Category: poetry

Ode to Pettiness

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To see oneself reflected in the Other

is something every human wants;

it reassures each doubting soul

that, indeed, it is an island in the stream.

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The light of others is, however, not what makes us human, we are a ‘Ding an sich’

– of substance even on a hermit’s pillar!

The person with no core, where emptiness resides inside, is he who seeks attention never-ending,

who uses others as a magnifying glass,

to make the Pudels Kern, so insignificant,

appear as something splendid and heroic.

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There, empathy will be the undiscovered land

because, as brother Dracula,

the undead narcissist will gain existence also through the blood of others.

‘What does it mean for me?’ is all that matters

when pestilence appears;

what jubilation when he sends the mob to fight and kill and die!

That good and ready night will find him not-so-gentle –

the anger that he feels and lives will turn, he hopes, his pettiness to grandeur!

Island Self

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With horizons closing in on us

we will return to village living –

the siren song of solitude will cast its spell from there.

The inner exile may repulse at first

but offers comfort and conceit to those of introvert persuasion. 

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And, in the end, a virtual world, a world without the Other, will let you be the centre of your self-created universe,

a firmament beholden just to you.

Yet, an accomplished life is surely one where solipsism does not rule,

in which you feel that you are truly just an island in the stream,

in which you understand, with heart and mind, that the bell that tolls does so not just for you!

The Other

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When tragedy is big enough

the numbers numb.

A million dead cannot be mourned

– in singularity   –

My God! there were so many.

 

‘It is what it is’ makes no allowance

for reflection or regret;

it adds indignity to ignorance,

and gives the lie to a most basic truth:

that other lives have value – same as yours!

 

Such statement from the one who took a sacred oath

is wrapped in our failure

to pierce the veil of the preposterous;

gains credibility because we see one tear, but not the many.

So our heads, with all their calculation, must tell us that a million deaths are each a tragedy,

and that the anger and demands must capture that which our hearts can never hold – the suffering of multitudes, each Other being one like us.

War in the Heavens Poem

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On the occasion of the recent Russian test of a space-to-space weapon:

There is a poetry to outer space……

There is a poetry to outer space

that often is forgotten in busy lives,

that’s crowded out by many crises here on Earth,

that is ignored, with cosmos milked for money.

Yet, outer space is first of all a place of wonder,

a place where peace and co-existence rule.

Minerva’s realm is now in danger – with Mars ascending!

The endless void so full of freedom is turning into one where power governs,

where Darwin’s ‘eat or being eaten’ can reign with utter arrogance –

a place of dreams transformed to tragedy.

Where outer space was free of arms till now,

there is a rush towards destruction,

a vain attempt to scare the other.

As always, all will lose when guns hold sway.

To yearn for Eden that we lost is not the time–

to shield the heavens that we’ve got is what we owe posterity!

The Spirit of Dictators Past

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Like voodoo ghosts, dictators rise from graves unlocked despite good riddance.

Their magic is, like always, lies and hatred; on bitterness they feed and feast.

The revellers find soul through ecstasy: no more ‘their proper place’, no more the unfair justice of the fairly minded.

The music, dance and trance will go and go as long as night will not betray them, delectable delirium the only destination – the doll of the dictators full of pins.

The spell will break with morning light. The faithful pray that darkness stay forever!

I knew……

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Not just about corona:

 

When history will judge the tragedies of our time,

say not, how could I know,

say, as is true, I knew.

The serpent’s egg was there for all to see.

It could be crushed

but envy, greed and hatred made it hatch,

and inner exile made it grow.

We put false prophets on the throne;

they made us handmaids of calamity.

The currents of the past should save us, so we thought,

yet we refused their helping hands with indolence,

and put the fragile ship upon the rocks.

Oh yes, we knew, although of wisdom most deprived!

 

The Visit of the Fourth Horseman

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The horseman of the apocalypse, the fourth of that immortal breed, shows off his skill – the others are impressed. What pestilence, what satisfying suffering.

 

Despite his might, this is, not yet, the time for pandemonium; just testing the potential is aim of these, the grimmest riders.

They gallop through deserted streets, across the frightened fields, inspect the brooding forests. The horses’ hooves resound on country roads not safe for any country.

They still resist, says number three, they are not ripe, laments the knight of war, no conquest yet, sighs Antichrist.

I fear that my experiment has made the humans obstinate, says bold Thanatos. How long we have to wait?

No worries, my impatient friend. Complacency and egoism will soon regain their throne – that’s when we strike again. But next time all together!

Springtime Requiem

On By phulsrojIn Climate Change, poetry, UncategorizedLeave a comment

‘Eternal spring’ will not be understood by future generations,

only summer will exist for them – and dreary winter.

‘Awakening’ as season, all promises and carnal dreaming, will be a thought of distant past,

as will the melancholic transport into hibernation, the role of autumn heretofore.

The warming Earth kills nuance, not just many species,

we live in polarising times whilst poles are melting.

It may be happenstance that the diverse is welcomed less by nature now –

an epoch of humanity when conflict is the valued asset and gentleness recedes apace.

A fallen angel’s master plan

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Last in the Beelzebub series:

‘ The end is nigh’,

the credo of the centuries

of those who longed there and those who felt despair.

But ‘end’ is gracious, is truly not my style.

Eternal repetition, each cycle new and cruel,

that’s more a Devil’s script.

I shall not spare the world –

and humans are too foolish

to frustrate my design

when true to nature I have drawn.

I love the naked beauty of misery’s domain,

to witness the extravagance by which benevolence is thrown aside

and malice is allowed to reign supreme.

With such material my plans will never ever fail.