ISSUE 6

CONTENTS

Editorial	Ben Ainley
Reincarnation	M Doyle
The Christmas Present	R Friedman
The Quiet Black	AM Horne
Man in Winter	M Ferns
The Gun	J McFarlane
Pseudonym	FG Walker
The Bell spews its Evil	J Barnes
The Name of the Game	B Eburn
Harry the Tick Man	V Leslie
Staunch True Comrade	J Sutton
Factory Boy	T Harcup
Oppression ...	T Harcup
Comment on Ken Clay's article	W Froom
Comment on Ken Clay's article	F Moore
Comment on Ken Clay's article	I E Reed
Comment on Ken Clay's article	B Eburn
The Silly Bloody Working Class	M Ferns
Modern Poetry, Eliot and The working Class	T Whitfield
Poetry - Where are You Now?	IE Reed
A Matter of Opinion	V Leslie
Remember your Kerb Drill	A Prior
We came en masse	J Sutton
On Winter's Highway	AG Froom
Saving Face	A Jamieson
Turning Point	J O Broonlea
The Housewife	B O Connor
Fireweed A Review	B Ainley
Listen to the Old Men	A Arnison
Woman's Paper	F Moore
Promise	F Moore
Midnight	KB Stump
Note to Contributors
Modern Magic	B Smith
If Things Go on as They Are	A Prior
War Maimed Girl at a Dance	R Friedman
Far From My Window	T Whitfield
Drama Now	W Froom
The Dancer of Death	IE Reed
Elegy	KL Jones
Person with the grace of a tall ship	J Barnes
North Scale's Winter	AM Horne
Father Crisp Sell	AM Horne
Last Rites	B Eburn
Graphics by Peter Carter

This is Voices 6, and our total output covers about 300 pages. There have been more than 200 separate pieces in these 6 issues, written by more than 80 writers, the overwhelming majority of whom have never had work published previously. The quality varies greatly of course: some of the pieces (and at this point it would be invidious to select examples) are of high poetic or literary merit; others are not. The whole purpose of "Voices" is not to perpetuate mediocrity, but to fan the sparks of imagination and revolt against what is reactionary, soulless, greedy and exploitative, and to encourage writers from the factory floor and the branch meeting. We would like world famous writers, and national figures, and we admire their works in other publications: but our aim is to help to build a team of working men and women who are reflecting in new and vivid writing the explosive left movement in Britain and the world.

We need a lot of help. We are getting new writers with each issue. Our sales, still modest, are growing. Our financial appeal was generously backed. But we still do not know whether Labour Party wards, Trade Union branches, workers in factories, students, Communist Party members, enjoy "Voices" and feel that it meets a need.

Three of us went recently to a Labour Party group in Stockport, and read pieces from "Voices" to them and discussed them. There was genuine appreciation of what we are doing We would like to test the reactions of all sorts of people to "Voices" and invite you to ask your organization, or student bodies to give us a chance to explain "Voices" to them.

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Give us a regular subscription (yearly, half-yearly or quarterly) on which we can rely and budget.

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Finally, if among readers living within 10 miles of the centre of Manchester, there are three or four prepared to give time to helping to widen the contacts of "Voices" such people can be sure they will be warmly welcomed.

Brian Gallon, 12 Frank Place, North Shields, Tyne and Wear, is researching material for a play about John Maclean, the Clydeside socialist leader.

If anyone has personal recollecticns or parents or grandparents who remember Maclean, or any written material about him, will they please get in touch with Mr. Gallon.

The cash raised by our appeal in November which finally raised over £145 helped us clear our debts, and get "Voices 5" out. We are not out of the wood. It costs around £150 to get out an issue of "Voices" and at this moment, from the proceeds of sales of "Voices 5" we have around £100. We are compelled therefore to ask people interested in our survival to continue to help us financially. We will acknowledge directly all sums received. Make cheques payable either to Ben Ainley or to Frank Parker.

We welcome contributions in prose and verse. But we cannot undertake to return manuscripts unless stamped addressed envelope is included.

Number the pages of your contribution. Write your name and address on each page. If possible, send typescripts; but if your piece is hand written1 make sure it is legible to the printer.

We are dealing with between 80 and 100 contributions per issue, and this number is growing. Bear with us if there are delays.

A brief personal biography (about 40 words) will help us, but will not necessarily be published.

Reincarnation

Do you feel misspent

Are you fully content

In the role life's given to you?

Do you feel all the while

Something more worthwhile

Is what you should be aiming to do?

Do you feel overwrought

At the change change has brought

In this life by men different than you?

Do you just criticise,

Live a life like the flies

And discontent spread like disease?

Do you play your part

On the basis of art

Deny what the heart tells you?

At the end of the day

When you get your pay

Do you feel it just isn't worthwhile?

Then cor blimey mate, You're in a helluva state

And there's not going to be a next time.

I hope that it's different next time.

M.Doyle

The placards screamed the headlines. The evening paper followed through with the rest of the story.

