GORDON PARSONS appreciates fine performances and a feel for ambiguity, but misses the music of the dialogue
We Are at War
Gale Burns
and now we know we always were. Slaves
to the appearance of things, fooled by the promise of permanence,
the accumulation of trappings, the celebration of this:
the first generation kept from battle, soft hands, suckled, suckling still.
But signs were all around: the mental patient consigned to weeks of sleep;
the silted air; suburban privet clipped to re-assure;
The bard invites readers to a gig, raps for Clacton, and lays out the Burnham-Hurzeler conundrum
In verse and polemic, the bard points out that he is a poet and musician, not a political party
ADRIAN WEIR charts the intercontinental trade union solidarity with Cuba and its desperate predicament
ANDY CROFT welcomes the publication of an anthology of recent poems published by the Morning Star, and hopes it becomes an annual event


