Writing - Prophetic

Inspired to include these words of Bob Dylan when I re-heard this song this morning. Written in 1963. So many comparisons match equally well today as they did 63 years ago. 

Masters of War

Written by: Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war

You that build all the guns

You that build the death planes

You that build the big bombs

You that hide behind walls

You that hide behind desks

I just want you to know

I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’

But build to destroy

You play with my world

Like it’s your little toy

You put a gun in my hand

And you hide from my eyes

And you turn and run farther

When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old

You lie and deceive

A world war can be won

You want me to believe

But I see through your eyes

And I see through your brain

Like I see through the water

That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers

For the others to fire

Then you set back and watch

When the death count gets higher

You hide in your mansion

As young people’s blood

Flows out of their bodies

And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear

That can ever be hurled

Fear to bring children

Into the world

For threatening my baby

Unborn and unnamed

You ain’t worth the blood

That runs in your veins

How much do I know

To talk out of turn

You might say that I’m young

You might say I’m unlearned

But there’s one thing I know

Though I’m younger than you

Even Jesus would never

Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question

Is your money that good

Will it buy you forgiveness

Do you think that it could

I think you will find

When your death takes its toll

All the money you made

Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die

And your death’ll come soon

I will follow your casket

In the pale afternoon

And I’ll watch while you’re lowered

Down to your deathbed

And I’ll stand o’er your grave

’Til I’m sure that you’re dead. 

God Help Us 

 

Writing - Dialect

 Not living in the area in which I was born has led to some interesting interactions with the locals. In these days of wokeness some of those interactions could be considered bullying. On the other hand they were probably attempts to make an outsider feel included, or it could be the human need to 'place' people.

Owen Brannigan (1908 - 1973) 

Owen Brannigan was an operatic bass (basso profundo) who also had a similar dialect to yours truly. I don't know about Owen but I was actively discouraged from speaking in the dialect as 'teachers don't talk like that'.

If you wish to hear that dialect click on the link. (or cut and paste)

https://youtu.be/sTmvjjoGgYw?si=KiE1En3rmoMGQMhA 

In creating a story, dialect can be used to provide depth and colour to the narrative bonny lad. I'm not taakin' aboot a regional language like Irish or Welsh but the micro variations that develop from street to street within an area. If you want te hav a go dee sum research. 

Andy Capp 

After aal we wanna be as orthentik as possible. 

Finally, as music is an interesting medium that can be used to transmit languages and dialects the link below will take you to a choir in the north east, singing 'properly', but using dialect words man. 

FYI - Ca' Hawkie Through the Watter is about getting a coo (cow) to cross a stream etc.

https://youtu.be/BUmQuXclK9g?si=3GHhoejYozrHYUYn

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 5 - The After Sound

There are many examples of when there is a magical silence, but they all have that indescribable power. 

Speech is silver but silence is golden. 

The believed Arabic saying speaks for itself.

The After Silence

 

Everyone has experienced it some time,

anyone who listens to music,

classical to pop to rap to ragtime,

at the end there is the magic.

 

When the band comes to the end of a piece,

after the final notes have been played,

the last echoes finally cease,

that’s where the magic is displayed.  

 

Paul and Art tried to explain in words,

darkness, visions, their silence sounds,

creating even more instances onwards,

the magic part of their collective rounds.

 

Even that f*cking lark soaring,

once it reaches its zenith of flight,

when the bow leaves the violin string,

before applause, magic at its height.

 

Between the last chord and first applause,

is a moment, not simply acoustic,

a silence where music finally withdraws,

resetting the sounds ether with magic.

© David L Atkinson September 2023 

God Bless