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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Roz Kaveney's LiveJournal:

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Friday, February 12th, 2016
12:00 am
My black hole gravity waves poem
DARK

Dark in the dark where light has gone to die
like sharks they circle mate their teeth don't shine
all appetite approach pull drag entwine
vastest of things that are the case. We try
to know through observation comprehend
no fact alone escapes to tell in clear
what's done in darkness where things disappear
weigh down so heavy all that's true must bend
And so we see where there can be no sight
awe looms and pulls the strings of real so tight
perhaps this is the image of our end
doom draws together binds distorts consumes.
As dead love eats us whole in dark sad rooms.
Friday, February 5th, 2016
10:51 pm
My poem for the trans mental health zine Dysphoria
BLUE MONDAY

Over again paws shove. Upon my back
Lie weep am shattered. Blues dog fades my soul
and breaks pride armour sheathing. Like a foal
tottered new legs when young. There is a crack
true mirror over false that I must mend
over again. Skin peels, scars. I must burn
unsightly. Body memories return
bad dream. Past life will never be my friend.
And blues dog is the sad I can't afford
It has my scent although my scent is change
I toss my hair. My clothing I arrange
Style neatly. Lipstick smile the lush curved sword
Cuts world. Snarls hint of teeth. Dog slinks away
Hound on my track. Not this but every day.
10:48 pm
My poem for the History Festival Launch
THREE PATHS

There is a path of faith. Humility
Bending to pray. And small acts that are kind
And taking all the comfort you can find
When saying Lord what do you want of me
And sometimes hear a wordless inner
Voice
Mouse whisper or sometimes a thunder chord
Some great CMajor. It is not the Lord
You fear and every day you make the choice
To act as if it were and unconsoled
You live in hope and love and some small trust
That all will be for best. You know it must
For it was promised. There outside of time
Life and eternity one tidy rhyme.

There is a path of law and blood and fear
Of righteous drama. Mercy is a lie.
The greater kindness is that they should die
So sin no more. You will not shed a tear.
Think rather of the innocents misled
Or never born. It is thos would save
You think. For sinners rotten in the grave
You feel no love. Are glad that they are dead.
Nor worry justice mercy love the law
You claim to serve. Tremble. The sin of pride
Makes angels fall and to your soul you lied.
God whom you serve will never know you more.
They do not hear God whisper in each breath
Turn loving kindness into fear and death.

There is a path of honest simple doubt
Faith died or never was. For its own sake
The path of Truth and loving-kindness take
Some do it for their God. You do without.
There's logic to the choice. Do as you would
In the imagined world and not the real
You'd not be stolen from so do not steal
And in cold reason find a spring of good
To water dryness. And do not despise
The godly harmless kind. Fear in the night
We share. They too resist the brutal might
Of killing faith. You see deep in their eyes
Faith's love and doubt's more nearly sibling same
Than those whose worship kills befouls the name
Friday, January 15th, 2016
12:34 am
Alan Rickman reads this poem in Truely Madly Deeply
THE DEAD WOMAN (after Neruda)

My love, I shall live on when you are gone.
I hate to say it. Out there in your night
I would be silent. And there is the fight
Blacks beaten men in prison. When the sun
shines as last victory that's not mine but ours
I must still live forgive me from your grave
For living still when rising like a wave.
Sun warms blind face. If dumb still sing dark hours.
Your death falls tatter red and yellow leaves
rain soak fire burn cold freeze. My broken feet
Stagger from death where you and I would meet.
You wanted strong unbroken one that grieves
walks on. The people march. I am among
them writing singing marching am their song.
Tuesday, January 12th, 2016
12:03 am
Here is a very long autobiographical poem which is amazingly triggery because it's about owning and dealing with a bit of my past that includes abuse and cathartic partial revenge.

I was a very bratty twelve-year old. My then best friend's name is obscured to protect the not entirely innocent

Collapse )
Monday, January 11th, 2016
8:24 am
I wish this were not my job
DAVID BOWIE

We danced. He played. We listened. Down the years
he changed remade himself. The music throb
changes remains. It is the artist's job
to be chameleon. He's dead. Our tears
are for ourselves and how he helped us be
ourselves through change. Let's not talk of his flaws
today – so many. Wash them in applause
For now. I weep he helped me to be free.
Life is, death is, a cavalcade of grief.
We know, we feel, we dance. And then we lose
who made us. So we put on our red shoes.
Lets dance contempt for death, who is the thief
makes life and dancing matter. In the sky
a starman waits. He knows and tells us why.
Wednesday, December 16th, 2015
10:58 am
SOMETIMES i GET VERY ANGRY
FOR A SECRETARY OF STATE

We did not choose to know. He did not lie
Precisely. Talked of overwhelming need
For change. 'If you would garden you must weed'
He never said he wished that these would die.

The old sick lame mad noisy idle queer.
He had long lists as angry statesmen do
You'd never know until he listed you
Except some of your friends would disappear

The social death of never having cash
No fares or shoes to go where people meet
You do not talk or write if you don't eat
Nothing as crude as ovens full of ash.

