Hi,
I'm looking for poems reflecting on the influences of technology on culture.

This is a tricky one. You might try looking for poems about "industry", or "technology" first. Then scan though the list to see if any have to do with its impact on our culture.

Les



Post Edited (04-22-04 13:55)

How about Jigsaw II by Louis Macneice

Property! Property! Let us extend
Soul and body without end:
A box to live in, with airs and graces,
A box on wheels that shows its paces,
A box that talks or that makes faces,
And curtains and fences as good as the neighbours'
To keep out the neighbours and keep us immured
Enjoying the cold canned fruit of our labours
In a sterilised cell, unshaved, insured.

Property! Property! When will it end
When will the poltergeist ascend
Out of the sewer with chopper and squib
To burn the mink and the baby's bib
And cut the tattling wire to town
And smash all the plastics, clowning and clouting
And stop all the boxes shouting and pouting
And wreck the house from the aerial down
And give these ingrown souls an outing?


or even The Unkown Citizen (on the basis that without technology they couldn't collect all the data for the comparisons etc)



The Unknown Citizen


He was found by the bureau of statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the greater community.


Except for the war till the day he retired
He worked in the factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.


The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to poetry were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health Card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A gramophone, a radio, a car, and a frigidaire.


Our researchers into public opinion are content
That he held the popular opinions for the time of year.
When there was peace, he was for peace; when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenists say was the right number for a parent of his generation,
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he Happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we certainly should have heard.


W.H. Auden

Ray Kurzweil Cybernetic Poet
[www.kurzweilcyberart.com]

I Think I'll Crash

A poem written by Ray Kurzweil's Cybernetic Poet
after reading poems by Ray Kurzweil, Robert Frost and Wendy Dennis

I think I'll crash.
Just for myself with God
peace on a curious sound
for myself in my heart?
And life is weeping
From a bleeding heart
of boughs bending
such paths of them,
of boughs bending
such paths of breeze
knows we've been there

Ray Kurzweil


Leicky

Luddites and Luddism
Northwestern Poem


The Tintwistle Weavers Daughter

There was a weavers daughter born
When loaves were big and cheap
Work was forbid on a Monday
Tho work enough for keep

His daughter grew pretty and fine
On meat and bread he'd bring
And bloomed the human face divine
Her light sweet voice would sing

But your debts and taxes want pay'd
Coined of the poor and dead
Your Orders and council kill trade
And weavers cry for bread

So bent the daughter to her fate
From work she did not cower
She beam'd the yarn from Manchester
And dress'd the warp with flour

She beams the yarn from Manchester
And dresses warp with flour
The shuttle flies from morn til night
And rests at a late hour

From morn til night she cannot cease
Her life is nowt but toil
She has not time for love or sport
Her blooming flowers spoil

Still your debts and taxes want pay'd
Coined of the poor and dead
Your Orders and French wars hurt trade
And weavers cry out for bread

She bends no more to her poor lot
A life of nowt but toil
Enriching the mighty and great
While her own flowers spoil

She cries aloud her heros name
Her Sherwood hero Ludd
Will set a stop to wars and steam
And wages as they stood


Leiky

Here's one by Phil Ochs that looks at the impact of industrialization on unions and social consciousness.

joet

Links On The Chain

Come you ranks of labor, come you union core,
And see if you remember the struggles of before,
When you were standing helpless on the outside of the door
And you started building links on the Chain.
On the Chain, you started building links on the Chain.

When the police on the horses were waitin' on demand,
ridin' through the strike with the pistols in their hands,
Swingin' at the skulls of many a union man,
As you built one more link on the chain, on the chain,
As you built one more link on the chain.

Then the army of the fascists tried to put you on the run,
but the army of the union, they did what could be done,
Oh, the power of the factory was greater than the gun,
As you built one more link on the chain, on the chain,
As you built one more link on the chain.

And then in 1954, decisions finally made,
The black man was a-risin' fast and racin' from the shade,
And your union took no stand and your union was betrayed,
As you lost yourself a link on the chain, on the chain,
As you lost yourslef a link on the chain.

And then there came the boycotts and then the freedom rides,
And forgetting what you stood for, you tried to block the tide,
Oh, the automation bosses werre laughin' on the side,
As they watched you lose your link on the chain, on the chain,
As they watched you lose your link on the chain.

You know when they block your trucks boys, by layin' on the road,
All that they are doin' is all that you have showed,
That you gotta strike, you gotta fight to get what you are owed,
When you're building all your links on the chain, on the chain,
When you're building all your links on the chain.

Amd the man who tries to tell you that they'll take your job away,
He's the same man who was scabbin' hard just the other day,
And your union's not a union till he's thrown out of the way,
And he's chokin' on your links of the chain, of the chain,
And he's chokin' on your links of the chain.

