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The playlist for Sunday 16 March 14 8pm to 9pm Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans FrontieresWho luvs ya, baby?
~~ "Where The Sky Seemed Lower Than The Rocks" ~~
1 - Brian O Donnell -- "The Fields of Athenry"
2 - The Sound -- "Winning"
3 - Woods -- "Death Rattles"
4 - Era -- "Gregorian"
5 - Russian Red -- "Just Like a Wall"
6 - The Chieftains -- "Women Of Ireland"
7 - Nox Arcana -- "Veni Veni Emannuel"
8 - Mothers of Invention -- "Trouble Every Day"
9 - Sinead O'Connor -- "Empire"
10 - Flatfoot 56 -- "The Rich The Strong and The Poor"
11 - Loreena McKennitt -- "All Souls Night"
12 - Michael Brook and Richard Burton -- "Darker Room by Dylan Thomas"
13 - The Pogues -- "Dirty Old Town"
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Go ahead, now you can listen while roaming the Big Orange and beyond!
I drove through the narrow Gods—
privet and cholesterol, or
Irish creamery butter as the waiter
called it, as it shaved another day
off my life. There was no salt
and antimony, just lumpy roads
through Meath and Leitrim.
The sky was a show of flashing
mirrors as day broke on Rosses.
Tide out and weed like cow pies
on the shore. The punt down and
the EEC on the horizon,
as I read in the guidebook about pilgrims
climbing St. Patrick’s barefoot
Out of the fog a man in Wranglers and
spurred boots, clean-shaven, a cigarette
in hand, waved me down.
“Scrum faced house at the end of the bay.”
“Hop in,” I said. “You lookin’
for where John Wayne made The Quiet Man?”
“No.” “American?” “Yep.” “Don’t look it.
You Jewish too?” “No.”
The fog was lifting off the fern-scalded
mountains across the bay, and the sheep
marked red and blue looked like sweaters.
“Grace O’Malley hijacked British
ships up here, and the Choctaws
sent $500 during the famine. Not a fuckin’ penny from the U.S.”
We passed the rusted hulls
of fishing boats and the scaffolding
of floating mussel beds.
“The Downing Street Accord is lots of
shit; Adams’ a frog on an oil slick.
When Lord Haw Haw broadcast for the Nazis
from right here, do ya think he was
a traitor or a patriot? … to us, I mean?”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him
I was on sabbatical and looking for
a place to write.
“They’ll turn the bog to Marks & Spencer anyway.”
“I’m looking for Knock-Na-Rae.”
“Maeve’s mountain? Two hours from
here in the other direction.”
I dropped him at the scrum house
half roofless and cracked,
where the sky seemed lower than the rocks
and the hills the color
of red sheep.
Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.
Question: Who is your audience? What are you here for?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Answer: Tribal Alliances, Heart-felt Convictions, Passionate Reason, Random Abandon, Sustainable Civility and a kiss; to comfort the sad and the mad Ones; the Ones roaming the International section of the American Supermarket at night; or roaming the neglected streets looking for an angry malaprop to sink their teeth into; the Ones who seek without seeking and learn as much as they teach; the Ones who embrace and kiss and embrace again; the Ones who sing the song of the city and the ballads of the forest; the Ones who chant the rhythm of the sea and hum the melody of the desert; the Ones who sing the prayer of Her name and Her name is the World. Yes, those are the Ones. -- JP
(Can you help folks in need heat their homes and cook their food on the Rosebud and Pine Ridge Reservations. Navajo has an important diary posted with all the particulars. Even a small amount can work towards building the minimum.
Could you please help?)
So that explains it... !
... Or does it?
(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma California / copyright Justice Putnam)
(Farm Road and Running Fence, Olema, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
"Many heroes lived before Agamemnon, but they are all unmourned, and consigned to oblivion, because they had no bard to sing their praises."
"Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-- Charles Kingsley
A Van Gogh
Hillsides and woods
In which the
Of nearly every
But I had become
Bound by guilt
Of the truth.
I came to believe
That in a sense
Was the same
In the park
I came to believe
That the measure
Was the amount
I could survive.
Like a crushed
By a colony of ants
But I had often
Cut my finger
From the beauty
Of a long-stemmed rose.
So I realized
In those final moments
What had actually
My life was
A series of patterns
A self created
Maze that offered
That I was
By its weight
I had no
Left to survive
With my own
I had sought
Between the legs
Only to make
Weakness of heart.
Between my fingers
(Portland, Oregon and Los Angeles, California 1978)
(from: Part 3 "And Memory Became A Fading Melody")
Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz
(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)