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KillgoreTrout On June - 20 - 2014

 

 

Throughout the history of mankind, there has been war, starvation, slavery, injustice, man’s deliberate inhumanity toward his fellow man. There has always been those with wealth and power looming over, abusing, using, ruling with iron fists, war mongering, murdering, cheating, stealing, all the while rejoicing in their supposed superiority, crowing about the survival of the strongest and wealthiest and most powerful, at the same time pontificating about the “moral rightness,” of their ends while trying to keep their means in darkness.

There have also been other men and women, men and women with a genuine goodness in their hearts and a deep concern for the welfare of their fellow human beings. Those that see and reflect with human outrage, the injustice and inhumanity that surrounds them. Those reflectors of human nature that dream and pronounce their dreams for something better, something greater for the whole, something truly moral, and something genuinely just. These people, who exist and must exist are the writers, the poets, the painters, the sculptors. The artists past and present that take the horrible and ugly, and distinguish lies with truth.

I thought it would be good to present the great works of some of these amazing souls. The writers, poets and philosophers and singers and song writers that have spoken out, reflected the world around them and used their artistry to make a better world.

The Man With the Hoe

Edwin Markham (inspired by Jean-François Millet’s painting “Man with a Hoe,”
originally published in the San Francisco Examiner, 1899)

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this—
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed—
More filled with signs and portents for the soul—
More fraught with menace to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
With those who shaped him to the thing he is—
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

“A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”
by Bob Dylan

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin’
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what’ll you do now my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell and speak it and think it and breathe it
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singing
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

“Men after death…are understood worse than men of the moment, but HEARD better.”
Nietzsche

“Being unable to make what is just strong, we have made what is strong, just.”
Pascal

The Second Coming
W.B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Death’s Drama
by Killgore Trout

I’ve played Blackjack in fox holes.
Our rifles were loaded with chalk projectiles,
the tear gas was real,
but the tears were artificial.
Not long ago and far, far away
The bullets were real,
Tightly fitted with steel jackets.
The real tears had right reason to fall.
Blood freshly spilled, friends just killed.
Humble hamlets torched
With Zippo lighters
While pristine jungles were engulfed
By napalm fighters.

These people must be freed,
The North looks South with greed.
Old women weep for freedom’s injured ideal.
Soldiers in their newly captured jeeps
Sing of their vaguely shrouded victory.
These old men distainfully leer
At fragmented grenadiers,
Who breed this tear gas of decay;
In hopes of a better day.

Please feel free to post your favorite poems, quotes, song lyrics and/or
your own creations. This could be quite interesting for all.

Written by KillgoreTrout

Once a wander, working vagabond, fellow traveler on this 3rd stone from the sun. Hurtling through space and time. Lover of books (especially the classics), all kinds of books from novels, poetry, essay collections, fiction and nonfiction and a big Kurt Vonnegut fan. I am a secular humanist and technically an atheist.....Taoist.

30 Responses so far.

Click here to leave a comment
  1. Nirek says:

    KT, when I was young I memorized about forty limericks. I could still recite a few today. Most of them a little raunchy.

  2. Nirek says:

    KT, now that I found this place I’ll be back, often.

  3. Nirek says:

    KT, I just figured out how to get here. I like the poems. The caged bird one makes me feel bad. My birds all fly where ever they want and they sing out of happiness. They are free to come and go as they please.

    I keep figuring out more about this place every day. I was clicking on the drop down at Speakers corner, not SC. Could not find your piece. Sorry to be late to this party.

  4. “Many even of those who desire to form aristocractic governments make a mistake, not only in giving too much power to the rich, but in attempting to overreach the people. There comes a time when out of a false good there arises a true evil, since the encroachments of the rich are more destructive to the constitution than those of the people.”

    Aristotle

  5. Dizzy and Lethargic
    by GoldenEarthAngel

    I had convinced myself it wouldn’t happen: that blink-and-miss instance, of burgundy – and don’t we know burgundy is best! – and striped checkers and everything in which I had once believed, perhaps made a cursive idol.

    A second blink, and the road became a wave of child-like euphoria, the rushing tarmac in pull towards that speck of colour. None of the surroundings touched me; no other shade but that rose-coloured rhythm obscured my lonely view. In a march, your presence had hit the air like a thousand sonic ripples. Ripples knocking body and head together; yes, my mind had been shaken to distraction.

    The wind through rushes whistled and the grass lay springy beneath my feet, grass trodden many a time before, by every insignificant eye unseeing; but now my eyes were opened to the words underneath this beaten track – it bounced, and auburn became emerald.

    Here stood the gaping expanse of my new home, but my eyes honed in on the receding figure in the distance.