They'll ask us how. We'll weep. Do not forget
Many might live. There are high lampposts yet.
Tuesday, December 15th, 2015
12:10 am
Just as I am getting over the cold from Hell, a request poem...
POEM FOR AN ASTRONAUT

All of us fear to, really want to go
Beyond the storm clouds out beyond the air
No troubles because little else is there.
Beneath the human world rotates so very slow
It almost sleeps and will when we are gone
To grave dust all our towers go away
Our words works sins and kindnesses decay.
As the world turns our lights die one by one

But not today not yet. Today you ride
Phaeton unfailing Icarus on high
Collective wisdoms place you in the sky
We dream that we are winging at your side.

All that we make will fall. Perhaps the best.
To reach this height before we come to rest
Saturday, December 5th, 2015
1:13 am
They are tearing down the Munchen
LESBIAN BAR FIGHT 1987

He took a long draw of his cigarette
then threw it in my former girlfriend's hair
affronted she ignored him. We were there
me, her, her current girlfriend. I forget
what I was drinking. Had to throw it quick
to quench the burn. Schwarz threw him to the floor
and punched him. And we all got shown the door.
Perhaps because his quiet friend was sick
I hurt his hand wrenching away the glass
he emptied tried to brain her with. My nails
dug in a pressure point. That never fails
You twist in, they collapse, down on their arse
they fall. And there's the thing. What point is love
if you don't hurt men when push comes to shove?
12:52 am
OUT OF THE QUARREL WITH OURSELVES WE MAKE POETRY
SYRIA DECEMBER THIRD

My words are useless. They will not prevent
a single starving child or stitch in place
an arm torn-off or smooth acid burned face
or turn aside the bloodiest event
heart can conceive. Perhaps announce my grief
in organ tones of sorrow, bring a tear
to hardest heart's stone eye. i disappear
from my best work. A poet is a thief
who stands inside the mirror of her eyes
watches the world bleed, but I cannot change
the pieces that I steal, that I arrange
in pleasing shapes. At best I offer lies
pretend that art can make what's damaged whole.
I damn myself pretending to console.
Wednesday, December 2nd, 2015
11:32 pm
Too sick at heart to write well
To 67 Labour MPs

Gold tongues and lion hearts are worthless trash.
Virtues that history will not recall.
We do not care what reasons made you fall.
Ambition, pique, or principle or cash.

It is the crime and not the motive weighs
so heavy, breaks our hearts, loses our trust.
It's hard to hate you now but hate we must
to keep our anger hot. When each page says

how right you were to take us all for fools.
You are the clever ones with clear bright eyes
yet sell yourself so cheap, tell stupid lies
corrupt your virtues into broken tools

All that you were for this one day you sold
For jobs which go with power which goes with gold.
2:07 pm
End time bollocks
Here's another amplification. As I understand it, one of the differences between Al-Qaeda and Daesh/ISIL is that both have an end time theology but that Al Baghdadi believes himself entitled to declare himself caliph with minimal authority from theologians and start the clock ticking whereas Al Qaeda defer to the major universities to let them know when the end times start.

This is private Islamic business - which I may have hopelessly mis-stated - and for Muslims to sort out among themselves.

However, one thing that the Christian world could do is de-escalate Christian theology about the End Time. The Christian Right in the US and elsewhere started the clock ticking long ago, and this has particular ramifications for politics. Part of this is the assumption that eg equal marriage is a provocation to god and evidence for climate change is a sign of his wrath.. There is also the stuff about Obama or Putin being the Antichrist. More importantly, in relation to Middle Eastern affairs, there is the backing of Israel beyond all reason on the assumption that the Apocalypse kicks off with a lot of Israelis suddenly converting to Christianity and the rest all dying horribly. The Israelis find this belief on the part of most Republicans and many others convenient - bar the conversion/horrible death stuff.

I am suggesting a convention of those major branches of Christianity who think this is all impious bollocks to say so, loudly. I don't normally think the Pope should tell other Christians that something is heretical nonsense, but in this instance...

If you want to put out a signal, that might be one of the ones to put out
2:04 pm
More Jarvis bollocks
Some amplification.

Intelligence about command and control is of two kinds. 1 Electronic tracing of GPS chips etc. This tells you where the chip is but not who is there with it - thus, blown up hospitals and schools readily provided for propaganda purposes.
2. Special forces infiltrators on rooftops with binoculars and laser sights. That might mean you get someone you want to kill but bombs aren't bullets and you get eg the building he is next to eg school or hospital.

Also, of course, Daesh believe in 5 caliphs before the End. Al Baghdadi expects he will die. Leaving him alive buggers up the prophesies he relies on.
10:50 am
Why I think Dan Jarvis is wrong
It's important to examine Dan Jarvis' case for voting for bombing, because he is going endlessly to be cited as the persuasive Labour case. I have to say I am not convinced.

1. He assumes that the RAF is superior to other air forces in precision bombing and can therefore reliably strike against Daesh's command and control points within Raqqa. He implies but does not state that this can be done without harm to civilians - this seems implausible especially because he does not state how the RAF is going to know with certainty where those C&C points in Raqqa are - reliable intelligence sources? Really?

