Who Stood Idly By - Poems and Cartoons

“You were condemned by those who ruled in wanton, wasted years,
Complacenctly, with never a thought for wasted lived to come.
Yet there is a guilt in all of us, who let you die – as always
Does it rest on everyone who – carelessly – stood idly by.”

Gallery

Burial At Sea (Off The Falklands)

Grey on grey on grey – ship, sea and sky, a chill breeze blows,
The living feel its rough and cold caress, but not the dead,
Nor will they know again the warm sun’s rays that nurture life extant
Yet can’t restore it, once so cruelly taken.
We stiffly stand in silent mourning, and hardly hear the chaplain’s words
That echo, somehow meaningless, around us, failing to pierce Our torpor – surely this must be a morbid dream, without substance,
Yet real enough are emotions that surge and struggle within, Pervading sadness and a rage raw and rampant, nagging Our very essence.

To be sure, no life should be so cheaply lost
As this – not your’s, nor anyone’s, to be condemned to turbulent
And boundless tomb, that you could not forsee in any nightmare,
To weep seems not enough at this disposal, as decreed, duly recorded,
“Committed to the ocean deep” this day, by custom, thus honoured By the service and the state. The gulls wheel and wail
A strident requiem, the same trumpet sounds as warned “Action stations”,
Now with the sad farewell blast that lingers in our ears.

The lonely albatross, in stately glide, attends forlornly,
As must a long-lost mariner’s spirit, now joined by those of the newly dead
Killed in action this day, you each may find that niche in history
As later, learned minds decide who were your murderers,
Who sentenced you by chauvinistic fantasy and words of war,
The self-righteous politicians and generals who spoke from afar,
And never realised their crime, but launched, vaingloriously,
A heady, fervant flourish of arms, ne’er serving lesser cause,
You were condemned by those who ruled in wanton, wasted years,
Complacently, with never thought for wasted lives to come.
Yet there is a guilt in all of us, who let you die – as always
Does it rest on everyone who – carelessly – stood idly by.

The Cathedral

A timeless pile, resplendent mound, reaching afar above the ground,
Heavenwards ’twas said for those misled,
The ermine-clad of veneration, ruling each sweated generation
That from its countless hovels came to labour for a holy name,
Myopic faith serving a wraith,
Exquisite care so squandered they, each endless year, each tiresome day,
Slavish generosity to please pomposity,
Ten thousand hands, a-roughed and worn did fashion massive stone there borne
For meagre wage, Art-form of an age,
To marble halls, what if they cried their need for bread, it was replied
This is the only bread of life you need, take heed,
Keep it alive, and you will survive,
In some far-distant cave, beyond the grave ?
While history will mark His Grace as builder of this awsome place,
No nameless multitude could create pulchritude,
Nor mere humility have this ability.
Yet droning cant o’er years can’t sever the thought, such craft has gone forever,
‘Tis better lost than lavished thus, no more intent on leaving us,
For legend transcendental, a folly monumental.

Scientist At Heaven’s Gate

You ask me Lord, what I did in my brief span from mother’s womb
through all the hopes and fears with which all mortal journeyings
are fraught amid the wayward tides of Nature, all-embracing earth-mother
Whose claiming breasts awaits the end of all mortality.
You ask me Lord, if I lived cleanly, at your bidding
And was fulsome in my love for all others of your creatures.
I cared well for my family and was kind to my dog,
Though I did eat meat, Lord, while never meaning to offend.
My work, Lord ? If I say it, I was a great success
In discovery of many wonders of your creation,
I sought to help my fellows with knowledge
From the deep and teeming pit of you exquisite secrets,
Ah, yes, Lord, I surely did so much for the progress of mankind
But, Lord, why must you ask all this ? For you do surely know,
With your all-seeing power that lays my lifetime bare
So I have to confess to sometime thoughts which you would not approve
And sometime actions less than altruistic, though ’twas you who made me human, Lord, – trusting you may forgive
That I may pass freely to your eternal, lush pastures
As you have promised. But, wait, dear Lord, one other thing
I cannot hope to hide from your pervasive eye,
I helped to make The Bomb.