    Up where the blanket of air beamed, a sun winked amongst the plateaux. There crows had once flown, dark iridescence. But have I learnt to disbelieve? Have I been taught this cynicism through my veins? Like a second-hand poem, I have repeated and re-chewed the same old theories, locked verse after verse with petty, overused spite.

    These pathways, though, rustle and show me a newer life in another’s eyes.

    Nature crawls around me as the leaves direct my feet. I am in an alien landscape, courted only by my own desires. I must be insane, and my head lighted to a candle – how else would smoke cloud my eyes, but coat my heart in lighter air?

  6. monicaangela says:

    KT, I am so happy to hear of your reunification with your daughter. I am happy that part of you returned to fulfill a need, always remember:

    “Be like the sun for grace and mercy. Be like the night to cover others’ faults. Be like running water for generosity. Be like death for rage and anger. Be like the Earth for modesty. Appear as you are. Be as you appear.”
    ― Rumi

  7. “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”
    by Bob Dylan

    Darkness at the break of noon
    Shadows even the silver spoon
    The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
    Eclipses both the sun and moon
    To understand you know too soon
    There is no sense in trying.

    Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
    Suicide remarks are torn
    From the fools gold mouthpiece
    The hollow horn plays wasted words
    Proved to warn
    That he not busy being born
    Is busy dying.

    Temptation’s page flies out the door
    You follow, find yourself at war
    Watch waterfalls of pity roar
    You feel to moan but unlike before
    You discover
    That you’d just be
    One more person crying.

    So don’t fear if you hear
    A foreign sound to you ear
    It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing.

    As some warn victory, some downfall
    Private reasons great or small
    Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
    To make all that should be killed to crawl
    While others say don’t hate nothing at all
    Except hatred.

    Disillusioned words like bullets bark
    As human gods aim for their marks
    Made everything from toy guns that sparks
    To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
    It’s easy to see without looking too far
    That not much
    Is really sacred.

    While preachers preach of evil fates
    Teachers teach that knowledge waits
    Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
    Goodness hides behind its gates
    But even the President of the United States
    Sometimes must have
    To stand naked.

    An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
    It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
    And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it.

    Advertising signs that con you
    Into thinking you’re the one
    That can do what’s never been done
    That can win what’s never been won
    Meantime life outside goes on
    All around you.

    You loose yourself, you reappear
    You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
    Alone you stand without nobody near
    When a trembling distant voice, unclear
    Startles your sleeping ears to hear
    That somebody thinks
    They really found you.

    A question in your nerves is lit
    Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
    Insure you not to quit
    To keep it in your mind and not forget
    That it is not he or she or them or it
    That you belong to.

    Although the masters make the rules
    For the wise men and the fools
    I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.

    For them that must obey authority
    That they do not respect in any degree
    Who despite their jobs, their destinies
    Speak jealously of them that are free
    Cultivate their flowers to be
    Nothing more than something
    They invest in.

    While some on principles baptized
    To strict party platforms ties
    Social clubs in drag disguise
    Outsiders they can freely criticize
    Tell nothing except who to idolize
    And then say God Bless him.

    While one who sings with his tongue on fire
    Gargles in the rat race choir
    Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
    Cares not to come up any higher
    But rather get you down in the hole
    That he’s in.

    But I mean no harm nor put fault
    On anyone that lives in a vault
    But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him.

    Old lady judges, watch people in pairs
    Limited in sex, they dare
    To push fake morals, insult and stare
    While money doesn’t talk, it swears
    Obscenity, who really cares
    Propaganda, all is phony.

    While them that defend what they cannot see
    With a killer’s pride, security
    It blows the minds most bitterly
    For them that think death’s honesty
    Won’t fall upon them naturally
    Life sometimes
    Must get lonely.

    My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
    False gods, I scuff
    At pettiness which plays so rough
    Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
    Kick my legs to crash it off
    Say okay, I have had enough
    What else can you show me ?

    And if my thought-dreams could been seen
    They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
    But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only.

  8. monicaangela says:

    THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED

    You will not be able to stay home, brother.
    You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
    You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
    Skip out for beer during commercials,
    Because the revolution will not be televised.

    The revolution will not be televised.
    The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
    In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
    The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
    blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
    Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
    hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
    The revolution will not be televised.

    The revolution will not be brought to you by the
    Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
    Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
    The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
    The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
    The revolution will not make you look five pounds
    thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

    There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
    pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
    or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
    NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
    or report from 29 districts.
    The revolution will not be televised.

    There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
    brothers in the instant replay.
    There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
    brothers in the instant replay.
    There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
    run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
    There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
    Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
    Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
    For just the proper occasion.

    Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
    Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
    women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
    Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
    will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
    The revolution will not be televised.

    There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock
    news and no pictures of hairy armed women
    liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
    The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
    Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
    Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
    The revolution will not be televised.

    The revolution will not be right back after a message
    about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
    You will not have to worry about a dove in your
    bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
    The revolution will not go better with Coke.
    The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
    The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat.

    The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
    will not be televised, will not be televised.
    The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
    The revolution will be live

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Gil Scott-Heron

  9. monicaangela says:

    Aberration of morality

    By Richard Macwilliam

    ‘Stuff happens.’ as a bomb falls,
    ‘Stuff happens,’ as the wind blows,
    Stuff your ‘stuff.’

    Minds fold,
    Brains close,
    The world reduced to a power-mad aberration of morality.

    I imagine, one day, a race of humans with:

    Insight
    Wisdom
    Morality
    Compassion
    Vision
    Imagination
    Creativity.

    Until then we live by the Old School’s Rules:

    Oil
    Wealth
    Power
    Guns
    Greed
    Cunning,

    Death glinting off cold spectacles,
    Clean, mean, clear-cut simple minds
    And their simple certainties.

    ‘Stuff happens.’

    Death happens.

  10. Joe Hill
    by Joan Baez

    I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,
    alive as you and me.
    Says I “But Joe, you’re ten years dead”
    “I never died” said he,
    “I never died” said he.

    “The Copper Bosses killed you Joe,
    they shot you Joe” they filled you full of lead.
    “Takes more than guns to kill a man”
    Says Joe “I didn’t die”
    Says Joe “I didn’t die”

    “In Salt Lake City, Joe,” says I,
    Him standing by my bed,
    “They framed you on a murder charge,”
    Says Joe, “But I ain’t dead,”
    Says Joe, “But I ain’t dead.”

    And standing there as big as life
    and smiling with his eyes.
    Says Joe “What they can never kill
    went on to organize,
    went on to organize”

    From San Diego up to Maine,
    in every mine and mill,
    Where working men defend their rights,
    it’s there you’ll find Joe Hill,
    it’s there you’ll find Joe Hill!

    I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,
    alive as you and me.
    Says I “But Joe, you’re ten years dead”
    “I never died” said he,
    “I never died” said he.

  11. VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT.

    VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night;
    When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,
    One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I
    shall never forget,
    One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on
    the ground,
    Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
    Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my
    way,
    Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son
    of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
    Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the
    moderate night-wind,
    Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-
    field spreading,
    Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,
    But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,
    Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my
    chin in my hands,
    Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest
    comrade—not a tear, not a word,
    Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my
    soldier,
    As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,
    Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your
    death,
    I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall
    surely meet again,)
    Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn
    appear’d,
    My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,
    Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and care-
    fully under feet,
    And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his
    grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,
    Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field
    dim,
    Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth
    responding,)

    Walt Whitman

  12. monicaangela says:

    WOW !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Thank you, thank you, thank you KT those are two of my favorites, they have such intricate meanings. I have often said that each time I read either of those poems I receive something new and different than the first time I read them or any other time I have read them, they both make me cry, so let me take a second to get myself together and then I will place one on the board that I hope you will like. No, I did not miss the quotes by Nietzsche or Pascal, or the beautiful poem you wrote concerning war. As a Triage Nurse in Vietnam, I heard many stories from young soldiers as I explained the extent of their injuries to them and the procedures they were going to need. Some of those soldiers, many of those soldiers spoke their last words to me. I hear their voices in your poem, thank you for telling their story.

    Now, here is another poem I like. I hope you will enjoy it:

    The Dream That Must Be Interpreted

    This place is a dream.
    Only a sleeper considers it real.

    Then death comes like dawn,
    and you wake up laughing
    at what you thought was your grief.

    But there’s a difference with this dream.
    Everything cruel and unconscious
    done in the illusion of the present world,
    all that does not fade away at the death-waking.

    It stays,
    and it must be interpreted.

    All the mean laughing,
    all the quick, sexual wanting,
    those torn coats of Joseph,
    they change into powerful wolves
    that you must face.

    The retaliation that sometimes comes now,
    the swift, payback hit,
    is just a boy’s game
    to what the other will be.

    You know about circumcision here.
    It’s full castration there!

    And this groggy time we live,
    this is what it’s like:

    A man goes to sleep in the town
    where he has always lived, and he dreams he’s living
    in another town.

    In the dream, he doesn’t remember
    the town he’s sleeping in his bed in.
    He believes the reality of the dream town.

    The world is that kind of sleep.

