From 4th March 1981, a poem from the archive.
There are years when the light dims not just in the sky, but in the soul of a people. Nineteen eighty-one was such a year. The engines of progress stalled. The promises of post-war hope flickered. And in the silence that followed, something sharp and unspoken pressed against the heart.
We remember the riots - Brixton, Toxteth, Moss Side - not just as eruptions of rage, but as cries from communities long unheard. We remember the hunger strikes in Northern Ireland, where young men chose death over silence, and where politics failed to grasp the depth of their despair. We remember the cold war tightening, the assassins’ bullets missing but still wounding the world’s sense of safety. And we remember the quiet unravelling of trust, of solidarity, of the belief that tomorrow would be better.
In such a dusk, idols crumble. Systems we thought eternal reveal their cracks. And we, the ordinary ones, are left holding the box, Pandora’s box, with only hope flickering faintly inside.
This poem, this lament, is not just about darkness. It is about the moment before the scream, the breath before the prayer. It is about the silken web that falls lightly but binds firmly. It is about the rage that rises not to destroy, but to mourn what might have been. To say: yes, the light is dying. Yes, the darkness rises. But even now, we pray for a wizard’s spell. Even now, we dare to hope for a fresh tomorrow.
Darkness Rising
We remember the riots - Brixton, Toxteth, Moss Side - not just as eruptions of rage, but as cries from communities long unheard. We remember the hunger strikes in Northern Ireland, where young men chose death over silence, and where politics failed to grasp the depth of their despair. We remember the cold war tightening, the assassins’ bullets missing but still wounding the world’s sense of safety. And we remember the quiet unravelling of trust, of solidarity, of the belief that tomorrow would be better.
In such a dusk, idols crumble. Systems we thought eternal reveal their cracks. And we, the ordinary ones, are left holding the box, Pandora’s box, with only hope flickering faintly inside.
This poem, this lament, is not just about darkness. It is about the moment before the scream, the breath before the prayer. It is about the silken web that falls lightly but binds firmly. It is about the rage that rises not to destroy, but to mourn what might have been. To say: yes, the light is dying. Yes, the darkness rises. But even now, we pray for a wizard’s spell. Even now, we dare to hope for a fresh tomorrow.
Darkness Rising
Softly, my darling, hear the daylight falling
As our light flickers; now the engine stalling
Stops, and at once becomes most still
Until silence so sharp that it might kill;
Then howling frenzy starts its rage
At loss of air-conditioned cage
Now, my darling, comes the darkness rising
As a dusk of idols crumbles in prising
Open Pandora's box; left alone unseen
Is hope. Alas! That which might have been
Was not to be: the silken web falls lightly
But firm; no space here for the sprightly
Only pray, my darling, for a wizard's spell
To break the enchantment of our hell,
And call forth hope for fresh tomorrow,
That failing there should be no sorrow
But tears of rage against the dying
Of the light, the darkness softly rising.
As our light flickers; now the engine stalling
Stops, and at once becomes most still
Until silence so sharp that it might kill;
Then howling frenzy starts its rage
At loss of air-conditioned cage
Now, my darling, comes the darkness rising
As a dusk of idols crumbles in prising
Open Pandora's box; left alone unseen
Is hope. Alas! That which might have been
Was not to be: the silken web falls lightly
But firm; no space here for the sprightly
Only pray, my darling, for a wizard's spell
To break the enchantment of our hell,
And call forth hope for fresh tomorrow,
That failing there should be no sorrow
But tears of rage against the dying
Of the light, the darkness softly rising.
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