Greenham Women

What were they “up to”, those women at Greenham?
What was the point of it all? Deserted families
Trying to cope – a woman’s place is in the home
It may be said, but this outbreak of feminism
Meant doing what they had to do, by reason, by passion
And humanity, to deny man’s claim on a world to violate.

Peace actions speak loudly – can they ever stop
The rumble and roar of war, the tumbling roll of words
From warlords ruling? Peace actions can and must,
In their dramatic spreading, the actors seem impassive,
As in quiet suicide the rage hides deep within,
Yet still renouncing the way of death, the doom-bound path,
That hopeful vigil may grow in mighty waves,
To wash the polluted shores of apathy.

When progeny is threatened, the female of the species
Can be fiercer than the male. She has a right to be.
“What did you do for the Great Peace, mother?”
“I stayed, my darling, I sat for many hours, I lay down,
I kept very still – it was nothing, really, a stillness
As in death, but kept for life, the living and the yet unborn
Suffering, my dear? Oh, no, just some discomfort.”

Suffering is synonymous with Hiroshima, Nagasaki,
And what mankind once achieved – how deep it plunged
Beyond the mark of bestiality. One man could bring
The massive horror blast, burnt air for lungs to breathe
Bones peeled of melting flesh, the dead, still deadly desert.

“What happened in London, mother?”
“In town we halted traffic,
But not for long, or finally, as in Hiroshima.
We never thought to stop the business of the city
But to show our unity. They moved us, gently, as we knew
they would, but silently we returned, to lie inert, as before.”

And so the law, duly enforced, sent some to share with friends
The bitter-sweet opprobrium of gaol and court appearance,
Failed deterrent, as around, at Greenham Common and elsewhere,
The Peace Camps still remain, with women to be found linked firmly
In resistance to the concept, innately male, that there is
Safety and defence in harbouring monstrous products
Of madly misguided technology – no compromise with ultimate evil
And risk of national immolation: We who are many pay tribute
To the morally immoveable, courageous few, to the conscience
Of humanity, historic women of Greenham.

The Miners

The miners hold the line today in 1984,
As always do they lead the way in fight­ing unjust law
That seeks to stop the picketing of those who break a strike
Against the closure of the pits, for young and old alike,
For jobs now and in the future years, they stand defying all
Who would destroy by bribery the strong, uniting call
For solidarity that lives and gives faith to remain
So steadfast that the sacrifices will not be made in vain.
The miners hold the line today, despite some faint-hearts’ fear,
The workers’ flag still flying, sounds the workers’ song of cheer.

Reagan In Ireland

When Reagan’s circus was around
Us local folk it did astound
For never was there such a fuss
To pixillate the likes of us,
Armies of men with bulk and bulge
Investigations did indulge
While citizens sober swore that they’d seen
Ground-to-air missiles in Ballyporeen,
Transporting such unholy loads
Was quite a strain on Irish roads,
We surely offered up a prayer
Of thanks that Cruise ones were not there,
They must be even more obscene
Than ground-to-air missiles in Ballyporeeno

Religious Words

Religious words, over the centuries,
Pouring out endlessly from pulpit,
To graveside, in prayers, incantations,
Sermons, exhortations, ebbing and flowing,
A surging sea of words,
Through wars and pogroms, bestiality
Of all kinds, leaping, rushing,
Strident, gushing words.
So much wasted breath,
So much wasted time,
Lives devoted to religious words,
So many wasted lives,
Achieving so little, the only change
More inhumane humanity
And progress towards extinction
On waves of religious words
That echo, hollow and forlorn
In the corridors of eternity.

The D.C.10

O sprightly bird, to swiftly fly
And serve our travellers in the sky,
O super bird, designed to be
A marvel of technology,
Destined all rivals to outdo,
Competing, cost-efficient, too,
Fulfilling schedules right on time,
With profits in a steady climb,
But then, alas, as once you soared,
Disaster struck, perfection flawed,
On your repute a tragic blot,
Of passengers – you killed a lot!

