Poetry

All of Those are Tragedies

(About a 2 minute read)

You delicately posit your superior brain,
Which you assume is a fact,
But I take as an untested hypothesis.

“Tragedy”, you say, “Died with the rise
Of the sciences and technologies.
We’ll soon conquer death, you’ll see.”

But I don’t know if you know what I mean
When I say, “I might be the last
Of the ancient Greeks.”

“Tragedy to me is not what it is to you,
It’s not a man dying young.
It’s not some couple breaking up.
It’s not the loss of a fortune.
It’s not being born in the sticks.
It’s not what’s merely sad.”

“No, tragedy you see
Has roots in our nature,
It’s stamped deep in our DNA.

“It’s based on the fact
We have foresight,
Can lay out our plans
For the years far ahead.

“And yet don’t you see
How often those plans go wrong.
For though we foresee the future,
We can’t see well enough
Not to screw up,
Not to lose all in the game.

“We’re just smart enough
To get into messes
That we’re not smart enough
To get ourselves out of.

We can discover the atom
But not how to disarm it.
We can discover the oil
But only to wreck our home.
We can educate ourselves
But we can’t stop the lies.
We can build democracies
But we can’t keep them safe.
We can grow rich
But on the backs of the poor.
We can seek god
But only to kill for him.
We can eradicate diseases
But not population growth.
We can saw down a forest
But we can’t stop with one.
We can create plastics
But we can’t clean them up.
We can hunt lions
But we can’t save their lives.

All of those are tragedies.

Poetry

Revenge is All in How it’s Done

(About a 2 minute read)

I’ve turning in my years into a bad man,
A self-righteous jerk who is plotting
Vengeance on all the old ladies
Who once were his young lusts
And who didn’t care for him too much.

Yes, I’m bitter now and cynical
About women in general —
Even the young ones —
But especially the ones
Who are old enough now
To have once denied me fucks
Back when it actually mattered.

I don’t care it’s been decades
And few of them really knew me,
I’m a man of fashions, you see.

The fashion today is to turn life
Into gratuitous outrage, live in false views,
And with obscene hopes, and then hope
Someone else for it bleeds.

My spirit’s twisted and tortured,
And blighted with rust,
You wouldn’t think there’s much
To redeem me — even my mother
Had to leave.

So I’m plotting my vengeance,
I’m plotting it surely,
I’m plotting to make
As many young and old women as I can
Feel themselves valued,
Feel themselves cherished,
Feel themselves adored.

Well maybe you don’t think
That’s as evil as I do,
Maybe you think I’ve got it wrong.
But look at it from my view:

Back in the day my hormones raged
I couldn’t see more
Than her tits and her ass.
I treated them all
Like they were foreign objects
Or like they were aliens from space.
I didn’t think of them
As persons at all.

And yeah in truth
I often got laid and more often
Than most of the boys back then.

But it’s never that good,
It’s never that healthy
To be into pussy
More than you are into her herself.

So I hear you asking,
I hear you condemning,
I hear now your battle cry.
“Why”, you’re saying,
“Why then do you plot out revenge?”

You see it’s simple
When you look at it right,
Simple as can be.

I want to make the ladies
Happier than can be
I want to make them proud,
And I want to thank them
For being themselves.

For then they’ll be all confused
Someone has for once in their lives
Treated them as human,
Treated them as mattering,
Treated them like he cared.

And that’ll be my revenge,
My sweetly savored revenge.
But it’s not really against them,
It’s not really against them at all.

Mostly it’s against our fucking culture,
A culture that really screws with us all.
And mostly it’s against human nature,
The part of us with hormones
That can blind us when we’re young.

Yeah, against them I plot revenge,
Yes, against them I plot revenge.
Look out! I’m coming for revenge.

Poetry

Bad Poem! Bad Poem! No Treat For You!

(About a 3 minute read)

My poems are my dogs, they love me but
Sometimes they look and don’t obey,
Or chew up the furniture legs,
Then sniff my friend’s crotches
When they escape my leash.

They’re cute that way.

I love them, but I can get upset,
Raise my hand and voice.

“Bad poem! Bad poem!
No treat for you!” I’ll yell.

The neighbors, shocked
That their ears are so big
They can actually hear me
Scream back at me:
“You’re too cruel”, and tell me
How to compose poetry,
As if they’d ever once done it
Themselves.

One old woman
With busy ants for brains
Would even call
The Humane Poetry Society
On me; did it six times
In one week before
Someone in a rage
Torched her house
In the name of Yeats.

In a sense
There are no bad poems,
Just untrained beasts
Begging to please.

Work and re-work them
Then re-work them again.

Then re-work them
Again and again and again.

I say they want
To befriend you,
Do your bidding,
But don’t yet know how.

Then again,
I’ve composed poems
So bad they brought
Their readers in tears
To their knees,
And then chewed on them.

Hard not to put
One of those down.

Everyone
Has their favorite breed.

My least favorite
Are the breeds
That yap like prose
And run around
In circles to 1000
Syllables when 100
Would do.

Poetry should be tight
As a conservative’s wallet,
Should yield up syllables
Grudgingly.

But I know
It’s just a matter
Of taste in the end.

Besides, I’m not stubborn.
It’s just that my taste
Is endorsed by the gods

Who will inflict
Explosive diarrhea
On the prom nights
Of fools that disagree,

Or ought to.