For now the times are tellin' you the times are rollin' on,
And you're fighting for the same thing, the jobs that will be gone,
Now it's only fair to ask you boys, which side are you on?
As you're buildin' all your links on the chain, on the chain,
As you're buildin' all your links on the chain.

How about "William Brown"?

A nice young man was William Brown,
He worked for a wage in a northern town,
He worked from six 'til eight at night,
Turning a wheel from left to right.

The boss one day to William came
And said "Look here young what's-your-name,
We're not content with what you do,
So work a little harder or out you'll go"

So William turned and he made her run
Three times roun in the place of one.
He turned so hard he soon was made
The Lord High Turner of the trade.

William turned with the same sweet smile,
The goods he made grew such a pile
They filled the room and the room next door
And overflowed to the basement floor.

The nation heard the wondrous tale,
The news appeared in the Sketch and Mail.
The railways ran excurtions down
And all to see young William Brown.

But sad the sequel is to tell,
He turned out more than the boss could sell,
The market slumped and the price went down:
Seven more days and they sacked young Brown.


By Karl Dallas.

Joni Mitchell's song "Big Yellow Taxi":

They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot SPOT
Don’t it always seem to go
That you don't know what you’ve got
‘Til it's gone
They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
And put them in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to seem 'em
Don't it always seem to go,
That you don't know what you’ve got
‘Til it’s gone
They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot

Hey farmer, farmer
Put away that DDT now
Give me spots on my apples
But LEAVE me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you’ve got
‘Til its gone
They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard the screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you’ve got
‘Til it’s gone
They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot

I said
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you’ve got
‘Til it’s gone
They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
TO put up a parking lot

- "Organized Labor- the people who brought you the weekend."

pam

There's a definite negative trend to this thread- strange, considering that we're using technology to write it!

Kipling wrote many poems about technology- here's a couple that I like.

Cold Iron

GOLD is for the mistress - silver for the maid" -
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade! "
" Good! " said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of them all."
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
" Nay! " said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
" But Iron - Cold Iron - shall be master of you all! "

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron - Cold Iron - was master of it all.

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
" What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword? "
" Nay! " said the Baron, " mock not at my fall,
For Iron - Cold Iron - is master of men all."

" Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."
" As my loss is grievous, So my hope is small,
For Iron - Cold Iron - must be master of men all! "

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
" Here is Bread and here is Wine - sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron - Cold Iron - can be master of men all."

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
" See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron - Cold Iron - to be master of men all. "

" Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason - I redeem thy fall
For Iron Cold Iron - must be master of men all! "

'Crowns are for the valiant - sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and Powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!'
" Nay! " said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
" But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all! "

**

The Sons of Martha

THE Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains, " Be ye removèd" They say to the lesser floods " Be dry."
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd - they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit - then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden - under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that !
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd - they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet - they hear the Word - they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and - the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons !

**

"Brown Bess"

The Army Musket 1700-1815

In the days of lace-ruffles, perukes and brocade
Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise -
An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade,
With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes -
At Blenheim and Ramillies fops would confess
They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess.

Though her sight was not long and her weight was not small,
Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear;
And everyone bowed as she opened the ball
On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier.
Half Europe admitted the striking success
Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess.

When ruffles were turned into stiff leather stocks,
And people wore pigtails instead of perukes,
Brown Bess never altered her iron-grey locks.
She knew she was valued for more than her looks.
"Oh, powder and patches was always my dress,
And I think am killing enough," said Brown Bess.

So she followed her red-coats, whatever they did,
From the heights of Quebec to the plains of Assaye,
From Gibraltar to Acre, Cape Town and Madrid,
And nothing about her was changed on the way;
(But most of the Empire which now we possess
Was won through those years by old-fashioned Brown Bess.)

In stubborn retreat or in stately advance,
From the Portugal coast to the cork-woods of Spain,
She had puzzled some excellent Marshals of France
Till none of them wanted to meet her again:
But later, near Brussels, Napoleon - no less -
Arranged for a Waterloo ball with Brown Bess.

She had danced till the dawn of that terrible day -
She danced till the dusk of more terrible night,
And before her linked squares his battalions gave way,
And her long fierce quadrilles put his lancers to flight:
And when his gilt carriage drove off in the press,
"I have danced my last dance for the world!" said Brown Bess.

Where old weapons are shown with their names writ beneath,
You will find her, upstanding, her back to the wall,
As stiff as a ramrod, the flint in her teeth.
And if ever we English had reason to bless
Any arm save our mothers', that arm is Brown Bess!


pam

You could look for poems about people who are put out of work or forced into industrial drugery by technology:

JOHN HENRY, "I owe my soul to the company store," etc.

your poems are good they're so beautiful...that's all!!!

For a light-hearted story of new technology being tried and found wanting, there's 'Mulga Bill's Bicycle' by 'Banjo' Paterson, which was posted in General Discussion last year:

<[www.emule.com]>

It was of course written about a hundred years ago.