Citizens homeward bound released from the day's toil, bought the papers and read the news in shocked silence. "EMINENT NUCLEAR PHYSICIST RESIGNS".

Professor Lewley withdrawn into the corner of the first class railway compartment and taking refuge behind a copy of The Times, shook his head sadly and sighed. Seeing the announcement of his action in the cold black and white of the placard and stripped of the warmth of his covering explanation, aroused in him a deep sense of desolation. However, he thought to himself, staring unseeingly at the small print of the morning's paper, the deed was now done and the step now taken from which there was no retracing.

His thoughts went back to that final scene when after months of grave and gnawing disquiet within himself he had faced his eleven colleagues on the committee of top level scientists and had delivered the bombshell. "Gentlemen", he had said, "Brother scientists, after deep and serious thought on my part I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer reconcile my own feelings with the aims and objects of this committee for the development of weapons for use in nuclear warfare.

Please colleagues, I ask you here and now to be good enough to accept my resignation from this committee."

Looking at the stunned faces of the men around him had moved him to add softly, "Believe me, I have, as I said, given this matter deep and serious consideration and I find that now at long last I must face the realisation that I can no longer work on objects for which the ultimate use will be the destruction of man, by man."

Of course his resignation had not been accepted unanimously. Some of the older ones had been prepared to argue it out with him, make him see reason so to speak, but in the end they too had had to give in, hoping that perhaps he had been overworking and needed a break for two or three weeks.

"Why not take a trip over the Xmas holidays, tewley old chap", professor Dacre had said soothingly1 in a tone suspiciously like that one would use to a man on the brink of a nervous breakdown. "Just pack a bag and fly off with your wife and kiddie, say to the Bahamas." "It should be pretty warm there, just now, I can fix the flight for you old man, no trouble at all, and you'll get there just in time for the Xmas celebrations." quite an idea y'know."

Hm! The Xmas celebrations that really was what had brought things to a head and had determined him to take the final step.

So simple. So utterly, utterly simple, the circumstances that had at last removed the scales from his eyes and had revealed the image of his true self, standing clearly before him, face to face.

How often one's puppet sneaks in and takes command, steering one this way and that whilst one's own soul squeezed out stands by biding its time just waiting the opportune moment in which to reassert itself. And so it had been with the learned man of science.

The false premise on which his own sense of security had rested and which had begun to rock quite some time ago, had finally toppled when he had been assigned to the role of Santa Claus at the Xmas party of his young daughter Caroline.

Several of Caroline's little friends were spending the Xmas holidays abroad with their respective parents and so the Xmas party had been held three weeks before the holidays.

Dorothy the professor's wife had made up a cloak for him out of some red cotton fabric, a bit of medical tow had done for the beard and a furry cap had completely covered his dark brown head. When he had protested at the too obvious fake of the tow, Dorothy had replied, "Oh the kids'll never notice, all that interests them is the sack of gifts which you are going to hand out, after all Caroline and her friends are only five years old."

Then she had added in mock solemn tones, "I promise you when Caroline's seven you shall have a full blown grey beard."

When Caroline's seven - sev-en sev-en were his last thoughts as he drifted off into uneasy slumber that night. "What makes you so sure Caroline will reach seven?" said his soul, accusingly, confronting him and barring his way so that he could move neither to the left nor to the right, but only backwards.

Wildly he tried to press on, but his soul now dressed as Santa Claus and sporting a full blown grey beard and wearing a mask of the professor's own features, continued to stand in his way. "Who told you, who told you?" Frantically the professor looked around for a scapegoat, his eyes large with apprehension. Then he spotted the tow-bearded Daddy Xmas. Pointing a forefinger in his direction he cried out desperately, "He told me, he told me." The tow-bearded red-cloaked figure advanced towards him, also wearing a mask the replica of the professor's own features. "Ha, you'd no need to listen to me," he croaked. "No need at all to listen to me."

"Yes, I see it all now," said the man of science, dropping swiftly into a relaxed sleep. The way was now clear, the doubts, the uncertainties, the nagging pointers were stilled once and forever.

And so he had gone forth and given his decision to them. The decision which by now was being blazoned forth for the world to see and to wonder at. To be repeated faithfully by some, to be distorted by others.

Dorothy was waiting for him when he arrived home. He took three large strides towards her and with a tired sigh went straight into her outstretched arms.

They clung together thus, for a few moments, neither speaking, each deeply aware of their spiritual oneness.

Then Dorothy looked up at her husband, her eyes shining as she uttered the words he wanted more than anything to hear from her lips at this moment. "Don't you see, darling," she said, "You have given those kids the best Xmas present in the whole world."

The Quiet Black

I lay in the darkness looking at the black

A car past placing a window on each of the walls.

The clock murmured on and on always asking the same question

I was uneasy waiting for a voice that never came.

A tree its branches moving as a Japanese hand dancer

Formed slowly in half closed eyes.

Black on a white grey haze, branches pointing.

Shiny raven branches, carving twisting in unsettled order

Each offset joint a shape of beautiful agony

Saying something that I couldn't hear.