Poetry shows
Are always pretentious,
Ridiculous as men
Comparing dicks
Behind the bushes
When they already know
My three inches
Are the biggest anyway.

In fact, comparisons
Should always be kept
To a necessary minimum:
They are the enemy
Of the new and the strange.

But I know the shows
Will never end —
Though the crowd always
Snickers, shakes their heads,
And pretends they’ve never done it
Themselves.

Now I have a secret
Men and women usually wait
Their whole lives to hear,
And it took me decades
In Tibet to learn it.

It was the poets you see
Who created the gods,

And that’s why you’ll note
“Dog” and “god”
Are the same word
Spelled backwards,
For all with eyes
To see.

Art, Artist, Critiques, From Around the Net, Outstanding Bloggers, People, Poetry

Blog Critique: “Lunarpoet”

(About a 1 minute read)

The Lunarpoet Blog, by Matthias

You cannot help but wish this young man well.  Matthias sees himself as a poet who is, “..searching for the magic sparks in the interspaces, between the cracks of reality”, and it is easy to prove that he is a talented conjurer of that magic.

This is no ordinary poetry blog.  Make no mistake about that.  Matthias has dedicated himself to the lifelong pursuit of pushing his talents and skills with words as far as they can go — and he might just one day be a voyager to the stars.

Most of his poetry is blank verse of moderate length and can be read in about a minute each.  But you might want to spend more time than that, savoring his works.  They are good quality poems even when compared to the great, traditional poets of history.  Someday, he might be up there among them himself.

This is solely a matter of personal taste, but I think Matthais and Jane Basil are the two best poets that I’ve come across in my surfing of up to 20 blogs a day.

The Lunarpoet blog is dedicated to poetry and publishes no other material than that.  Though Matthias’ native language is German, all the poems are in English, and all of them are written in accessible language.

 


FULL DISCLOSURE: This review was part of an arrangement between Matthias and I to review each other’s blogs.  His review of my blog can be found here.

Alienation From Self, Authenticity, Being True To Yourself, Free Spirit, Fun, Human Nature, Life, Oppression, Play, Poetry, Quality of Life, Self, Self-determination, Spiritual Alienation, Spirituality, Talents and Skills, Values, Wisdom

It’s Wonderful to be Reborn as Yourself

(About a 1 minute read)

It’s wonderful to be yourself.

It’s a release to be true —
A little short of finding god,
Which is almost as good as the smell
Of leather and of rain.

You feel your powers growing
As your talents fully express,
Burst the concrete
You laid above them
And leaf out for the light
of fun.

Yeah, you still must care
Socially, environmentally,
And all. You cannot murder,
You cannot rape, you cannot rob.
But putting bummers aside,
You can thrive, you can flourish,
You can live.

Often we don’t know how
Because we try to compromise
In order to please the bosses,
The spouses, the partners,
The families, the friends,
The peers, the public,
The leaders, the fools,
The dogs, the cats,
The rabbits, the mice,
And our barnyard lovers
Who once were our only
True fated friends.

It never ends until the day,
Which always comes a bit late,
When our love transcends
Both our fears and desires,
Reaches that mass that must
Now kindle into fire.

That’s when the walls
We made out of standards
We purchased from others
And hopes we could conform
Shudder and shake and shatter,
And we’re reborn.

Human Nature, Poetry, Self, Spirituality

When I Really Want to Travel

(About a 1 minute read)

I want to travel to New York City
Someday so that I will know
How “glamour” is defined,
And then the French County side
Outside Paris to know
Who created impressionism and why.

Afterwards India to understand
The village and the family
And North Korea to learn
What the ghosts
Of the human spirit
Are buried in.

But when I really want to travel
I won’t go to any city or nation,
To any mountain or valley,
Not even to your temples,
Your mosques, churches,
Or synagogues.
Nor your universities
And great houses of learning.

I’ll go inside myself
A thousand worlds deep.

Attachment, Delusion, Enlightenment, Love, Poetry, Self, Self-Integration, Self-Knowledge, Spirituality, Transformative Experience, Unconditional Love

Secrets Within Secrets

(About a 2 minute read)

Secrets within secrets
Within spirits and souls.
Some secrets we buy
From the outside,
Some we create
From within.

All men and all women
Have secrets, you see,
And most of our own
We do not know.

Secrets within secrets
Within spirits and souls.
Each secret hidden,
Each secret never told.

Some know themselves,
Some never do.
She who knows all
Knows she knows not a thing –
Nothing to shape her proud.

But perhaps what we hide
Deepest of all
Is we do it for pleasure
Or to avoid pain.

Even our loves
Fall like spring blossoms
So soon after they’re born.

They’re cut from their trees
By the winds of desires
For ever greater pleasures
And by our fear of pain.

The gods are the same:
Our alchemy turns them
From gold into lead,
Changed by the fires
And strange poisons
Of pleasure and pain.

By the fires
And strange poisons
Of pleasure and pain.

And then some deep thing screams
In the silence of the night:

“I want to be alive!
“I want to taste love,
I want to die everyday
To the memories of my past,
Ever to be reborn the next day
Reborn wild and free.

“I want to be reborn
Each moment
In freedom and in love.”

But the clock
Rises to our throat
And ever traps us
In the knot of time.

We don’t live in the moment,
We live in the future
Or in the past,
And that’s not to live
At all.