that sometimes it's worth fighting back against this endless monster.

Seems like America's gonna need more than a little propping up herself before much longer.

what is your point mick?

are you saying you like the link? you think this is a valuable contribution? why so? because a jew wrote it?

btw, i am assuming this is not Dublin Mick, but some other person going by mick, because Dublin Mick knows the following as well as i do:

many people have been paying attention to the situation in Palestine for a long time. many people have been writing about it. many people who aren't jews and can very easily be accused of anti-semitism, have been writing about the situation in Palestine for a long time. so who is not doing enough? the people who are researching and writing about it, out of their own free time, or the people who ignore the problem and listen to the paid lies of experts?

blogger is free. if you feel that something has not been said, knock yourself out. it is a thankless job and if you're lucky some anonymous commenter will come and tell you your writing fucking sucks.

newjesustimes's picture

love u A.P.

"if you're lucky some anonymous commenter will come and tell you your writing fucking sucks."
laughing out loud

oh yeah, and not to make a liar out of you, but
PS Thanks for your excellent blogging!
ok that really belongs on your blog, but I do read and appreciate, if not often comment.

thanks NJT

i'm very lucky to have readers, and i know as well as anyone that most people don't comment. i am actually not a huge comment person either. it's not always easy to find something useful to say. it is not always necessary to say something. so thank you for reading, it's all about the reading and the thinking imo.

dumbstruck is my defense!

Hello James,
.Hi, AP:) this is for you: there is another possibility (why comments are rare). Lest we belittle the impact and message that I know we all derive from your and Jame's posts, as you suggest, I posit another possibility: Most of us who have been reading everything we can get our hands on since we were knee high to a grasshopper, and semi-literate (for Americans) are absolutely struck dumb by the caliber of your thinking and writing which are absolutely mind blowingly beautiful and I know I am just.....dumbstruck (oh, I said that already). And what you said, AP, is true, there's so much to think of once the wheels get greased. It's like we're catching up on centuries of history during our evening blog reading. A whole lot to take in, like a shockwave thing hitting.
And we don't want you to get a big head smiling

I just spent another great Sunday reading the Alderley Street Mystery. Just Brilliant! Conan Doyle would be so pleased, I just know it. I know I am. It's a sad thing when you've read everything by dead author that you love. Thanks for keeping the style going. It's a lovely thing.

thank you, Marlene

I'm kinda dumbstruck myself now! you've made my day smiling

I put a link in your text to Winter's Sherlock Holmes' site. I hope you don't mind.

me too.

many thanks for your kind words. i always feel that i am writing to my friends when i write my posts, and we are having a few mordant chuckles over the insanity of it all, and our jaws are dropping together at the depth of the depravity, and all that. thank you for being that reader. did you know my real name is Marlena? tis true. shh don't tell anyone sister.

interest in peace

uh, mick,

i'm positive James is well aware that israel is not interested in peace. he has been writing for years and has written many comprehensive, devastating posts ripping apart the entire plot at hand.

I'm not doubting James at

I'm not doubting James at all. I like his work always have .


Thanks to everyone for the kind and supportive words. Sorry to have been absent as i've had some things to deal with.

The few lines were a personal expression of some of the rage, frustration and bewilderment i feel about what is going on in the world and particularly in Palestine. But it was for the Palestinians too. I read very recently that any words of support for the Palestinians mean a lot for them. They know they are not alone. They know there is humanity out there beyond the walls. THey know better than anyone that it is the leaders in our societies that are the main problem . . . and the people who don't speak out. So I'm speaking out as AP and Richard are and everybody else here are.

Thank you for the endorsement in your second message, Mick. I must admit, though, your first comment felt like a bit of a slap in the face.

However, there is much food for thought there and it has inspired me to respond (hopefully soon) to this whole subject of The Pen vs The Sword. Perhaps that will be the title smiling

McJ's picture

Poetry and the soul

I think really good poetry comes from the soul and speaks to the soul. We need to go there more often especially as we try to process the pain and suffering we are witnessing. Your beautiful poem with the pictures is a very powerful statement. Thanks for sharing, it speaks volumes.

McJ's picture

A Defence of Poetry by Percy Bysshe Shelley

This is an excerpt from a long essay written by Percy Bysshe Shelley titled 'A Defence of Poetry'. It was hard to choose what to highlight here to give you a flavor of it because he says so much that is worth quoting. I was inspired and enlightened by this essay and I think it may add to the conversation. I had not read it before last night. I wandered upon it as I was searching for some excerpts from his poem 'The Masque of Anarchy'. It is well worth the read, if you are so inclined. The essay was written in 1821 and first published posthumously in 1840 by his widow Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, author of the Gothic novel 'Frankenstein'. Percy Bysshe Shelley accidentally drowned in a boating accident in 1822. He was just 29 years old at the time.

"Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and circumference of knowledge; it is that which comprehends all science, and that to which all science must be referred. It is at the same time the root and blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that from which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that which, if blighted, denies the fruit and the seed, and withholds from the barren world the nourishment and the succession of the scions of the tree of life. It is the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all things; it is as the odor and the color of the rose to the texture of the elements which compose it, as the form and splendor of unfaded beauty to the secrets of anatomy and corruption. What were virtue, love, patriotism, friendship—what were the scenery of this beautiful universe which we inhabit; what were our consolations on this side of the grave—and what were our aspirations beyond it, if poetry did not ascend to bring light and fire from those eternal regions where the owl-winged faculty of calculation dare not ever soar? Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the color of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure. Could this influence be durable in its original purity and force, it is impossible to predict the greatness of the results; but when composition begins, inspiration is already on the decline, and the most glorious poetry that has ever been communicated to the world is probably a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of the poet. I appeal to the greatest poets of the present day, whether it is not an error to assert that the finest passages of poetry are produced by labor and study. The toil and the delay recommended by critics can be justly interpreted to mean no more than a careful observation of the inspired moments, and an artificial connection of the spaces between their suggestions by the intertexture of conventional expressions; a necessity only imposed by the limitedness of the poetical faculty itself; for Milton conceived the “Paradise Lost” as a whole before he executed it in portions. We have his own authority also for the Muse having “dictated” to him the “unpremeditated song.” And let this be an answer to those who would allege the fifty-six various readings of the first line of the “Orlando Furioso.” Compositions so produced are to poetry what mosaic is to painting. This instinct and intuition of the poetical faculty are still more observable in the plastic and pictorial arts; a great statue or picture grows under the power of the artist as a child in a mother’s womb; and the very mind which directs the hands in formation is incapable of accounting to itself for the origin, the gradations, or the media of the process.
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling sometimes associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond all expression: so that even in the desire and the regret they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is as it were the interpretation of a diviner nature through our own; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the coming calm erases, and whose traces remain only as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined organization, but they can color all that they combine with the evanescent hues of this ethereal world; a word, a trait in the representation of a scene or a passion will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced these emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image of the past.
Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide—abide, because there is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in man.
Poetry turns all things to loveliness; it exalts the beauty of that which is most beautiful, and it adds beauty to that which is most deformed; it marries exultation and horror, grief and pleasure, eternity and change; it subdues to union under its light yoke all irreconcilable things. It transmutes all that it touches, and every form moving within the radiance of its presence is changed by wondrous sympathy to an incarnation of the spirit which it breathes: its secret alchemy turns to potable gold the poisonous waters which flow from death through life; it strips the veil of familiarity from the world, and lays bare the naked and sleeping beauty, which is the spirit of its forms.

The most unfailing herald, companion, and follower of the awakening of a great people to work a beneficial change in opinion or institution, is poetry. At such periods there is an accumulation of the power of communicating and receiving intense and impassioned conceptions respecting man and nature. The person in whom this power resides, may often, as far as regards many portions of their nature, have little apparent correspondence with that spirit of good of which they are the ministers. But even whilst they deny and abjure, they are yet compelled to serve, that power which is seated on the throne of their own soul. It is impossible to read the compositions of the most celebrated writers of the present day without being startled with the electric life which burns within their words. They measure the circumference and sound the depths of human nature with a comprehensive and all-penetrating spirit, and they are themselves perhaps the most sincerely astonished at its manifestations; for it is less their spirit than the spirit of the age. Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."


Thanks McJ. Shelley was a genius.

I once read that poetry allows us to understand something with the wholeness of our being.

Good poetry appeals to our intellectual, visual and auditory senses. It also calls us to understand with our heart that can appreciate the sentiment, the love (or lack of it) and the body can respond to the cadence through movement.

So it engages both hemispheres of our brain at once and even our bodies at times to give us an understanding which is whole or holistic.

I was studying English many years ago and the class had to read a poem and write a commentary on it. The poem in question just knocked me out and i was staring into space when the teacher asked me why wasn't i writing. i said i couldn't. There were no words to describe my understanding. He said that is what poetry should be aiming for.

I'll come back with the poem once i find it again. It is actually pertinent to the post, now i think of it.


Wilfred Owen was a British soldier and poet. He was killed in France in the last week of the First World War. His parents were informed of his death by telegram as the church bells in their town were ringing the good news of Armistice.


Move him into the sun---

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields half-sown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds---

Woke once the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides

Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?

---O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?

Quietly we go

Hope you all are well. Is there anyone even still here besides spam bots and search engines? If so, don't be alarmed to find us offline for a couple hours on Sunday, I'm planning some maintenance.

McJ's picture

Still here..

I'm still here. I was down and out with a nasty flu for about week but I am on the mend now. Thanks for the heads up about Sunday.

newjesustimes's picture

did u miss us, we're back

Thank you McJ - Sorry you were sick and glad you're doing better.
We are back up. That maintenance stuff is always nerve wracking for me. Now I can hopefully sleep better tonight with this done!

McJ's picture

Thanks NJT

Thanks NJT Being sick sucks! I don't get sick often so I figure I'm good for another 2, 3 years now. smiling

Thanks for maintenance and for keeping us up and running even if we all seem to have faded away of late. Looks like everything went well.

admin's picture

fading away like the 911 truth "movement"

thanks McJ -
yes so far so good (knocks on wood). you never know with these computers.
so yeah, 911 truth - i don't know if it was the 10th year passing or the Occupations getting everyone caught up, but there seems to be a lot less 911 truth this fall. maybe it's just me and the places I go but I don't hear much about it any more. and the wheels keep turning.
tomorrow starts "be thankful you're not a turkey" month in the US. Or was it "thanks for the grub, now we'll take your land" month?
this time of year is not my favorite, i've got to figure out how to get a winter home in the southern hemisphere...

moving seasons

now don't you go bringing your winter down here, NJT!

newjesustimes's picture

well if winter's going with me

there'd be no sense in going now smiling
speaking of winter i wonder where wp has been, sure is quiet these days.

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