Paul Robeson and Porthcawl

by Phil Knight

On a windswept night in fifty-seven,
The Grand Pavilion filled with pride,
Five thousand voices waited,
For a voice from across the ocean wide.

Not there in flesh, but in spirit strong,
Paul Robeson's voice rang clear and true,
Across the Atlantic's roaring miles,
He sang for Wales, for me and you.

His passport seized, his freedom chained,
By those who feared the truth he spoke.
In Wales, Robeson was remembered,
The ties of solidarity would not be broke.

For years before, on a London street,
He'd heard a Welsh miners' chorus rise,
And knew their fight, their pain, their pride,
That echoed in their fearless cries.

From Show Boat fame to protest's call,
He gave his art to those in need,
Singing for the downtrodden souls,
With every song, he planted a seed.

The miners knew he stood with them,
From Neath to Aberdare, they'd seen,
A bond that weathered storm and time,
In struggle shared, their hopes redeemed.

Then came the day his voice returned,
In Porthcawl's hall, across the phone.
A concert for workers by Paul Robeson,
In a land that was his spiritual home.

And when his passport was returned,
He crossed the seas, to Welsh applause,
A symbol of the fight for peace,
Of human rights, and just cause.

And though the years may pass us by,
The echoes of that night remain,
When across the world, one man's voice
Sang of freedom again and again.

Ruling From the Tomb

by Phil Knight

"The tradition of the dead generations weighs like a
nightmare on the minds of the living." - Karl Marx

Let the drums beat out a dirge.
Paint the epitaphs on every wall.
Things change to remain the same.
Dip the flags, but don't let them fall.

The people can dance late into the night
As long as keep they within their limits.
Those born to hold the golden hour
Can spare one or two precious minutes.

They work hard who protect and serve
just to keep a lid on a boiling pot.
Occasionally pouring out a ladle or two
To those who could easily have the lot.

Some say it is all so unfair
But things won't be any different soon
While the traditions of the dead generations
Are still ruling from the tomb.

Gates

by Phil Knight, with image above from phatcatholic

Everywhere the gates were closed
By the strong against the weak.
The rich lived in concrete towers
No-one was allowed to join the clique.

The meek searched for refuge but
Everywhere the gates were closed.
The strong did not hear them call
When on silk couches they reposed.

Some people were short of money
And others frozen under the Sun.
Everywhere the gates were closed
What was said could not be undone.

One day there was a reckoning so
the weak and strong were juxtaposed.
The rich complained of their fate but
Everywhere the gates were closed.