In October 1979 American forces launched a mock assault on their military and naval base at Guantanamo, Cuba.

The U.S. Marines Have Landed !

Did you hear tell of our victory at Guantanamo Bay ?
It was a famous victory, that bleak and rainy day,
By sea and air, we landed there and stormed across the shore,
The “brass-hats” were delighted, as they couldn’t ask for more,
With courage and precision each objective planned we took,
A combined operation that was right “out of the book”,
“The stars and stripes forever, lads”, our battle-cry did sound,
As we advanced on every side, just eating up the ground,
Not even any losses, each platoon remained intact,
Morale was never higher, I can swear- it was a fact,
Faint hearts ? Well, just a few who wondered what we were about,
But most of us knew very well – keeping the Commies out
And teaching them the lesson they must learn, before too late,
That unprovoked aggression we shall never tolerate,
That we are ready to resist with overwhelming might,
Though, actually, I have to say, there was no foe in sight,
(And just as well, I reckon, as I didn’t want to die,
I longed to be back on the farm, with Mama’s apple pie

Epitaph To John Wayne

Farewell, Big John, no more shall we the like of such a hero see,
To ride the range with blazing gun and revel in such jolly fun, Another Redskin bites the dust, a “baddie” falls to John the just,
And who would dare to think banal, your triumph at – Gaudacanal ?
But, most of all, we loved your stand to root the “Commies” from the land,
By using the McCarthy ploy, you were our All-American-Boy, Lefties and Liberals, all the same, you sure exposed them in their shame,
And Hollywood was all a-quake, as each career you tried to break,
You fought the fight, so brave and true, a guy must do what he°s gotta do,
So take your final sunset ride – Reaction carves your name with pride !

The Martyred Land

El Salvador, your agony is not endured in vain,
The world shall know the story of the innocents all slain,
To martyrs of the ages they are joined, as they must be
Whose only aberration was the crime of poverty.
Yet were these not the most devout and supplicant in prayer,
Who cradled dying infants with the love born of despair?
With hunger for a better life, they served despotic greed,
Shared simple folk philosophy. Each, pondering his need
In resignation must have sighed, “Alas, ’twas always so,
My father’s father lived this way, and he died long ago.”

Then came the men with guns, who said, “This doesn’t have to be,
The time has come to organise and fight for liberty.
It’s not our choice, but long enough has prayer been unfulfilled,
For future generations we must kill, or else be killed.
We know it means more suffering and some will die each day,
We ask you to believe in us, it is the only way.”

And so began the martyrdom – guerilla, peasant, priest,
No mercy from an enemy intent on his blood-feast.
A rabid monster, steeped in gore, it’s final, gruesome fling
Engulfs the land in anguish as the toll of terror grows
And brings a daily rain of tears while red the river flows.

What fearsome demon of the soul, what sickness of the mind,
Can brutalise and force a man to slaughter his own kind?
Not in the heat of conflict, but with frenzy no less wild
For killing, rape and torture – yet, is he the less defiled
Who sits in White House splendour and condones barbaric crime
With massive aid for murder to the sadists of our time?
Avowing his religious faith while priests are martyrs made
For succouring the humble, as this grisly game is played
To keep with power and privilege oppressors of the poor.

Look, Reagan, at the massacre by sanctuary’s door!
Look, Reagan, at the altar – do you see Romero’s blood?
Shed with triumphant courage, for you’ll never hold the flood
Released by such a sacrifice, yet lest you feel the taint,
As consolation, Reagan, you’ve created a new saint!
And listen, Reagan, do you hear that distant mocking-bird?
So tiny in a tiny land ‘mid gunfire he is heard,
Just three notes in his song of hope, persisting through the din,
That seems eternally to say, “You can’t win, you can’t win!”

