Peter Branson

Peter Branson

Peter Branson is a full time poet, songwriter, traditional-style singer and socialist whose poetry has been published around the world. His latest collection, ‘Hawk Rising’, is due out early 2016.

Monday, 04 July 2016 20:00

Signs

Published in Poetry

Signs

by Peter Branson

Poems everywhere - no time to shape them all,
not birds and bees, dark stuff, more sinewy
than sunlight through high trees - of cities; there,
on dire estates, lined up like coffin boards,
abandoned dominoes, shop fronts expire
in rows. To make life bearable, food, drugs,
hard booze, most seize the day, back-burner, ‘Ye
are many – they …’ still simmering away.
I search bright eyes, young Jack-the-lads, the girls
(my time) beehives, coins dropped, like-minds aboard
entitlement express ; unstoppable,
alive, where whippet men, their wives with head-
scarf rollered hair, ignore the bollocks They
contrive, conceal tab ends behind clenched fists.

Red Shift
Wednesday, 16 March 2016 13:07

Red Shift

Published in Poetry

Red Shift

by Peter Branson

'Neither a borrower nor a lender be' (Hamlet)

Before this latest mess they badgered us
to use their cards, take out those "Own-your-own
home" loans. Phone call, spam mail or snail, imprint,
TV; end of the day, we fall. Roll up:
"It trickles down, prosperity, so all
do well, d'you see." Ring out that tired theme tune.
Don't tell us when they've taken out their share,
there'll be just bare bones there for you and me.

They bind us to them heart and mind, refine
with clever marketing how we consume,
when, what and where, control our spending lives.
If they could knock them out, they'd steal our souls;
bankrupt, buy out and asset-strip whole third
estate. The bubble burst, it's panic time.
There are no gay Antonios about
to bail you out before their ships come in.

No comfort blanket, see. Not how it's done
these days. Once you're destabilized, may be
too late; the toy balloon, inflated, grasped
by finger tips, released. No siren's raised;
no fire engine, police car or ambulance,
that drop in pitch to signify you've flipped,
blue chip to sheer insolvency, worn out
your credit-rating stations-of-the-shop.

Micawber's hope that "Something will turn up"
simply won't do in this brave virtual age.
They'll goose you while you're healthy, salmon-pink,
try not to drain you dry; gentled you cope.
Red shift: you're irredeemable so can't
catch up. They take the reins: "The deal was all
explained to you before you signed. See there,
small print, the bottom of the page." No change.

They charge-you-till-you-bleed and when you do,
they seize what they already own: buy now -
pay later stuff, your car, your home. You're in
a mental Marshalsea. They're in control.
"I'm being reasonable. Don't take that tone
with me. It's here in black and white. What's that?
You didn't realise? Why? Can't you read?
Those tears won't wash. There's nothing I can do."

 

from Red Shift, e-book from Caparison, www.therecusant.org.uk/#/caparison-e-books/4538998565

Lions After Slumber: six poems by Peter Branson and one from Daniel Defoe
Monday, 14 December 2015 22:34

Lions After Slumber: six poems by Peter Branson and one from Daniel Defoe

Published in Poetry

Lions after slumber

for Maxine Peake, who read Shelley's ‘The Mask of Anarchy’ in Manchester

D’you recognise them, university?
They’re playing hunt the beggar, light cigars -
'It’s only money' - festival of fools.
Their greed’s a virtue: let me get this right,
one day, if we don’t kick against the pricks,
no promises, some scraps may fall our way.
What price our hopes, our punctured commonweal,
our national health? We bleed, a thousand cuts.
They lay the blame on us. We foot the bill,
bankers who bring this ogre to its knees
get pensioned off. We do their dirty work
abroad, come back in body-bags, no clue,
rhyme, reason why. These thoughts in mind, recall
the poesy, 'Ye are many – they are few'.

Blue Shift
The ayes have it all: General Election Day plus one

After the razzmatazz, papershop bloke’s
hindsight mumming-play trite, grounded, you know
little will change for many, yet, for some,
strings will snag tight. Their mates, they’ll do all right,
gross ever more. Poor, jobless, old and sick
will moulder on the vine: disparity
their sub-text, by degrees, ex Bullys, old
Etonians, will spin to weave crook law.
My youth, we dreamed the time danced free, yet they
unlevelled things again, each five year stretch
a liberty, hard labour, public face
'No other way!' one nation, same tired score;
key players crowding Mother’s market stall,
Necessity unbridled, tooth an’ craw.

It’s Ours
(Tune: adapted from ‘Spanish Lady’ – Irish traditional song)

Chorus:
They’ll say it can’t be done; the profit motive makes the world go round.
Go tell that to our soldiers who they’ve maimed or planted underground.
Tell folk who work for charity, tell teachers, nurses, others who
give everything for little pay: self sacrifice is human too.

1.
Let’s claim what’s ours by right from those who hold the future in their hands,
spiv bankers and fund managers, all smoke and mirror, shifting sands.
Let’s take our water companies on, the oil, electric and the gas:
vast billions go to shareholders; we’ll act to grab that back en masse.

Chorus: They'll say it can't be done etc.

2.
Let’s wrest our transport back, control our buses, trains and aeroplanes,
not subsidise smug plutocrats who run things for their private gains.
Let’s keep our national health our own and pay a reasonable amount
for vital drugs sick people need: let’s sort those multinationals out.

Chorus: They'll say it can't be done etc.

3.
Let’s win control, co-operate, get organised, campaign and fight,
not let the greedy few make hay from what we all should own by right.
Let’s plan for what the future holds, root out unfairness far and wide;
let’s work with nature in our thoughts, green city, town and countryside.

