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Array
(
[sid] => 185793
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Painful Feeling
[time] => 2019-01-19 10:44:48
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => In the beginning
there was meaning
in the middle
began the end
and at the end
a painful feeling
of all the lies
we conceived
to keep our mind
from seeing things
that our children
should have never
Believed
[comments] => 1
[counter] => 67
[topic] => 21
[informant] => drone
[notes] =>
[ihome] => 0
[alanguage] => english
[acomm] => 0
[haspoll] => 0
[pollID] => 0
[score] => 0
[ratings] => 0
[editpoem] => 1
[associated] =>
[topicname] => Lifepoems
)
Painful Feeling
Contributed by
drone
on
Saturday, 19th January 2019 @ 10:44:48 AM in AEST
Topic:
Lifepoems
|
In the beginning
there was meaning
in the middle
began the end
and at the end
a painful feeling
of all the lies
we conceived
to keep our mind
from seeing things
that our children
should have never
Believed
Copyright ©
drone
... [
2019-01-19 10:44:48]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Painful Feeling
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Sunday, 20th January 2019 @ 10:06:25 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
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this sounds more like the
beginning of the beginning
then the beginning of the end.
It was worse, it is bad,
"To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether /'/tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: /'/tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish/'/d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there/'/s the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there/'/s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th/'/oppressor/'/s wrong, the proud man/'/s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz/'/d love, the law/'/s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th/'/unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere/'/d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o/'/er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action."
This, Shakespeare write...
I am inside someone
who hates me. I look
out from his eyes. Smell
what fouled tunes come in
to his breath. Love his
wretched women.
Slits in the metal, for sun. Where
my eyes sit turning, at the cool air
the glance of light, or hard flesh
rubbed against me, a woman, a man,
without shadow, or voice, or meaning.
This is the enclosure (flesh,
where innocence is a weapon. An
abstraction. Touch. (Not mine.
Or yours, if you are the soul I had
and abandoned when I was blind and had
my enemies carry me as a dead man
(if he is beautiful, or pitied.
It can be pain. (As now, as all his
flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or
pain. As when she ran from me into
that forest.
Or pain, the mind
silver spiraled whirled against the
sun, higher than even old men thought
God would be. Or pain. And the other. The
yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They
are withered yellow flowers and were never
beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, say
‘beauty.’ Beauty, practiced, as the tree. The
slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences.
Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh
or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls
empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh
or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly.
Where the God is a self, after all.)
Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh,
white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun.
It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton
you recognize as words or simple feeling.
But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not,
given to love.
It burns the thing
inside it. And that thing
screams.
This then, Amari Baraka
wrote. |
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