To A Nicaraguan Child (In The Year Of The Child)

Little one, so fraught with tears, sadly aged beyond your years,
If I could take your seeking hand and try to help you understand
Why all the numbing terror came to sear your mind, and who’s to blame,
Why only unrelenting strife could ever change your humble life,
While somewhere pious hymns were sung, you had to see too much too young,
If I could turn your sombre eyes on Rome, where “holy power” lies,
To plead your cause for succour there, the answer would be words of prayer,
It needed lives of brave young men, so that your land may breathe again,
The tyrant and his minions flown, at last oppression overthrown,
If I could raise you, little one, to greet the dawn that has begun,
Perhaps to see, after a while, how, once again, you’ll learn to smile,
And then, with freedom’s flag unfurled, you’ll join the children of the world,

AIF JOHNS

I was born in Walthamstow, East London, during the first world war, and grew up in the hard times of the twenties and thirties. Having good parents spared me real hardship in my youth, though I was well aware of the social deprivation which existed. I recall my father, a plumber, having long spells of unemployment and walking many miles daily in search of work. Unlike Norman Tebbit’s father, he could not afford a bike!

I was creative at a very early age, and eventually won a scholarship to a second­ary – or central – school, heading my class in English and Literature throughout my school years. My first job was as a some-what timid office boy on the staff of The Sporting Life, but my journalistic ambition had a setback when I was among several juniors made redundant in a staff reshuffle. Somewhat discouraged, I worked for the local gas company and began a quite successful, amateur football career, finishing on the ‘Spurs’ books, though not making the professional grade.

Having composed a song at the age of 14, with the music written down by an interested schoolmaster, I resumed song-writing during the war, when I was very lucky to be sent to Canada on the R.A.F. ground staff for a great pilot-training scheme. After the war, still without learning music, I continued composing lyrics and tunes, and joined the “R.A.F. Gang Show” which ran at the Stoll Theatre in London and went on tour, with Dick Emery as one of its principals. On leaving the show, I took my songs to Charing Cross Rd and Denmark St, the London area of music publishers, where I found a song-writing partner. For months we haunted the publishers without success, though one firm kept a song of mine for several weeks – before returning it!

Eventually, we split up and I started work with the London Co-op Society, where I became active in the union and served on the U.S.D.A.W. branch committee. As for my socialism – well, simply from observing society around me and abroad, considering the first world war and the awful slide into the second, to me socialism was the language of peace and economic priorities. Labour’s postwar landslide inspired my pol­itical interest. I’ve never known people so enthusiastic as for Attlee, who had a Wal­thamstow constituency. But I was disillus­ioned by subsequent Labour policy and went into the Communist Party. It seemed Labour would never do it! In the end I left the Communist Party as well, over more policy disagreement.

The anti-nuclear issue affected me greatly after the war, with the immediate East-West drift towards one another! I was in myself a CND member then, though I wasn’t aware of it. I wrote a short story called “The Vegetables”, which was a reflection on the apparent apathy of so many people. I had the impression that some people had no imagination, and asked myself, “Do people really feel anything emotionally about the bomb? Or are some of them just like veget­ables?” Rather arrogant on my part. I could hardly deduce such facts about others from my limited observation of the people I worked with in a small Co-op factory. How-ever, I submitted the story to the B.B.C. – I think they rejected it without comment!

At that time, I wrote a number of stories and even a play, non-political, when “kitchen-sink” drama was all the rage. This was sent to a number of repertory theatres, and was duly returned with some occasional words of encouragement – excepting one company which regretted that they had lost the copy!!

After a stay in Canada with an ex-R.A.F. pal, I returned in 1964 to England and Brighton, where I had two aunts. I became a porter at the Brighton and General Hospital until my retirement in 1981. I wrote from time to time, when I had ideas. In 1978 I saw the QueenSpark newspaper and thought I’d write some poems for it. I was too shy to bring them in, so I sent them. Well, I got a reaction! I kept getting ideas after that, mainly political ideas for cartoons. I: began to develop these, though never con­sidering myself an artist. QueenSpark was. a great encouragement to me.

My socialist and anti-nuclear views have never wavered – indeed, are stronger with age, and I feel that any creative ability I have. should be devoted to making political points about the desperately critical and perilous times in which we live.