2. He blusters about ground forces - he is clearly sceptical about Cameron's figure of 70,000 but 'It reminds me of the dilemma I faced when commanding Afghan soldiers whose knowledge was invaluable but whose competencies were questionable in other areas. Sometimes you have to work with what you have'.
a - like Afghanistan was a huge success
b- the ground forces in Syria include a lot of Al Qaeda whose argument with Daesh is real but impenetrable.
He acknowledges that Cameron has a lot of explaining to do but thinks it can be deferred until after the bombing starts.

3. He continually poses a false dichotomy between action - ie bombing plus other avenues like chasing money, diplomatic efforts and so on- and inaction - those avenues without bombing. Clearly this is untrue; he also assumes, without much evidence, that Cameron will pursue those other avenues in the face of the fact that doing so effectively would mean taking a tough line with our allies.


4. He talks as if Daesh were the only 'new fascists' in the game - this is trasnparently untrue and renders everything he says about Atlee and WW2 a piece of rhetorical nonsense.

5. He argues that bombing Daesh will make Britain's streets safer. My own view is that since Daesh and other groupes long ago moved from revenge to provocation in their deployment of terror is that this is as much nonsense as the assumption by anti-war forces that not bombing will make British streets safer.

I fear that Jarvis is groping for reasons that will enable him to vote in a way that positions him as the candidate to replace Corbyn as leader; I am not accusing him of entire insincerity but, since he acknowledges that he is voting on the basis of a thin margin of reasons, I fear his judgement in the matter,

After reading his arguments I still think joining in an incoherent, not especially competent and immoral bombing campaign with allies who are not actually pursuing the same goals is both stupid and wrong.


http://www.newstatesman.com/politics/staggers/2015/12/case-action-against-isil-syria-outweighs-case-inaction
Saturday, November 14th, 2015
11:41 pm
People have called for us to write about Beirut
FOR ADEL TERMOS OF BEIRUT

How mourn not knowing how the spice oil smell
crates between stalls meat hanging fresh baked rolls
the crowded bus exhaust walls peppered with small holes
posters I could not read? This man, Adel

made a decision that I could not make
sure knowing both he and his child were dead
saw guessed planned weighed a second in his head
Heard detonation saw a window break

glass splinters in the air. Saw at his side
another man with death sewn in his vest
prayed quickly for them both to find the best
threw the man down was blasted daughter died

so many others lived. My words are weak
beside the witness. See her tears her shriek.
1:02 am
Another 1311 poem
PAIN

Our skeleton remembers every blow.
Each trauma lines our teeth with fine dark rings
Our mother's pain deep in our blood vein sings
Our skull holds knowledge that we cannot know

Yet feel deep rooted as a tooth that throbs
or wind that twists an air knife in our gut.
Throat razor slash turns to a paper cut.
Old memory returned in dreams that robs

us of our sleep. Forgotten when we wake
save for the pain that haunts us long past dawn
the slamming doors of ivory and horns
so hard they almost splinter. And this ache

persists. Cannot escape. Hurts us to blind
we cannot kiss it better, but be kind.
12:38 am
Inadequate but what can you do or say?
PARIS 13/11

There is a dance that people play with knives.
A circle forms. One cuts another's throat.
Whose cut whose turn. The sweet squeal of the stoat
teeth in a fieldmouse. It's the end of lives

of peace and charm. It has its own high step.
Boot click against the floor. We know the tune
Fiddled by Mr Bones. We'll hear it soon
Crusader dance to it HEP HEP HEP HEP.

All we can do is sleep to numb the pain
Dream of the small canal, an autumn kiss.
The city of my heart has come to this.
It happens now. It happens soon. Again.

Love one another. We knew this for years.
Embrace no harm feed hungry dry all tears.
Sunday, November 8th, 2015
3:18 pm
For today
Remembrance Sunday

For every poet gas flame in their throats
Who scramble scrawled last verses in the mud
Each child whose flower blasted in the bud,
Musician detonation deafened notes

Nurses their wounds unbandaged and no bed
To make for them except a random grave
Civilian dead whom voting working praying did not save.
This is the day we're silent for the dead.

Whom praying cannot help. And there is gold
In vaults somewhere that's smeared with so much blood.
Some planner might have stopped it - yes they could -
Yet profited from calculation cold.

Colder than all those dead. Let memory
Be rage as well as sorrowsympathy.
Sunday, November 1st, 2015
11:39 pm
A weather poem
FOG

Grey brown sometimes it seeps into your house
Particle droplet heavy in your chest
It closes in at night. Unwelcome guest.
In through each door and hole thin as a mouse

that leaves its small black droppings on your plate.
It wipes more distant towers from your sight
As if not there. It fuzzes breaks up light
as if your eyes were wet. It makes you late

as everything is slow. It eats up days
when hours are so few. You find it hard to wake
because it veils each dawn that does not break
so much as stagger. Yet autumn mists amaze

As charcoal shading can delight the eye,
turn days to mezzotint or to grisaille.
Friday, October 30th, 2015
1:00 am
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