Love pt.II (deux)

The night lay outside your open window,
the sounds of the city were letting themselves be known;
the revelry of intoxicated traffic,
adorned with occasional sirens urgently, wantonly calling,
whilst you both lay naked on the bed,
lights off, allowing the street-lights to send their halo-
their electronic, ethereal glow –
through the panes of your window,
trying to illume all that lay inside.

You were laying naked with your woman,
your limbs entwined around each others natural states;
touching each other sensitively, finding the secret places,
as if each of your bodies had been mapped before –
you each knew where your fingers should go,
could go, did go…

Finding the warm, wet, moist circle;
exploring tentatively, lovingly, gently-
probing the initial discovery with a thrill,
the thrill being met with a low, sensual, moan.
She reciprocates; her fingers grip your sex,
and both in unison, as if predetermined,
you lips touch –
gently at first, then the deepest passion takes control…

From both your deepest desires you met;
your bodies start to crave each other,
your sex slowly, but with an urgent purpose,
enters into your lover.
You fill her with a passion, a longing;
a deep rooted enchantment,
something both your souls feel from deep within…

That these memories, this recollection,
this time – was twenty years ago,
makes this time glorious, nostalgic;
but it leaves your soul feeling so forlorn,
so lost on a distant shore,
as if waiting for some vessel to rescue you…


George Orwells’ ‘Homage to Catalonia’ – a short review.

This is a re-read of Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell’s autobiographical adventure of experiencing the Spanish Civil War during late 1936 till mid-1937. George Orwell managed to get to Spain to fight for the Republicans against the Fascists with the British Independent Labour Party (the ILP) as he was refused by the Communists in Britain to go and fight with the International Brigades. I think this is one of his best journalistic novels; his descriptions of the Aragon front in Catalonia are really incredibly descriptive, detailing the privations all the militia at that time had to endure, and also this combined with several months of really no activity on the front lines – they just held their positions and suffered from cold, louse, poor weapons, bad food, limited tobacco with nothing really going on to relieve the boredom, apart from the occasional sniping that took place between the trenches (of note, there is little to distinguish this part of the front with the 1914-18 war of trenches – a period starting to change gradually in warfare stemming from the Great War, with the first proper use of aircraft with any real effectiveness; this was the end of ‘old warfare’ and the entrance into the ‘new’).

At the start of the book, Orwell explains distinctively what was going on in Barcelona when he arrived in December 1936; he, as George Orwell considered himself a Democratic Socialist, experiences a city in the throws of Revolutionary élan, with no class distinctions in any part of the city; Red and Black flags, denoting the CNT-FAI (Anarchist-Syndicalist) colours flying everywhere and so on, and he states in the first few pages that this was a city ‘with the working class in the saddle’; it seems as if he had never been so inspired to what he believed he was fighting for – against fascism and for some sort of workers democracy. A defence against the increasing dominance of fascist powers from Italy and Germany that had taken hold of Europe at this time.

However, this is a journalistic book, and later on, it becomes full of disillusionment; he witnesses first hand the May days in Barcelona, a period where the Republican Government try and take control of CNT-FAI owned collectives, the Telephone Exchange being the most notable, under influence from the Stalinist Communist Party (PSUC) to try and halt any further advance of any form of social revolution that had occurred from the first days of the attempted coup from Franco’s fascists (falange). It confuses Orwell that how could two sides, despite their ideological differences in their theories of Socialism, end up causing a ‘civil war within a civil war’, which is how it was portrayed? How could two sides, both equally hating Franco, end up causing internecine strife that could only strengthen the opposing side? This makes Orwell think more deeply about the role of the Stalinist Communist Party, and the fact that he slowly begins to understand their role in suppressing both the Anarchists and POUM (a quasi-Trotskyist organisation of some forty thousand members) because they saw that the only way to win against the fascists was to continue their program of collectivisation and workers control, whereas the official Communist line was that of ‘win the war, then social revolution’.

Orwell became wounded when he returned to the front after the May Days, with bullet through his neck, which meant he was out of action. He mentions towards the end of his journalistic novel that several of his ILP friends ended up being incarcerated in the dreadful Spanish Prisons, such as Bob Smillie, grandson of the Scottish miners leader, who later died. However, I would argue and like to suggest that Orwell, being a Socialist of a Democratic viewpoint, saw through what was actually occurring with the suppression of the POUM and CNT-FAI with the official Comintern line that a social revolution in Spain could only have weakened Stalinist Russia, that in effect he saw the Communists as actually the harbingers of, and eventual defeat, for both the Spanish workers along with its peasants whose land had been, early on the civil war, collectivised. Only a few years later, did Stalin make the Soviet-Nazi pact. A total kick in the teeth for all the old revolutionaries who had struggled and fought in Spain during this period. The accusations of ‘Trotsky-Fascism’ against the POUM and CNT-FAI led, maybe I would suggest, into the Second World War and the total defeat of the Spanish Civil War. And I could go on. But I will not. Old history, but still, in a modern society, holds many ramifications.

The Train’

This is roughly a 30 minute story (with editing), an attempt to shake from my head the dusty, thick, cobwebs; an attempt to try and make my blog still retain some of its creativity instead of writing too personally about my own problems and my lack of being able to cope with issues that I should never have bared publicly on a very public blog. Stupid.

The Train hurtles through the deep night, like a thing possessed from the very fiery depths itself; it’s whistle screeching an ear-piercing scream, a scream so loud that people cover their ears in abject terror; this in effect warns folk in advance to lock their doors, shutter their blinds, to hide,and turn their heads away from its passage, as if the very visual contact in itself would be enough to make one mad, delusional, to end up where this mystery train is said to be headed, or even to have arrived from. There was talk of mad people in the local Sanitarium who screamed and shouted, caused from having witnessed The Trains passage, turning them insane, but this is something of folk legend however and allegedly, so the tale goes, on a certain night, in a certain month, one can hear the mystery train; if you are brave, you can see its passage in the depth of this cold night, the red sparks from its chimney billowing behind it, leaving a cloudy, red tinted haze that looks as if it spawns fire, like some fiery comet blazing a trail of smoke and ashes from its passage.

The Train. No, that should read ‘The Train’. You knew about this tale many years ago, again it was one of the folk-tales that you read as a boy – and turned the page, not really taking it in, yet another story from the past containing old superstition, formed into a moral warning to scare, to try and keep you on the straight and narrow, to warn you, or at least subconsciously so, of what could happen if you strayed from the path, to wander, to become enticed to wonder just what actually lay from the beaten track, the path well trodden. Away from safety. As you grew older, and these old folk-tales became something of a distant, hazy memory – gone, but still stuck within your mind, at the very back, deep within your subconscious, this tale stayed with you, because it was a tale that scared, that turned your body cold; this one was the most terrifying in the book. You had seen it re-hashed in different formats and stories throughout your life; Ghost-Trains, trains with one-way tickets, screaming their passage along railway tracks fallen into, a long time ago, states of disrepair, in memory of maybe a train crash, or some other disaster. But ‘The Train’ stayed with you, never to be forgot, because there was something quite shivering and very very scary about it…