Warm blankets collected my thoughts

I mumbled prayers in tired subconscious

Sleep pulled at my eyelids and the story was left untold.

AM Horne

A Man in Winter

I've no flowers for your grave to-day

So I'll offer my thoughts as a bouquet.

You remember the clock you used to wind?

Think of it ... you'll call it to mind.

It misses the hand that wound it up

And treated it like a loving cup.

The roof still leaks, it's not very strong,

The nights are awful ... awful long.

My pension was cut when you went away,

In fact, it was cut the very same day.

And flowers are dear in the winter time,

If only we lived in a warmer clime.

You still haven't got a stone at your head

My money just goes for rent and some bread,

And the children don't visit me any more

Life is harder ... when you're very poor.

Everyone goes rushing and tearing about,

Remember old Ted, the way he did shout?

My old friends have gone ... all gone away,

Young folk are different ... nothing to say.

I'm afraid I won't see you to-morrow,

My dear ... it causes me very great sorrow.

I'm so shaky now ... I suppose I'm old

And I walk so slowly and, oh it's so cold.

The old coat I have so faded from blue

Lets the wind come tearing through.

If old Ted were here he'd help me along,

Young folk are different ... tho' big and strong.

They just pass me by with never a glance

For them to speak ... there' s simply no chance.

Maybe they're thoughtless, the folk of to-day,

And not unkind as some might say.

Do you think, dear, that people do change,

Or is it just me, that's acting strange?

But, here I am talking in the wind and the rain,

And all I keep doing is just to complain.

But, listen to this ... it'll make you smile,

Yesterday, I walked for nearly a mile.

I was passing a church, old and black,

And, thinking of you, went slowly back.

I went inside and walked all around,

Apart from my footsteps there wasn't a sound.

I went so very softly, so timid and mild,

Right up to a statue of Madonna and Child.

A candle was burning with slow, steady flame,

I lit one for you ... and said softly your name.

I loved you all the days of your life,

I love you still, oh, my wife.

When summer comes and the birds are singing,

I'll come every day and I'll be bringing

Roses of red to show I love you,

And to make you smile, flowers of blue.

Your favourite colour ... just like the skies,

And, oh, I remember ... just like your eyes.

Michael Ferns

The Gun: Television Gangster Blues

Courageous man, he copulates;

He gives to earth the gift

From out his loins:

His living replicas.

His phallic organ

Rejoices in new life.

Perhaps he has forgotten

The phallic symbol gun,

Shooting out destruction

Into earth's worn womb;

For everyone that he creates

A hundred more shall die.

For you, for me, O sorry man, I sigh.

J McFarlane

Father John O'Rourke, small and wiry, was in his study when the bell rang. He put the silver chalice back in its case and opened the door.

Outside, in the bloom, was a woman. She was tall and slim like a willow, wearing a dark green suit and a green 'Robin Hood' hat.

"Good evening. I'm sorry to come so late, but I well, I was in the district so I thought it would be alright." Her voice had a soft, light sound, like spring rain.

She stepped into the light. He closed the door, noting that she was much younger than he had first thought, and she was quite pretty too. He led the way to the study; waved her to a chair.

"Thank you." She sank into the seat, sending a speculative glance around the room.

Father O'Rourke stood across from her, fingering the soft flesh at the end of his chin. "You were saying," he said.

She smiled lopsidedly. "Well, it might seem silly really but I've just started my next book and I'm trying to ..." She paused, gesticulating with one hand. "How shall I put it ... trying to get the right ... atmosphere." Her voice rose on the last word.

"I'm flattered. I hope you'll buy the new one." He shrugged. There was a small silence. An idea flickered in his brain. "Perhaps I could offer you a glass of sherry?"

He went over to the sideboard and poured one glass of sherry. "Look," he said then, "I have to make a phone call, I won't be a minute." He went through to the hallway, made the call and then padded outside into the drive. Her car was turned round, facing the road. He wondered what she was doing here. Then he laughed softly. He opened the car door and took the ignition key. Then he went back to the study.

He held the door open and waited while she picked up her handbag. As they went out he said: "I suppose I'll be in your book?"

"Perhaps." She stopped; gave him a quick look from under her dark lashes, then she added: "In fact it might be a good idea."

She tilted her head on one side. "It depends on the story ... and the atmosphere. Shall we go?"

"Sure." He led the way across to the church; pushed open the door. "What would you like to see?"

He turned left into the small alcove that led to the stone steps. Looking back at her, he said casually, "They say a ghostly monk has been seen hereabouts."

He started up the narrow winding stairs. At the top he unbolted a small trapdoor and climbed through. He turned, looking down at her.

She stayed there, her head and shoulders through the opening. A little breathlessly she said: "Are we alone now?"

A smile pulled at her lips. She reached up; grabbed the trapdoor. "Sorry Father. But I've made other plans.

She pulled down the trapdoor then and slipped home the bolt. With a laugh that echoed on the s