Tag: poetry

The Wounds That We Carry

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Life is a bruiser; exacts its price for living.

The young girl falls and hurts her knee,

gets up in tears, yet floats away on lightest feet – all pain so readily forgotten.

Forgetfulness of hurt gets harder as we age; petrification of the self sneaks up on us unnoticed.

The broken heart, the friendship lost, ambition unfulfilled, stay with us as mementos vitae.

–

Poor Nietzsche had a lot to say on pain and personality:

what does not break you makes you stronger; full natures will recuperate and brush aside.

This may be so, although the issue is, in truth, what strength should serve?

Eliminating pain is not the only aim and worship of the frightful scars should not be entertained.

Becoming strong enough to not be strong, to that we must aspire!

To smell the rain worm’s summer paradise you need the nose’s softest flesh!

Island Self

On By phulsrojIn poetry, political poetry, politics, UncategorizedLeave a comment

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. 

:

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

On By phulsrojIn American elections, poetry, UncategorizedLeave a comment

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.

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.

Beelzebub’s lullaby

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Next in the fallen angel series:

 

Sometimes when I dream I ask myself

what could have been, what would have been, what were I truly meant to be?

Yet, when awake I never doubt my greatest choice,

to be a fallen angel.

Why hesitate when blessed with all the love that only hatred brings,

when all the wild commotion, the killings and the passion,

is my most stunning work, the product of my deepest instincts.

No God without the Devil, that’s what they say,

but they are wrong, when things are well considered.

All that is ever needed

is me, is Beelzebub, is my resplendent soul.

My power is delight as well as sorrow,

a fallen angel carries light and shadow in his breast!