A philosophical conundrum about history and humanity
A philosophical conundrum about history and humanity
Overshadowing our greatest achievements,
so much of human history is preoccupied with
violence, force and domination that I begin to wonder if we are such sentient beings after all.
We appear to prefer the "shortcuts" of
violence and domination over peace,
brushing aside the ensuing suffering
as collateral damage that doesn't really matter.
I watch a newscast of an interview with a manufacturer's rep at a cluster bomb trade show as he explains on camera
how these weapons are designed to avoid civilian targets and focus only on military ones.
He looks into the camera's eye
and says in all seriousness,
like a man delivering a sermon, that
"these weapons are VERY effective,"
and are for sale to anyone with cash
and the proper credentials, as if the transaction is acceptable behavior that ordinary, sensible people engage in every day.
Cannisters filled with destruction are marketed by this well-dressed, educated, grandfatherly man like the latest model toaster,
very effective in providing toast, and without the cleanup the older models required.
But they do provide toast...in a way.
What does this say about us as a species,
as a people, as individual men and women,
parents and grandparents? What does this say
about you...about me?
--Sapporo, 6/30/08
- Jorge Tostada's blog
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Wow
Brilliant! The image comes across fully realized. Trustworthy Colonel Sanders type...it's just a business transaction but you must sign in blood, legal and binding, and really, what's a soul anyway? While the bodies lay smoking...
Coherent, concise, and executed beautifully.
-Laura
Cast me into a dungeon, burn me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can 'pursue happiness' as long as my brain lives—but neither gods nor saints, wise men nor subtle drugs, can insure that I will catch it. -RAH
A philosophical conundrum
I'm glad you liked it, Laura. Col. Sanders... hmmm; the image in my mind was more of Mr. Rogers of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. But Col. Sanders is a great fit.
Is that little prose poem under your name yours? Excellent, and also wise. Here's to fine poetry and to fine poems.
Jorge Tostada y Frijoles
Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
LOL I don't know if I could've handled seeing Fred Rogers in that role. Col. Sanders was chilling enough.
Your piece gave voice to my own fears, better than I could have. I thank you.
Regarding my signature, I sure wish I could lay claim to that kind of wisdom. It's a quote from Robert A. Heinlein; in his book Starship Troopers, Lt. Col. Jean Dubois explains that a human being has no natural rights of any nature:
"Life? What 'right' to life has a man who is drowning in the Pacific? The ocean will not hearken to his cries. What 'right' to life has a man who must die to save his children? If he chooses to save his own life, does he do so as a matter of 'right'? If two men are starving and cannibalism is the only alternative to death, which man's right is 'unalienable'? And is it 'right'? As to liberty, the heroes who signed the great document pledged themselves to buy liberty with their lives. Liberty is never unalienable; it must be redeemed regularly with the blood of patriots or it always vanishes. Of all the so-called natural human rights that have ever been invented, liberty is least likely to be cheap and is never free of cost. The third 'right'?—the 'pursuit of happiness'? It is indeed unalienable but it is not a right; it is simply a universal condition which tyrants cannot take away nor patriots restore. Cast me into a dungeon, burn me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can 'pursue happiness' as long as my brain lives—but neither gods nor saints, wise men nor subtle drugs, can insure that I will catch it."
Ah; thank you, Laura, for
Ah; thank you, Laura, for that quote in its entirety. I used to read Heinlein years ago.
I'm assuming that you're a poet, is that right? Just an aside about my own involvement with writing poetry: I came to it by accident when the "n" key on my typewriter broke while lI was working on a piece of fiction. I can't write more than a couple of paragraphs without a keyboard (can't read it if I do), so I started writing poems (this was back in 1973), and started to get them published! Couldn't believe it. Aside from telling stories (which I love to do), poetry brings me pleasure and peace at a deep level that fiction does not. (The one exception to that rule is a story I wrote last year titled "The Old Man and The Monkey", which is set in a tiny village on the island of Hokkaido, Japan. It's about the friendship that develops between an old man and a monkey. I'm currently seeking a publisher for it.
George
rhyme and meter
That's priceless! The world is a better place for the loss of a letter.
I love words. I'm an insatiable reader, and I've written for as long as I can remember...stories, poems, unfinished novels...but I am a poet at heart. It's usually pen and paper, though, and thrown away as soon as it's done (if not before). It's so damn frustrating to capture in words an image that's haunting me and then struggle to make it rhyme without mangling it. If it sounds off-key or forced when I read it, in the trash it goes. I can't stick "too" at the end of a line to make it rhyme, or "ever" to fill in missing syllables...or pen virtually random words just to complete stanza. *insert self-depreciating laughter* I'm an editor and proof-reader (read that perfectionist and perfectionist) by trade, and so self-critical it's debilitating. It takes an hour to write an email. You'd laugh if you knew how long this reply took!
We speak and write and paint and sing and dance and bleed in the desperate hope that someone will feel what we feel. In a last-ditch bid for sanity, I've had to discard the "ideal" of rhyme and meter and just let the words come as they will. Sounds easy, but it was terrifying - and that was before I decided to post my soul for anyone to see. Criticism is expected; it goes with the territory, but I dread finding out that nobody felt it.
Cast me into a dungeon, burn me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can 'pursue happiness' as long as my brain lives—but neither gods nor saints, wise men nor subtle drugs, can insure that I will catch it. -RAH
Write in free verse...
Well, I was going to suggest that you forget rhyme and meter and just let the words follow the flow and rhythm of the image as it meets your inner person. That's what I did, and it worked. (The first few efforts were aweful, by the way; some still are.) Really, Laura, it's about YOUR VISION of an image, a person, a meeting, a thing, an impression. If I can find it, I'll post the poem I wrote to celebrate my discovery. Poetry enables me to boil things down to the essential element(s). I literally could not write poems on a machine (now I can, but it's taken years). And writing with a pen and paper forced me to reduce my writing to the essence of what I wrote about. I recall seeing an amazing, life-size bronze sculpture by the Mexican/Costa Rican sculptor Francisco Zuniga in a gallery window near my home in Minneapolis, and being rivited by the image of this elderly Mexican peasant woman--a nude--gazing out into the distance. I rushed back home and wrote a poem, which I called "Madre/Mujer". Let images grab you and let the words flow and don't think too hard about it.
Whatever you do, Laura, keep at it, keep your poems...and if you wish, share a few of your best efforts with me.
George
The two poems I mentioned to you
Well, here they are:
Poem In Gratitude To My Typewriter
Well…you know, you funky old machine,
if your N hadn’t broken off,
I probably never would have
Started writing poetry.
You know damned well I can’t write more
than a page or two without your help,
so what else was I to do?
Now I go around spitting images from
between my teeth like melon seeds
& calling the results poems.
If your N hadn’t broken off, I’d have
continued writing my book, & all these
poets would’ve been spared seeing
me come along dressed like a thug
with a sack full of four-legged words
pissing on every lamp-post & shrub
& daring to call myself
A POET!
Madre/Mujer1
Tall
bronze
solemn-faced
crater-naveled
she stares at the
mountains to the west
waiting for her children
to return.
She has born many sons
and daughters
lost them all to wars
disease and women
and now has only memories.
Tall
bronze
solemn-faced
crater-naveled
waiting
woman
pillar
tree.
There they are, published, and a woman friend of years ago, with a degree in poetry, told me that I wasn't a poet because I'd never studied it and didn't know anything about it. But itd didn't matter to me. and it didn't matter to the editors who published them.
So if you have the urge to compose poems, compose away...and don't stop.
George