    The dust of many crumbled cities
    settles over us like a forgetful doze,
    but we are older than those cities.

    We began as a mineral. We emerged into plant life
    and into the animal state, and then into being human,
    and always we have forgotten our former states,
    except in early spring when we slightly recall
    being green again.

    That’s how a young person turns
    toward a teacher. That’s how a baby leans
    toward the breast, without knowing the secret
    of its desire, yet turning instinctively.

    Humankind is being led along an evolving course,
    through this migration of intelligence’s,
    and though we seem to be sleeping,
    there is an inner wakefulness
    that directs the dream, and that will
    eventually startle us back
    to the truth of who we are.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Rumi

    • Excellent! Thanks Monica for your kind words and this wonderful poem. It so beautifully captures our situation as human beings. The constant states of sleeping, and dreaming and wakefulness. The ever flowing creation and destruction and creation once again out of the destruction. Alive one moment and dead the next, yet something indescribable remains, something ethereal. We know it but can’t speak it.

      Your work as a nurse in war must have been such a confusing, frightening, sad, and joyful (in brief moments)and powerful experience. You done good, dear lady! You done good.

      • monicaangela says:

        Actually KT, my work as a nurse was one of the most life changing, mind altering times of my life. Not frightening, not sad, not joyful. I consider it to be the best education I have ever gotten, things I learned there, I could not have learned in high school, in college, or in post graduate school, or even on my mother and father’s knee. It was more exhilarating than anything else. I have been taught from the time I was a child that we are all just passing through this space we are now in. I will be forever grateful to my parents and other adults in my life, grandparents, aunts, uncles etc., who helped me in so many ways to understand this. Their teaching and my somehow being able to receive and understand their teaching has given me a different outlook on life than many friends and acquaintances I have. I would not want to repeat the days I spent in DaNang, but I would never want to change that experience nor live a life that did not include it.

        I’m happy you enjoyed the poem. :)

        • Never sad, never frightening, never moments of joy? Surely there must have been.

          You have the very fortunate intellect and selflessness that would allow you to view your experiences there, as you do. I have no doubt this is the case. 😉

          • monicaangela says:

            KT, your still being in this world might be something as simple as what you accomplish here at PlanetPOV…None of us know why we are still here or why we ever came here in the first place. I like to think our presence is needed to complete the whole. When our mission, whatever that might be is accomplished, we return to from whence we came. :)

            • I think if it was never for the promise of reuniting with my daughter one day, I would have bought the farm long ago.

              We were very happily reunited in 1995, after 15 years apart. I think we helped save each other.

          • monicaangela says:

            KT,
            What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or, as the great Friedrich Nietzsche would say: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”. 😉

            • Without a doubt. I was never in combat, but I’ve been through some very rough times.

              I hate to say that through most of those times it was self preservation (and destruction) on my part. I sometimes wonder at how and why I’m still around this old world.

          • monicaangela says:

            I understand what you mean, but believe me KT, I was never sad, frightened, or joyful when I was there. I really didn’t experience those feelings until I returned to the states.

            I didn’t experience sadness until I recounted my experiences to my parents. I actually wasn’t frightened when I was there because I was always taught never to fear death, injury or illness. Joy was something I would not allow myself to experience I guess.

            When we actually saved a life, or when a soldier recuperated and went home after convalescing with us could have been joyful moments, but in the heat of the moment they became routine. I didn’t really experience the joy of what I had done until I looked into the eyes of my mother, her pain and sadness and now relief at my being home were all there. I was overjoyed to be able to experience that love again. 😉

            • Wow! I can only imagine Monica! I do understand what you’re saying though, about your emotions.

              You had to face some pretty hard hitting reality, I’m sure.

  13. “No matter how noble the objectives of a government, if it blurs decency
    and kindness, cheapens human life, and breeds ill will and suspicion-it is an evil government.” Hoffer

    • MurphTheSurf3 says:

      KT- ah, found it. It was a recent post. I must have been wrapped up in the funereal rites for HP when this came up as I did not reply to it AND your selection contains a poem that I find extraordinary..

      The 2nd Coming…This masterpiece uses Christian imagery regarding the Apocalypse and the second coming allegorically to describe the atmosphere of post-war I Europe. The closing phrase: “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” presage the coming horror of the great depression, the failure of all established government, fascism, the holocaust, the cold war etc. The center did not hold and when it did not all was spun away from that center.

      • I’m glad you found it Murph! Yes, The Second Coming is chilling in it’s prescience. Masterfully written by a man of true vision.

        I think this poem exemplifies my comments about artists being “reflectors.” This would be one sorry world indeed, without such visionary artists and reflectors of the world we live in.


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