Topic: Indiscretion of The Hypocrite

I do hope this isn't considered a waste of space within the hallowed walls of this haven of creativity...

I was going to send Bugimus a poem I wrote a long time ago (just how long, I only now realise with no small amount of horror) in relation to the subject of hypocrisy. It was only when I went to look for it that I remembered that my local copy was one of many casualties to a dead hard drive a few months ago. While I know I have a hard-copy buried away somewhere, I was simply too lazy to be bothered fishing around in the darker recesses of my bedroom for it.

Today, I suddenly recalled that I'd uploaded all of my old poems to my MSN storage around the time I first returned from my four-year adventure in Ireland. I almost expected to find them gone, as it has been several years since I last logged in - fortunately, they were not.

I thought I might take the liberty of posting this under Philosilly, as it reflects a time when I waxed philosophical on all aspects of the world and society I found myself troubled by during a turbulent time in my life. Of course, with time comes apathy and a general lack of interest in many of the things that I lost sleep over in those times of teen angst and passion.

I usually refrain from explaining a poem before a reading, but I will say this: this poem may not have anything to do with what you may, at first, perceive. There is an intentional humour, and certainly a deliberate irony. I admit that some of the lines are somewhat contrived, but like most of my poems, it remains in much the same form as the hour in which I first composed it - I rarely make more than a minor adjustment once it's down on paper.

I welcome any comments on the poem, even if it's just to say that you think it's rubbish. Of course, even if you really, really like it, I'd kindly ask that you refrain from sharing/distributing it elsewhere (at least, not without asking me first).

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INDISCRETION OF THE HYPOCRITE

I

Oh, what a world indeed
So vast, so fast, so choked with trash,
Where men may die for another's greed
Or take a life to make some cash!
Where human veins run coarse and thick
As dying rivers, with man-made shit,
Pumped in for joy, or to heal the sick
(but we all are sick, dead where we sit).

Bodies bloated with unnatural obesity
Or starved near death for false ideals-
Force-fed at every opportunity
The crap in our heads, as well as our meals!
Choking on carcinogens in the very air
Blaming the stench on industry-
While smoking we moan, but we put it there!
The culprit I fear is complacency.

Headlines gorge our need to hate
Another's crimes, mistakes, or immorality,
And who would dare to hesitate
Long enough to see themselves in reality?
The truth you know, is not out there
It's here inside your guts and mind,
Reason and blame enough to tear
And shred you limb-from-limb, fore-from-hind!

II

Wake-up and smell the coffee, man
You're still so young in relativity,
And though you may run as hard as you can
The race is a pointless activity-
We lost it when first we turned the wheel
Then employed another to turn some more,
So sealing with that fateful deal
The class divide 'tween king and whore.

And with a spark from that first fire
We endeavoured to sell our very souls,
For we've still yet to learn to tire
Of burning-out a thousand bloody holes,
Right through us and our history-
Which led to bullets, bombs, and guns,
Wars for power, land, and glory,
And the birth of countless evil 'huns'.
Every one of which was in the wrong,
A convenient object of hate and fear-
An enmoralled tale or bawdy song
To help us be good, and see it clear

So we can be, in knowing this,
Better, cleaner, more educated,
And proud of not being proud, or prejudiced,
We just hate those who hate, or those afflicted
With standards or morals besides our own
Or don't subscribe to our laws, or our god
Or stray beyond the 'normal' zone-
Ugly, evil, or just plain odd...

III

Your daughter's a junkie
Your son's got a knife
You're a drunk, low-paid flunkey
Who batters his wife-
But hell, look outside
It's a disease-ridden world
And you can't really hide
For it still takes a hold.

Let's all blame eachother,
Why not? Go ahead!
If we're all born to suffer,
We're already dead...

(Edited by White Hawk on 01-24-2008 14:35)

I like it.

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?It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong.? Voltaire

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I do hope this isn't considered a waste of space within the hallowed walls of this haven of creativity...

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Not at all.

Thanks for posting it.

WebShaman | The keenest sorrow (and greatest truth) is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.
- Sophocles

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Me : 1) In reality, I hold the people here in high regard AND THE PLACE ITSELF as well.

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You : I do hope this isn't considered a waste of space within the hallowed walls of this haven of creativity...

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Food for thought - poetry is a great (new?) way to fill the mentionned walls. Fwiw, I like it a lot, thanks.

That's kind of you (all), thank you.

Is poetry of interest to members of the asylum? I'd be pleased to share more if the material is not unwelcome, and I'd also be very interested in creative writing of any sort by other inmates.

I made my few short attempts at some word plays in english recently.

I am fond of french poetry - I am a HUGE fan of "Charles Baudelaire" to name one major poet -
major as in : I never have seen style so close to perfection in writing - in any language.

In Baudelaire's work, the sound of each syllabus is echoing the whole poem, there are 0 misplaced constructs,
guy goes beyond perfection in evocation. I happen to know few of his poems by heart for having read them over and over
("Mon enfant, ma soeur, songe à la douceur,
d'aller là bas vivre ensemble.
Aimer à loisir, aimer et mourir,
au pays qui te ressemble..")

"L'invitation au voyage" - "The invitation to (sensual, sexual, and metaphysic) voyage"
- just found a couple of viable english translations : http://fleursdumal.org/poem/148

(Side note : use it on women at your own risks, you'd end up with your clothes torn apart on spot).


I love surrealist poetry as well (Andre Breton) - exquisite corpses deluxe, to illustrate the concept.

I have written very popular short novels back in high school - I had an excellent sense of rythm
in narration, and my novels, starting as mandatory "tests", would get passed on from students to students.
One especially : the story of a paint artist who would trade his soul to the devil for the gift of life to his art -
a gift he lost control of to a very dangerous extent.

...My 2 cents : please share some more, it is more than welcome and good.

I should really have had a look at my older posts before I posted this poem again; I just remembered that I posted this one (and a couple of others) back in 2005! Oddly enough, the very poem I wanted Bugimus to read recently is the only one he didn't comment on back then!

Something to share...

I'm rather fond of Doctor Globulus myself (and NoJive was spot-on with the cadence suggestion - Coward's inflections are precisely what I had in mind for that particular poem). I'll have a look through my recently recovered poetry for something I haven't already posted...

My sincere apologies to all for not having checked before initiating this thread.
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On a side note, I think it's about time I thought about creating a personal/home page somewhere. It would reflect me in many ways in that it would be packed with endlessly useless junk, lack direction or point, and probably mumble a bit. At least it would give me somewhere to dump my poetry (and maybe give me a reason to write more).

Now, where do I start..?

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I really like that poem! It really shows a good observation of our greedy, self-centered world. Kudos on that White Hawk!

Just for my own curiosity, did it really just take you one sitting to write that up?!?!

(Edited by Gideon on 01-31-2008 02:33)

Actually, yes, sort of; I wrote the first four lines one night, and when I woke the next morning, I wrote the rest of it flat-out. As you can tell from the few small differences between this and the older post I've linked, it changes very slightly from one telling to another (like a story). The older post was typed from memory, while the newer one was the copy I retrieved.

Hate's Harvest was also written one morning in much the same way.

The Incredible Doctor Globulus was written in about ten minutes, during a writing exercise based on a random selection of words taken from a random book - one of the words was "globe", from which I derived Globulus - so I cheated somewhat.

I tend to remember my poems quite clearly - but then, I haven't written that many. I usually find it far easier to write in rhyme than not to, and if it takes me too much thought (or contrivance) to get the poem written, it tends not to get written. This may well be why I haven't written for so long, as I haven't been inspired to seek outlet for my feelings. A higher level of contentment begets creative lethargy!