Final chorus:
They’ll say it can’t be done; the profit motive makes the world go round.
Go tell that to our soldiers who they’ve maimed or planted underground.
Tell folk who work for charity, tell teachers, nurses, others who
give everything for little pay: self sacrifice is human too -
self sacrifice is Christian too –
and Muslim too.

‘High Ho Silver, Away!’

1.

Light slides down reels
of spinning celluloid,
freewheels through silvered streams
of space and time where ghosts
dance out from two dimensions, black
on white, rides technicolor myths
to flood the screen.
The stranger in the mask
would choke injustice in a cloud
of dust on sets of cardboard rocks
and plywood frontages,
where punches pull
and shell blanks ricochet.
A cowboy arms and head,
mad galloping
through hobbled streets
on hopalong back legs
and slapping thighs, you’d wing
hostile young kids with finger guns
beneath dark cobbler skies.

2.
That hero tucked inside
your head, recall
first rueful day your thoughts
outgrew his dreams.
He’d conjure reds from greys
where Pax Americana rules,
seel hearts and minds,
Korea, Vietnam,
time-warp, same script,
like Superman and Captain Kirk.
You’ve seen what’s happening:
talking forked tongues in cheek,
(‘The national interest’);
Afghanistan, Iraq; lost souls
in orange isolation suits;
wetbacks who hold
this brave new world intact?
As troops clean up
another street, stars fizzle out,
stripes cringe from sheer embarrassment.

No Use Aged Forty-Two
(for the Sally Army lady who shakes her tin at us)

The brass band’s playing in the square,
Sing Merrily on High,
King Wenceslas, The First Noel,
Watch Ships Come Sailing By.

Chorus:
Well it’s winter now with Christmas here,
No angel’s wings for you,
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
No use, aged forty-two.

Your bed tonight a cold stone floor,
Shop doorway off the high street,
With cardboard for an eiderdown,
Brown paper for a sheet.

Chorus: Well it’s winter now etc.

You crave long summer days, warm nights,
Some shelter from the rain,
Bleak winter is your terror time,
Chills bones and dulls the brain.

Chorus: Well it’s winter now etc.

What brought you here, so far from friends
And family, tell me why
You’ve slept outdoors alone for years,
Blank stares from passers-by?

Chorus: Well it’s winter now etc.

'Lost everything, job, wife and kids,
The demon in my head;
No other way, I had to leave,
That’s what my voices said.'

Chorus: Well it’s winter now etc.

'I read their faces, people round,
Grow louder by the day:
To them I’m an embarrassment
They wish would melt away.

Chorus: Well it’s winter now etc.

Folk wash their hands, police move you on,
Leave charities to cope;
Your world inside one carrier bag,
Can’t live on faith and hope.

Chorus: Well it’s winter now etc.

First verse repeated

Chorus: (modified):
Well it’s winter now with Christmas here,
No angel’s wings to cope,
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
Can’t live on faith and hope.

Excerpt from The True Born Englishman
by Daniel Defoe, 1701

Thus from a mixture of all kinds began,
That het'rogeneous thing, an Englishman:
In eager rapes, and furious lust begot,
Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend'ring off-spring quickly learn'd to bow,
And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough:
From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came,
With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame.
In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran,
Infus'd betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.
While their rank daughters, to their parents just,
Receiv'd all nations with promiscuous lust.
This nauseous brood directly did contain
The well-extracted blood of Englishmen.

Which medly canton'd in a heptarchy,
A rhapsody of nations to supply,
Among themselves maintain'd eternal wars,
And still the ladies lov'd the conquerors.

The western Angles all the rest subdu'd;
A bloody nation, barbarous and rude:
Who by the tenure of the sword possest
One part of Britain, and subdu'd the rest
And as great things denominate the small,
The conqu'ring part gave title to the whole.
The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane, submit,
And with the English-Saxon all unite:
And these the mixture have so close pursu'd,
The very name and memory's subdu'd:
No Roman now, no Britain does remain;
Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain:
The silent nations undistinguish'd fall,
And Englishman's the common name for all.
Fate jumbled them together, God knows how;
What e'er they were they're true-born English now.

The wonder which remains is at our pride,
To value that which all wise men deride.
For Englishmen to boast of generation,
Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation.
A true-born Englishman's a contradiction,
In speech an irony, in fact a fiction.
A banter made to be a test of fools,
Which those that use it justly ridicules.
A metaphor invented to express
A man a-kin to all the universe.

For as the Scots, as learned men ha' said,
Throughout the world their wand'ring seed ha' spread;
So open-handed England, 'tis believ'd,
Has all the gleanings of the world receiv'd.

Some think of England 'twas our Saviour meant,
The Gospel should to all the world be sent:
Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach,
They to all nations might be said to preach.

'Tis well that virtue gives nobility,
How shall we else the want of birth and blood supply?
Since scarce one family is left alive,
Which does not from some foreigner derive.

Our Mongrel Breed
by Peter Branson

This poem’s a fox amongst the hens, each word
a claw, each phrase a wrecking ball, roof, wall
and floor, foundation – ignorance, till there’s
no house of folly left at all, that sense
of being overwhelmed by strangers, folk
who try their fortune here – blind panic, bile,
'What a to-do! – in Europe’s jakes, enhance
our culture, vitalise our mongrel race.
This morning’s pallid, root-stock still, time stalled,
ice chandeliers on twigs, the slightest move,
keen-set hawk’s breath, will shatter, send to ground
to glisten like the dew, these brittle shards
of frosted glass, self-doubt, small-mindedness,
ill will, that meld to nothing in the grass.

'High Ho, Silver, Away!' was first published in Ambit.