My Jewish Communist Croustade

Recently my adopted homeland, Poland, has been in the news for all of the wrong reasons.  It has been distressing to watch a country that I love fall into the hands of the lunatics once again.  If you wish to read a little more about what’s going on in Poland, this is a great place to start: ‘The mutiny of the lemmings’.

Unfortunately, experience has proven that lunacy encourages lunacy.  Despite frequently tweeting bits and bobs about Poland, recently I have somehow found myself the target of Polish trolls. Check out the following example.

The sad fact is that a government which is openly bigoted, antisemitic, homophobic and racist only promotes such behaviors as socially acceptable. It is only further proof of the social regression taking place in Poland.

Now as an outed Communist and Jew, despite never having grown a full beard or worn sandals, or shared a sandwich, or fed the five thousand with the sandwich that I had previously refused to share, I feel like I should do my level best to be the very caricature which the trolls desire.

Therefore, I shall now present you with a poem about the bourgeoisie and Yahweh entitled:

My Jewish Communist Croustade

A tin pot dictator,

Sits atop a demagoguery of hate,

Whilst the secret puppet master,

Throws around his weight,

There ain’t no higher power,

Than this devil in disguise,

That never settled down,

Prefers the company of guys,

Oh in the kingdom of bigots,

A dwarf leads the way,

Where you must watch who your friends are,

And watch what you might say.

Unrequited paranoia,

Is a life in quite a state,

Where there is no discussion,

And there is no debate,

There ain’t no higher court,

This is a terrifying fact,

All the power in this country,

Belongs to one man and his cat.




Finding Invictus

Last night I discovered a poem via twitter.  Yes, you read that last sentence correctly.  It immediately caught the eye for that reason alone. Upon further inspection I realised that there was a certain something about the words which captivated me from the outset.  Words which standing alone, make for powerful reading, when taken in context with the story behind them become something of a literary atom bomb.

I have always had a passion for words.  My music collection mainly comprises of songwriters who write from their guts, or lyricists which make me laugh.  It’s been a long time since I was able to stomach the  generic sterile music which is omnipresent on the tv or the internet at any given hour.  For me music sits on the throne which poetry has long since abdicated.  The very best songs grab you by the balls and bring a tear to your eye.  From time to time you can discover a song which the songwriter has lived.  The authenticity it lends  is immeasurable.

William Ernest Henley was born in 1849.  When he was 12 he was diagnosed with tuberculosis.  When he was 17 he lost a leg to T.B in a time when medical care was comparatively primitive.   Incredibly he lived until he was 53.  In 1875 he wrote the following poem which was later named Invictus.  I shan’t ponder over the meaning of Invictus, as I would rather let Invictus speak for itself.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be,

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced nor cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance,

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears,

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years,

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

N.B – Thanks to @ibbydassantos for introducing me to Henley.